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Chapter Text

Diplomacy has never been Jim’s strong suit.

Whether that’s diplomacy with planetary leadership, the brass, or even his own first officer, his sweet-talking can only get him so far. As great as his power of persuasion can be, Jim has always seemed to hold an equal power of discovering the most infuriating thing to say in a given moment, intentionally or not.

So when Spock volunteers to accompany him to what would have otherwise been a dinner solely between the captain and the Amberan council, he accepts his presence without a single complaint.

“Didn’t think I’d see the day you’d ever willingly let the hobgoblin babysit you,” Bones points out in the mess hall the morning of the event, earning a roll of Kirk’s eyes.

“He’s not babysitting me. He’s just–,” Jim waves his hands vaguely, “...helping… me.”

“Babysitting,” McCoy repeats around a mouthful of oatmeal.

“Look, if he wants to deal with making small talk with them, he can be my guest,” Kirk defends. “Whatever his motivation is, I don’t care.”

Really– he doesn’t. Any opportunity to enjoy more food and less pleasantries at a social event is one he’ll gladly take.

Any curiosity towards his first officer’s motivation has nothing to do with seeking out his location following Alpha shift.

“Commander Spock is presently in the xenobiology lab,” the computer’s disembodied voice reports. The chronometer on the wall of the captain’s quarters displays 17:09, the same it’s been the past three times he’s glanced at it. Jim’s pacing slows to a halt.

“Fuck it,” he mutters.

The life sciences laboratories are located on Deck 9 of the ship, a brief ride in the lift from the senior residential quarters. On his way down the hall, Jim passes the psychology and organic chemistry labs, giving brief glances of curiosity through the transparent panes. I need to visit more often, he thinks, not for the first time. As much as he’d rather spend his time engaging with his crew, the more tedious aspects of starship captaincy leave much less room for doing so than he had imagined as a naive cadet only months ago.

At the door to the xenobiology lab, Kirk hesitates. Spock is visible from the entryway where he’s seated at a workstation across the empty space, his back to the captain. Jim’s eyes trail briefly over him, lingering on broad shoulders hugged by science blues.

He blinks several times, shaking his head. With a sigh under his breath, he ventures forward.

“Hey, Spock,” Jim greets, halting a safe few paces away from the workstation. The Vulcan turns, his blank expression altered only by the slight lift of a brow.

“Captain,” he acknowledges. “I believe an approximate 1.27 hours remain until our departure. Has there been a change in schedule?”

“Uh, no,” Kirk clears his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. A glance towards the Vulcan’s desk reveals a hoverscreen containing several paragraphs of notes, and a flowering plant seated beside the display. Its white blooms droop from sagging stems. “What’s that?”

Spock glances back at the plant. “A specimen collected from Iota-B V, species presently unnamed. Ensign Holloway has suggested Dianthus Iota due to its resemblance to Earth carnations.”

Jim steps closer, frowning at the limp petals. “Is it dead?”

“It was initially assumed to be,” Spock answers, “until a tricorder reading confirmed that it is alive. Upon returning to the ship, closer examination has shown that the specimen has entered a state of reduced energy consumption and limited response to stimuli.” Just barely, the commander’s gaze changes– something the captain has started to recognize as subtle intrigue, his fascinating look. Jim’s increase in heart rate is unrelated. “The specimen is not only alive, but appears to be regenerating its health. Though further analysis is needed, its state resembles a healing trance. I did not believe such behavior to be possible in plantlife.”

Kirk blinks. “A healing trance?”

“A status of reduced consciousness that one may enter in order to divert energy to recovery from illness or injury,” Spock elaborates. “Vulcans are capable of healing trances, though the concept is not unique to our species.”

“Huh,” Jim responds, intelligently. “I’m guessing Humans can’t learn that one?”

“Your control over your physiology is not sophisticated enough to do so,” Spock affirms.

Kirk places a hand over his chest with a playful pout. “Ouch.”

“Statements of fact do not equate with insults,” Spock intones. The hint of intrigue is gone from dark eyes, leaving his expression wholly blank again.

Jim lowers his hand, suppressing a wince. “Joking, Spock.”

“An unfortunate Human tendency.”

Kirk shifts his weight back to his other foot. The faint steps of several pairs of regulation boots pass down the hallway, just audible through the door.

The commander’s brow lifts again. “Did you require something, Captain?”

“No,” Jim answers– too quickly, if the slightest twitch upwards of angular brows says anything. “I just, uh– I was wondering– I mean, you don’t really have to be at the dinner tonight.”

Spock’s expression remains unreadable. “Do you object to my attendance?”

“No–,” Kirk shakes his head, “what I mean is– uh– what exactly are you getting out of this?”

“An opportunity to observe a culture that the Federation has thus had minimal contact with,” the Vulcan replies. “You also appeared hesitant to attend the event. I theorized that the presence of an additional officer would aid you.”

Jim’s mouth parts. He hadn’t reacted out of his typical extroverted character to the call from the Amberan leadership on the bridge– not that he had thought, anyways. Any uncertainty, as always, was pushed well below the surface.

“Was I incorrect?”

Kirk closes his mouth, opens it again. “I’m fine either way,” he sidesteps, “but I don’t mind you calling shotgun.”

Spock blinks. “As your nonsensical speech is likely a Human colloquialism, I will assume you are consenting to my attendance.”

Jim barely resists the urge to roll his eyes to the ceiling.

----

If Kirk has to suffer a single second longer in awkward silence, he is going to die.

It’s been over five minutes of it so far– and some number of seconds and milliseconds his first officer would rattle off if asked. Spock, however, is too busy staring blankly ahead of the transporter pad, as his captain has been doing beside him since they first attempted contact.

“Anything yet?” Jim asks, shooting a hopeful, slightly desperate look at Scotty.

“No, sir,” the engineer denies. “Still waiting on the go-ahead from the council.”

Kirk presses his lips together, returning his gaze forwards. “Right.”

“Have you verified the status of the channel with Lieutenant Uhura?” Spock inquires suddenly, nearly making his captain jolt. Scotty’s expression turns somewhat put-upon.

“Well, of course I have, sir–”

“Your arrival is now authorized,” a voice emits from the speaker of the transporter. Jim lets out a sigh of relief under his breath.

“Acknowledged,” Scotty replies, then turns to his captain. “Ready, sir?”

Kirk nods. “Energize.”

Wisps of light swirl in the captain’s vision, quickly followed by a vague sense of electricity that ripples through him. The sensation of transport was once something that had unnerved him as a backwoods hick, utterly foreign to him after having grown up with transport capabilities practically nonexistent in rural Iowa. He’s been through transport enough times now that he’s prepared for the sensation, and doesn’t automatically cringe as he once had in his Academy years.

But something this time is– off.

Rather than the wisps gradually dissipating and the electricity fading, his materialization feels much more like missing a step on the way down a flight of stairs. A fierce wave of vertigo washes over him, nearly knocking him to the ground before he manages to steady himself.

“Rough ride,” Kirk mutters, placing a hand on his forehead.

“I believe you will find that the quality of our ‘ride’ is not our primary concern,” his first officer intones beside him. Jim blinks up at him, meeting an impassive gaze through his clearing vision.

“Huh?”

“We have not been transported to the correct coordinates.”

As Spock comes into focus, so, too, does the mass of green leaves behind him.

With a furrowed brow, Jim turns his head to take in their surroundings. As far as the eye can see, dense woods envelope them, making it impossible to gain any broader sense of their location. Aside from the calls of wildlife and the whirring of Spock’s tricorder, the vicinity is otherwise silent.

“I am observing readings of flora inconsistent with the scans we obtained of Ambera earlier today,” the commander states, the tiniest frown twitching at the corners of his lips.

“Must be pretty far from the capital,” Jim posits. Dark eyes flick from the tricorder to him.

“You have an exceptional talent for understatement,” Spock notes, “considering we are not on Ambera, nor in the Amberan star system.”

Kirk’s mouth parts. “What the hell do you mean, Spock?”

“No other planet in the Amberan star system harbors life,” the Vulcan elaborates slowly, as though speaking to a child. “The lifeforms in this environment do not match any readings made by Enterprise sensors. Therefore, we are no longer in the Amberan star system.”

Glancing around them again, Kirk shakes his head. “The scans could’ve missed this area–”

“The scans were extensive,” Spock argues, “and correct.”

Jim searches his gaze a moment longer, then reaches for his communicator. His bicep protests with a sharp ache at the movement, joining the general soreness that lingers in his joints from transport. With a slight wince, he flips open the communicator.

“Kirk to Enterprise.”

The speaker emits nothing but silence. Adjusting the sensitivity of the communicator, he repeats, “Kirk to Enterprise. Do you read me?”

Nothing.

“Any attempts to hail the Enterprise via communicator from a separate star system will be useless,” Spock points out.

“We don’t know for sure that we aren’t on Ambera,” Jim argues. “Tricorder readings have been wrong before.”

“It is possible,” Spock allows, “but unlikely. Furthermore, if we were on Ambera, the Enterprise would have received your transmission.”

Kirk sighs under his breath, glancing around the dense wood. “Any suggestions, then, Spock?”

“I am registering one probable intelligent lifeform approximately 0.63 kilometers to the east,” he supplies. “I suggest attempting contact.”

Jim’s brow furrows slightly. “Just one?”

“Indeed.”

With one final glance around them, the captain sighs. “Alright. Guess that’s our best bet.”

Despite the modest distance, the pair’s progress is slow through dense brush. With no clear promise of civilization anywhere even remotely in their vicinity and no way to contact the Enterprise, Jim is painfully aware of their lack of survival packs. In combination with the uncomfortable warmth of the day, the short hike alone is enough to leave the captain parched, and having anticipated a meal, his stomach isn’t exactly full, either.

When closing in on the lifeform’s signal, the babble of an approaching creek is enough for Kirk to let out a low breath of relief.

The brush ahead parts for a small clearing that the creek cuts clean across. On the opposite side of the water is a makeshift shelter, where bound branches and a tarp form a hut. The ashes of a dead campfire lie a few paces from the entrance, and several empty cans are scattered about the ground.

Kirk glances at Spock, then back towards the camp, calling a tentative, “Hello?”

The sudden flight of a bird from a tree behind him makes the captain jolt. The small shadow of wings against blue is gone in seconds, but Jim’s widening gaze is left skyward.

“Okay,” he breathes. “You were right.”

“Captain?”

In Kirk’s peripheral, the Vulcan tilts his head up, joining him in staring at the massive planet on the horizon. Only half of it is visible, the rest hidden below the treetops. The planet is painted in red swaths, easily ten times the size of the moon from Earth’s view.

“Fascinating,” Spock murmurs.

“Any idea what that is?” Jim asks, glancing towards his first officer.

An angled brow just barely lifts at him. “A planet whose moon we are evidently on–”

“No, I mean what planet that is,” Kirk corrects.

“There are several star systems neighboring the Amberan system that contain planets with Class-M moons,” Spock replies. “From appearance alone at this distance, it is not possible to ascertain a definite answer. Furthermore, we cannot know if we are within the vicinity of the Amberan star system at all.”

“Seems like a good guess,” Jim points out. “We couldn’t have gone that far–”

“Theoretically, within the constraints of transportation as we presently understand it, being transported across star systems is impossible to begin with,” the commander corrects. “We no longer have an adequate frame of reference with which to explain how we arrived here, nor how far here is from the Enterprise. We could just as likely be across the galaxy–”

“Let’s just–,” Kirk shakes his head with a huff, “–find this person. We won’t make a great first impression bickering like this.”

Spock’s brow lifts further. “I do not consider ‘bickering’ to be an appropriate nor accurate label–”

Jim sets off ahead of him. Just barely, he can hear his first officer give a very un-Vulcan sigh under his breath before following.

The creek appears to be only ankle-deep for the majority of the clearing, with several stones and rocks jutting out of the water and making for easy crossing. Jim carefully traverses to the other shoreline, then slows on his approach to the hut.

“Hello?” he repeats. “Anyone in there?”

There is no noise from within. A reluctant peek inside the half-covered entrance reveals nothing more than a sleeping bag, its top appearing wrenched open and rumpled.

“Huh,” Jim mutters, straightening back up from the entrance. “I thought you said you registered–”

A sharp whistle through the air is punctuated by a loud thunk of metal lodging into wood. Only a few inches from Jim’s head, a small knife sticks out from a branch that forms part of the entrance.

Kirk turns on his heel, eyes wildly searching the treeline until a humanoid comes into view, the glint of another blade in their hand. With skin a faint shade of light purple and scaly in appearance, their species is unrecognizable, though the rage that paints their features requires no translation. The captain throws his arms up, shouting, “Whoa, whoa– we’re not here to hurt you! We come in peace!”

A second knife whizzes past his head, a wider miss that clears the hut entirely. In his peripheral, Spock’s draw of his phaser is faster than he can blink, but the familiar click of the trigger produces no stun shot to follow. Jim draws his own, but manages nothing more than another click, click, click.

Kirk swears under his breath, throwing the weapon to the ground and reaching instead for the knife beside him.

“Find the other one,” he orders. “I’m going to try to– communicate.”

Spock’s brow creases. “Captain, I do not advise–”

“Gonna bring a dead phaser to a knife fight, Spock?”

The Vulcan gives him only a flat look. Jim turns to press forward, but the treeline is empty.

With a furrow in his brow, he cautiously approaches the humanoid’s last location. He calls again, careful to keep his tone calm, “We don’t want a fight. We’re lost and just looking for some help.”

There is no response– neither a voice, nor another weapon. Continuing to glance around himself, Jim’s grasp tightens on the knife’s handle. “My name is Captain James T.–”

The Kirk turns into nothing more than a rush of air knocked from his lungs on his impact with the ground.

Through a blind surge of adrenaline, he throws the newfound weight off of his back and rolls over, but isn’t able to get to his feet before the humanoid is on top of him again. A vice grip on his wrist forces him to drop his knife to the grass, and beneath the frenzied, almost feral eyes above him, he locks up in shock.

The humanoid hisses an unfamiliar string of syllables, and the translator at the captain’s belt emits, “What don’t you understand, Human?” The glint of the recovered blade flashes in the high sun. Kirk just barely manages to catch the humanoid’s arm in time to halt the knife’s downward arc inches from his face. The weapon trembles between them as the humanoid frantically attempts to push downwards and Jim pushes back, the tip of the blade hovering just above a widened cyan eye.

“It’s you or me–”

The translator abruptly halts as the hissed words end in a choked grunt. The downward push of the blade weakens, then fades entirely, and a limp body slumps its heavy weight onto the captain. A few stunned, terrified breaths leave Kirk before he manages to push the humanoid off of him, only then seeing his first officer standing several paces away. A knife juts out of the humanoid’s back, coated in a deep purple that seeps around the blade. Their eyes, once wild, are unfocused now, distant.

Jim looks back at his first officer, meeting a shocked gaze with his own. The sudden, loud jingle of a celebratory tone echoes through the trees and causes both men to flinch.

“Congratulations to our newest guests, Captain Kirk and Commander Spock, for making such a fine entrance,” a jovial voice rings out. Kirk jumps to his feet, whipping his head around to search for the source, but the echoing words appear to reach them from all sides. “Commander Spock has been awarded one point. Your reward will be delivered shortly.”

The captain’s mouth is parted, but only one uneven breath leaves him, then another, before he manages to shout back, “Who are you?”

There is no response. Birds begin to chatter in the treetops again, which sway gently in the pleasant breeze.

“Who are you?” Kirk demands, the words hoarse. Another glance skyward catches the planet looming on the horizon, an impassive red eye.

Beneath its gaze, he feels suddenly, horrifically small.

Chapter Text

A third shout prompts no response, and a fourth is no luckier. The desperate words achieve nothing, save for a raw voice and an aching throat.

On the fifth attempt, a sudden flash of light causes Jim to stumble back a step, his hand raising to shield his eyes. He moves to grab the knife that had fallen from the humanoid’s grasp, but when he rounds back on the source of the light, there is only a black crate to receive the threat of his blade.

At his side, Spock is much closer than before, an arm thrown out between his captain and the box. Though a ripple of surprise twitches through Kirk’s features, the Vulcan has already withdrawn his arm before the captain has a chance to process it.

When Kirk manages to find his voice again, he asks, “Can you get a reading on that?”

“Negative,” Spock denies. The word is tight, verging dangerously close on frustration. “My tricorder ceased giving readings shortly before we were attacked.”

“Whatever took out our phasers must have killed that, too.”

“It is likely.”

Kirk swallows, returning his attention to the crate. He hesitates for a beat, then takes a step forward.

“Captain, approaching an unknown object in this environment–”

“What else are we gonna do, Spock?” Jim challenges. “We have nothing on us. We need to see what’s in here.”

The word reward remains unspoken, a bitter taste on his tongue. He keeps his gaze forward and away from the body in his peripheral. At his other side, Spock has joined him, almost close enough to brush arms.

The center of the top panel contains a glowing white button, slightly raised from the surface. With a breath to steady himself, Jim reaches out, unable to suppress a flinch when the box responds to his press with another jingle, and the top and sides rapidly retract down into a flat bottom.

Left beneath the pair is a heap of what looks to be mostly survival supplies. Several cans of food and a stack of ration packs catch Jim’s eye first, just barely lessening the knot that had formed in his stomach since materializing hungry in the middle of nowhere. Beside the food is a rolled sleeping bag, a lantern, a box of matches, a water bottle, and an unrecognizable object.

Kirk takes the latter in hand, frowning at the featureless metal rod. When Spock catches him with a curious glance, the captain hands the object over to him.

The Vulcan turns the smooth surface over in his palm. His thumb sweeps over the metal, lingering on a point Jim can’t make out.

In the blink of an eye, the rod shoots outward, extending to several times its original length. The sound of metal ripples through the trees as a blade snaps out at its end, forming a sizable spear.

While Jim gapes at the weapon, Spock’s expression gives away about as much interest as he’d give to a passing reading at his station.

“Fascinating,” he murmurs. Brushing his thumb back over the same spot, the weapon collapses back into the simple, shorter rod. He offers it back to his captain, who only shakes his head.

“Keep that for now,” Jim declines, hoping that his voice isn’t as unsteady as it feels. He glances at the sun above, then back down at the supplies. “We should haul this to the hut.”

“Remaining in this location could be dangerous if there are others aware of its existence,” Spock points out.

Kirk glances at the body beside them. His empty stomach turns.

“You said there was just one reading in several kilometers,” Jim argues, returning his gaze to his first officer. “And we don’t have enough time to hike to another location and make our own shelter before nightfall.”

A frown just barely twitches at Spock’s lips, but he does not protest. With a sigh, the captain stoops to begin picking up the cans.

Whether the alien’s language isn’t native to the moon, or the newcomers are simply having their own accommodated, the supplies that the pair carry to the hut are labeled in Federation Standard. In total, Jim counts two cans of vegetables, four cans of soup, and five ration bars. The labels are brightly colored and cheery, with the same smiling mascot adorning all of them: something close to a red bear, though the creature has four eyes instead of two. A check of the empty cans on the campground reveals the same mascot, and the same Federation Standard.

“Have any ships gone missing recently in Ambera’s sector?” Jim asks, frowning at the label.

“I am not aware of any recent events within the neighboring systems,” Spock denies, “though that does not account for individual missing persons aboard vessels.” When Kirk glances up, dark eyes are on him, curious. “You believe others have been transported here?”

“All of this is in Standard,” Jim points out, holding up the empty can in his grasp. “Even the food that was already here. We can’t be the only ones from the Federation that were brought here.”

Spock stoops to lift another can from the ground. He studies the label for a moment, then glances up towards the planet in the sky. “There are no red planets in the Federation with a Class-M moon,” he notes. “Either the species who delivered this are accustomed to interacting with Federation members, or they are a Federation species that have colonized another planet.”

Jim winces slightly at the latter. His first officer is too occupied to notice.

That’s the last thing I need him asking me about.

“Seems like it’s not all Federation members,” Jim adds, glancing back towards the body. “I didn’t recognize–”

The remainder of the sentence dies on his tongue at the empty grass he’s met with.

Kirk drops the can in his grasp, taking a few steps towards the sight. From the hut, he can just make out the purple stains that have been left behind, the only remaining sign that the alien had been there at all.

“Did you see anything happen to the body?”

“Negative,” Spock answers, coming to stand beside him. “Considering there is no other sign of disturbance, it was likely transported out when we were not observing the area.”

Jim turns back around and runs his hand absently through his hair, muttering a barely audible, “Jesus christ.” His bicep protests the movement, though the pain hardly registers above the mounting nausea in his gut. For a long beat, his first officer is silent behind him.

Then, Spock asserts, “It is possible that we may face another threat at any time. We should eat while we have the opportunity to do so in order to ensure that we have the energy to defend ourselves.”

How can you stomach anything right now? is the captain’s knee-jerk reaction.

But a smaller, quieter voice reminds him, You’re one to talk.

Kirk pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling a long sigh before answering, “You go ahead. I have to start testing the food.”

“‘Testing’?” Spock echoes. The captain turns to face the brow that’s been raised at him.

“Bones ran a check on the ingredients that the council planned to serve us for any allergens,” Jim elaborates, “but not any of this. Without a scanner, I’ll have to do a manual test for a reaction.”

For a second, the captain thinks he sees the tiniest frown on the Vulcan’s features, but it’s gone as soon as it came.

“Will this manual test be accurate enough to ensure your safety?”

“Guess I’ll find out,” Jim deadpans with a rueful smile.

His first officer does not appear amused by the statement.

----

Seated on a stone at the edge of the creek, Kirk could almost believe he was on shore leave if it weren’t for the great red planet looming in his peripheral.

The breeze is mild, and the babbling water soothing. Jim forces his attention onto the sound and away from the sickness that continues to churn in his gut.

After 15 minutes pass with no reaction to the small chunk of ration bar pressed to the skin of his forearm, he moves to press the piece to his bottom lip, then his tongue, holding it there. The urge to swallow is almost overwhelming with his stomach empty, but his wealth of memories of anaphylactic shock is a decent motivator against doing so.

He can already hear Bones’ impending lecture for inevitably giving himself yet another reaction. The memory of his friend, who is God knows how many light years away from him now, only makes him feel worse.

Spock is seated at another nearby rock, slightly further back from the edge of the creek than his captain. Having finished his own ration bar, he tinkers silently now with the broken tricorder, though the barest hint of frustration on his features betrays the effort as futile.

Jim slowly chews the piece in his mouth, holding it in place again on his tongue. He can’t tell anymore whether the nausea is from hunger or the mess he and his first officer have gotten themselves into.

“You are not yet experiencing any signs of an allergic reaction?” Spock asks suddenly, drawing Kirk’s gaze back to him. The captain shakes his head.

Again, the faintest flicker of emotion comes and goes from angular features, though this time, it looks closer to relief.

Jim breaks his gaze, returning to watching the water weave between smooth stones, a strange sense of confusion and warmth briefly dissipating the hunger.

Though eventually swallowing the piece is a small relief, knowing he has hours to go until he can continue eating the bar is an immediate dampener on it.

With a sigh under his breath, Kirk turns back to Spock, who remains intent on his tricorder.

“Hey–,” Jim starts, then falters when dark eyes flick up towards him. “Are you, uh– doing okay?”

Spock’s brow raises slightly. “I am functioning adequately.”

“No, I mean–,” Kirk glances away briefly, his gaze lingering on the distant stain in the grass. “After what happened back there. I know Vulcans are usually… pacifists.”

The commander’s brow lowers again, though no other trace of a reaction surfaces. He points out, “I am not unfamiliar with the usage of lethal force in self defense. We both killed several Romulans aboard Nero’s ship.”

“I guess so,” Jim acknowledges. “But that was different– I mean, they had just killed your mom–” He winces slightly. Eloquent as always, Jim. “Sorry.”

“The individual we encountered was about to kill my captain,” Spock argues without batting an eye. “My duty to protect you supersedes any personal tenets I possess.”

Jim glances away, frowning slightly. Another wave of nausea comes and goes.

He thought he had been prepared for how he might be viewed as a captain– whether that be reckless, clever, inexperienced, driven, or a liability. What he hadn’t been prepared for was to be viewed as somehow more important than the rest of his crew, or any other being they come across in the galaxy, for that matter. Indispensable was a word Spock had used with him several times when arguing over away team staffing– as if somehow anyone aside from the captain was dispensable.

“I don’t want to seem like I’m not grateful for you saving my life,” Kirk clarifies, “because I am. But it was my fault you were put in that position in the first place. I should have handled things differently.”

For a beat, Spock only observes him. Then, he acknowledges, “A different outcome may have been possible through alternative means of de-escalation. However, de-escalation was no longer an option after you were pinned. I would have attempted non-violent incapacitation had I been close enough to do so, but I was not.” He pauses, a faint intensity underscoring his gaze. “There is no room for error in ensuring your safety. I calculated a significant chance of you being overpowered before I could reach you.”

Jim wants to protest that that’s exactly why it’s his fault, but beneath his first officer’s intensity, he can’t quite connect his brain to his mouth. He breaks his gaze, swallowing as he turns back to the creek.

Though he has an excellent track record for pissing Vulcans off, he still isn’t ever able to tell if his first officer wants to strangle him again or not.

----

With an empty stomach, the remainder of the day passes miserably slowly. Exhaustion is a constant presence, heavy at the backs of Jim’s eyes, a reminder that if he were back aboard the Enterprise, they’d be well into Gamma shift by now.

As the sun sinks beneath the horizon, the red eye above grows higher. Though the land darkens, it doesn’t become nearly as hard to see as an Earth evening. With the great planet in the sky reflecting the light of the system’s sun back onto its moon, the night here is much more akin to walking along a road illuminated by street lights– dim, but visible, an ethereal reddish glow blanketing the slumbering lands below.

After judging the smoke of a fire to be too risky until the pair get a better understanding of the area, they retreat into the hut. Spock rolls out the rewarded sleeping bag, leaving Jim to seat himself uneasily on the bag that the alien had left behind. The minimal warmth of the lamp on the ground between them, at least, is a small comfort.

While reaching out to adjust the light, Kirk’s bicep protests the movement with another sharp stab, causing him to withdraw his arm with a curse.

“Captain?” Spock questions. “Are you well?”

“Yeah,” Jim winces, rubbing at the aggravated skin. “It’s just been like this since transport. Rough ride, or whatever.”

The tiniest frown twitches at the Vulcan’s lips. “While I experienced brief discomfort upon materialization, I have not experienced any localized pain as a result of our transport.”

The movement of Kirk’s hand slows, then halts. With a slight frown, he tugs off his command tunic, then rolls up the short sleeve of his black undershirt. Dark eyes follow cyan to an angry bruise forming in the middle of his outer bicep, a mark that is small, but deep in color.

Confusion ripples across the captain’s features before realization trickles in, and his face pales.

Jim knows another Captain? is thrown his way, but he doesn’t quite register the sound through the panic that propels his heart into his throat. He presses at the mark, trying desperately to feel the tiny, hard dot that should be tangible just below the surface, but he only comes away with a hiss of pain.

“Captain?” Spock repeats, drawing wide eyes back to him. The tiniest crease has formed in the Vulcan’s brow. “Are you experiencing an allergic reaction?”

Kirk mutely shakes his head. Though the Vulcan seems to ease marginally, the tiny hint of concern doesn’t leave his expression.

“What do you believe to be the source of the injury?”

The captain’s gaze dips to the ground. He realizes his hands are shaking; flattens them against his thighs in an effort to still them. Though he attempts several deep breaths, he can’t quite catch the air that is growing more sparse with each passing second.

He presses his lips into a thin line. After another uneven breath, he swallows, then raises his eyes to meet the confused pair on him.

“Do you know seizure protocol?”

Spock’s mouth just barely parts. A beat later, it’s closed again, but the wave of perturbation over his features isn’t as successfully hidden. “Captain?”

“Yes or no, Spock,” Jim presses. “Do you know seizure protocol?”

The Vulcan blinks once, twice. “I do,” he affirms. “All Starfleet officers are instructed in seizure first aid.”

“Instructed,” Kirk acknowledges. “That doesn’t always mean they remember.”

“I have an eidetic memory,” Spock assures. He pauses, glancing down at Jim’s arm, then back. “Do you have reason to believe you are at risk of a seizure?”

A short, humorless laugh escapes the captain.

“My med implant is gone,” he answers, “and I’m epileptic. So yeah, I’m pretty fucking at risk, Spock.”

The Vulcan’s brows twitch closer together. “I was not informed–”

“I haven’t had a seizure since I was a teenager,” Kirk quickly dismisses, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Medical knows. You didn’t have a need to know.”

“Being your first officer means that any matter of your health is–”

“Spock,” the captain snaps, the syllable uncomfortably loud in the quiet night. He cringes slightly, forcing his voice to lower again. “Christ, just– you know now, alright? There’s no point in arguing over this.”

Silence settles in the hut. When Kirk braves a glance towards his first officer, Spock’s gaze is still on him. He expects frustration, but there is only that tiny crease, still pressed into the Vulcan’s brow.

“Are you aware of how quickly a seizure may recur after halting medication?”

Jim shakes his head. “I’ve never missed a dose. It’s why I have an implant in the first place.” He scrubs his face with the palm of his hand, exhaling a long sigh. “I can’t know if I’ll have one. Could’ve grown out of them. Never tried going off meds to see. It took too long to get them under control just to risk a breakthrough.”

Wasn’t worth risking getting kicked off duty, a quieter voice adds. Wasn’t worth risking losing my ship.

Jim’s mouth dries.

“Assuming that you have not ‘grown out of them’,” Spock continues, “are you aware of any triggers that may heighten your risk of seizure?”

Kirk can’t help but laugh again. “Not anything I can avoid here.” At the confusion on his first officer’s face, he elaborates, “Stress. And not sleeping enough, mainly.”

The Vulcan’s expression turns more serious. “In that case, you must rest immediately–”

“Spock–,” Jim shakes his head, “Someone has to keep watch, and you have to sleep at some point–”

“As a Vulcan, I require significantly less sleep than a Human,” the commander argues. “Putting yourself at a heightened risk of a seizure is illogical when I am perfectly capable of ‘keeping watch’ and still functioning adequately.”

The captain shakes his head with a frustrated breath. “We have no idea what the hell we’ll run into tomorrow. You’re going to need energy, too. Functioning adequately won’t be good enough.”

“The risk of a seizure is far more dangerous–”

“This isn’t up for debate,” Kirk swiftly cuts him off. “We may be in God-knows-what-fucking-corner of the galaxy, but I’m still your captain. You can take watch first, but you’re sleeping after that.”

The briefest flicker of frustration passes through Spock’s gaze, along with that same nameless intensity again. It’s gone as soon as it came.

With a hard sigh, Jim reaches for the lantern again, ignoring the stab of pain in his arm as he dims the light between them. Though he forces himself onto his back, he can’t get his eyes to close or his heart to stop hammering in his chest. He stares at the ceiling of the hut, trying to think about anything but the fact that he’s lying in some dead alien’s sleeping bag that he got killed.

“I was unaware that you have struggled with significant matters of your health,” Spock states quietly. Jim rolls his head towards him, meeting dark eyes that remain slightly troubled.

The surprise of seeing the concern there is enough to briefly pull the captain from his thoughts. Though only somewhat, his heart begins to slow.

“Yeah, well,” Jim shrugs, returning his gaze to the ceiling. “The joys of being born extremely premature in the middle of space.”

He had had more than his share of doctor’s visits, emergency rooms, and surgeries in his childhood to last a lifetime. Bones knows, more or less– and consequently doesn’t take his hatred of sickbay too personally.

Now, having Spock know–

Jim isn’t sure how to feel about it. He expects nothing but irritation at being forced to expose such an uncomfortable aspect of his life to anyone– and while he is frustrated, that isn’t the entire picture. There’s something inexplicably relieving about admitting it to his first officer. He tells himself it’s only the comfort of having an extra set of eyes to look out for him; introspecting too deeply on the fact that it’s somehow Spock he trusts with that information demands far more mental energy than he currently has.

Even with how exhausted he feels, sleep is no easier to reach.

----

Vulcans, Jim has found, have an unexpected penchant for mutiny.

Mutiny may be going somewhat far, but the sentiment still stands. He’s sure Spock would dismiss it as logic or making a command decision in your stead, but in spite of his direct order to wake Kirk approximately halfway through the night, it’s nearing sunrise by the time that Jim rouses.

After several minutes of chewing out his first officer over his stubbornness– Vulcans are not stubborn, Captain– and his insubordination– technically, you are now awake, and it is not yet morning– Jim crosses his arms and waits for Spock to get into his sleeping bag. Once he’s satisfied that he’s asleep, the captain creeps out of the hut, eager to stretch his legs and fight his lingering nausea with a dose of fresh air.

On the horizon, an inkling of softened navy signals the approaching sunrise. Kirk seats himself at the same rock by the creek he had occupied the prior evening, watching as color slowly seeps above the treetops.

Even with his gaze on the peaceful scene, his mind can’t help but continue its anxious rut. It’s been years since he’s had any real cause for vigilance, but even still, he remains a natural at spotting the hazards around him. Could drown in an inch of water if I fell towards the creek’s edge, his brain easily rattles off. Plenty of rocks to hit my head on. Even if I avoided both, I could still suffocate if I land the wrong way.

The nausea is worse this morning. His body aches, too, though it’s different than yesterday; almost flu-like, now.

Withdrawal, his brain helpfully supplies. He groans into his hands.

Though he doesn’t have a knack for keeping time as accurately as his first officer, he knows it can’t have been more than an hour since sneaking out of the hut when Spock emerges. In the gaining light of dawn, the sight of dark hair just barely mussed momentarily kills the complaint that had been building on the captain’s tongue.

“I have rested adequately,” the Vulcan preempts any protest. “It would be prudent to maximize our usage of daylight in order to investigate the area. I calculate an approximate 9.4 hours until the next sunset.”

Jim frowns. “That short?”

“The rotational period of this moon appears to be approximately 21.1 hours,” Spock affirms, “with nights holding a slight majority over daylight hours.”

Kirk glances towards the gaining sun. With a sigh, he stands, stretching out his aching muscles.

“Alright,” he relents. “But we should–”

“Good morning, competitors,” a jovial voice rings out through the trees, freezing the captain. “Your next game will begin in approximately 2 hours. As always, we expect you to put your best foot forward– or, perhaps this time, your best fin. Until then!”

The echoes of the announcer’s voice fade, leaving the dawn unnaturally silent in their absence.

Stunned to stillness, Jim looks to his first officer.

“Game?” he repeats, though there is hardly a question in his dumbfounded tone.

Learning to read his Vulcans, Jim thinks, is something he’d be just fine without– maybe even better off. A single glimpse of the uncertainty hidden in dark eyes is enough to push the captain’s anxiety towards its boiling point.

Chapter Text

The ration bar in Jim’s hand is a heavy weight.

Even with his stomach empty again, it takes effort to force each bite down. The malaise of withdrawal mingles with the pit in his stomach that has only grown heavier since materializing somewhere far from the Enterprise, leaving him with little appetite.

Having dark eyes continually glancing at him like he might crumple at any moment doesn’t help, either.

“We should look around while we have the chance,” he asserts, if only to get Spock to pay attention to anything else. The Vulcan blinks, seeming momentarily caught off guard.

“Conservation of energy is also a concern,” Spock argues, “considering we have no information on what ‘game’ we are expected to participate in.”

“Having more context could help us, too,” Jim points out. “And if we find anyone else that doesn’t, uh, immediately try to kill us–,” he grimaces slightly, “we could get more information from them. And maybe someone else on our side in whatever the game is going to be.”

“Considering the reward that was delivered to us as a result of killing another ‘competitor’, I find it unlikely that we would not be immediately attacked.”

Kirk cringes again, rubbing the back of his neck. For a beat, there is only the babbling of the creek and the distant whine of insects.

Then, Spock continues, “If we are able to avoid encountering further stressors before the game, doing so would be prudent. It would be unwise to needlessly increase your risk of a seizure in a potentially far more hazardous environment.”

It’s already bad enough when his first officer is right in an argument, but when his first officer is right and it’s over something that is rapidly making Jim feel more like dead weight with each passing minute, it only makes the frustration in him burn brighter.

“Alright,” he relents. “But after the game, we need to get more familiar with the area.”

Spock nods.

It takes less than a minute of silence before Kirk’s first officer continues glancing at him in his peripheral.

----

“Transport of competitors will commence in 5 minutes.”

Jim takes one deep breath, then another.

It does nothing to calm the racing of his heart, but it doesn’t hurt, either.

“Think they’re bringing us down there?” Jim asks, nodding towards the planet that is just barely visible over the treetops. Spock follows his gaze, an eyebrow raising.

“I do not have sufficient information for an informed hypothesis,” his first officer declines. “However, the option is plausible.”

Kirk shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

“I wonder how many others they’ve brought here.”

Spock does not reply. The planet peers down at them, impassive.

“There can’t be that many,” Jim continues, to no one in particular. “A bunch of disappearances– especially if they’re mostly Federation– would have caught Starfleet’s attention by now.”

“Perhaps,” his first officer allows.

Helpful commentary as always, Spock.

Kirk restrains a restless sigh.

“Transport of competitors will commence in 3 minutes.”

The captain shifts his weight back to his other foot.

“You are still feeling able to participate?” Spock asks suddenly, drawing cyan eyes back to him. The only disturbance to his otherwise blank expression is that tiny crease between his brows again.

“I’m fine,” Kirk dismisses, turning back towards the planet. “Nothing weird so far.”

Besides the full-body aches that are currently kicking his ass, but that isn’t what Spock is asking about, and he doesn’t need his first officer hovering around him any more than he already is.

He crosses his arms to hide the slight tremble in his hands.

“Transport of competitors will commence in 1 minute.”

Kirk takes another slow breath. He brushes his fingertips over the knife at his belt, an uneasy reassurance.

“Captain,” Spock begins, though the second Jim turns to him with raised brows, he seems to hesitate.

Jim realizes he can’t remember a single time his first officer has ever hesitated over anything before now.

His surprise has only seconds to linger before his vision whites out, and the forest around him is replaced with a tiny room that contains only a locker, a mirror, and a glowing white button on the wall. The space is closer to a stall than a room in size, not even wide enough for him to fully stretch his arms out in one direction.

Jim’s never been claustrophobic. It’s not the size of the space that stokes the quickly mounting panic within, but the fact that he is alone in it.

Spock–

“Competitors, you will find your change of clothing in your locker. Leave all items on your person in its place. Once you have completed changing, please press the button on the wall.”

Jim blinks once, twice. He reaches out, only just restraining a wince at the loud creak of the locker door as he pulls it open. Beneath a pair of goggles, laying neatly folded is–

“A wetsuit?” Jim mutters, holding the dark material up. The man in the mirror mimics his movements, but the captain there is far too nervous, too pale, to be him.

He sets the garment down and turns away from his reflection, searching the black metal walls instead for any kind of fault or handle, but he finds nothing.

“Tardiness will be penalized, James Kirk,” a voice announces, though rather than the disembodied, jovial tone he’s heard until now, it is a more feminine, softer voice, the source of which is directly behind him.

He whips around, coming face to face with an unfamiliar woman– a Human woman, or at least someone who appears to be. Her clothes point to Earth, too; with the white dress shirt, black skirt, and red bowtie she wears, she resembles a hostess at an upscale restaurant.

Jim doesn’t even realize he’s drawn his knife until a brief jab from a metal tool in the woman’s grasp sends a sharp electric shock through his arm that causes him to drop it with a grunt.

“You must begin changing immediately,” she states without batting an eye. Her tone and expression are both smooth enough that Kirk would have expected to see pointed ears poking out of her black hair if he hadn’t already noticed her rounded ones.

“Who are you?” he demands, absently shaking out the agitated hand at his side with a grimace.

“I am your attendant,” she answers, simply.

“You–,” he shakes his head with a stunned breath, “why the hell have you brought us here? Where’s my first officer?”

“He is changing,” the attendant intones. “As you should be.”

“I’m not doing anything until you give me more information.”

The attendant does not blink, simply repeating, “Tardiness will be penalized.”

“You’ve already given me a goddamn penalty,” Jim snaps. “What the hell happened to my implant? How–”

“Competitors are not allowed artificial advantages over one another.”

The captain’s hands clench at his sides. “My medication isn’t an advantage–”

“You will play to your genetic abilities,” the attendant calmly interrupts, “and nothing more.”

A stunned scoff leaves Jim’s lips. “Who the hell do you people think you are–”

“Tardiness will be penalized,” she states again. “If you do not begin changing immediately, you will be tardy.”

The next blink, she’s gone, and Jim is once again staring at his frozen reflection. When he is finally able to force himself back into motion, he begins stripping his command tunic with a muttered, “Fucking hell.”

The wetsuit he changes into is a perfect fit. Its appearance is sleek and severe, all black save for bright crimson accents under the arms. Though he’s unwilling to abandon the knife, there’s no place to hide it within the skin-tight garment.

With one final smoothing of his hair, he heaves a sigh under his breath, then jams the glowing button with the side of his fist. The button responds with a pleasant jingle.

A split second later, he is staring out over an expansive, circular pool, the diameter of which is long enough that he can only just make out the competitors at the opposite end. The edge of the pool is packed with members of many species, more of which continue to wink into existence beside one another. The water is split into equal quarters by black dividers that meet at the center, one of which Jim is standing directly to the left of. Following the line leads his gaze to the competitor at his right–

“Spock,” he breathes, unable to account for the intensity of the wave of relief that washes over him. His eyes briefly dip to the commander’s identical wetsuit– which hugs his defined figure way too well– before Jim forces them back upwards. A beat later, a spike of panic drives through him as he realizes, “Wait, do you know how to–”

“Yes,” the Vulcan assures, “I was taught to swim in a survival course at the Academy.” The briefest displeasure in his expression betrays exactly how eager he is to exercise that knowledge. The expression, however, is quickly replaced by the crease that returns to his brow, deeper this time. “Will you be able to do so safely?”

Jim’s gaze turns back out over the water. He does his best to keep his mounting dread out of his face.

“Guess we’ll find out.”

Kirk doesn’t look back at his first officer. He doesn’t want to see whatever is on his features– can’t handle it when his own heart feels ready to beat out of his chest.

Would they let me drown?

Considering they’d see it as a simple failing in his genetic abilities, he’s pretty certain of the answer.

Observing the competitors around the pool, he notices how many eyes are on himself and Spock– fresh meat, he thinks. To his surprise, he spots many Humans in the mix, though there are also Orions, Andorians, and Tellarites, to name only a few– even, to his surprise, a Klingon amongst the competitors.

But what makes his blood run cold isn’t their presence, nor the countless stares he and his first officer are already getting– it’s the two teenagers he can spot amongst the adults.

For only the briefest moment, he can smell nothing but rotting grain.

“Kids?” he asks breathlessly, turning to his first officer. At the movement, he spots the attendant behind him– When the hell did she get there?– and advances a step towards her. “You brought kids–”

A strong hand grips his left bicep, halting him in his tracks. Spock utters a single, low warning: “Captain.”

Jim attempts to pull out of his grasp, but doesn’t budge an inch. The Vulcan does not flinch at the fury in the gaze he’s directed. “Those are kids, Spock! We can’t just fucking stand here and let them–”

“We are not in a position to resist,” his first officer counters under his breath, low enough for only his captain to hear. Kirk follows his brief glance back towards the attendant, who is holding the same metal tool in her hand again, pointed directly at the captain.

With one last huff, Kirk pulls fully out of the Vulcan’s grasp and turns back around to face the water.

Now, all eyes are on him.

“Greetings, competitors!” the announcer’s voice rings out. “As we have newcomers amongst us, we will briefly restate the rules of The Ring before we begin.

While moonside, each termination of a fellow competitor will increase your score by one point. You will receive a reward for each termination, the size of which will increase with every point you gain. A competitor with ten points will receive a much more handsome reward than a competitor with one.

Termination of fellow competitors is prohibited during a game. Violence is not, so long as you are abiding by the rules of the game. The rewards of each game will be equal amongst competitors who earn them during gameplay, regardless of their current standing in The Ring. Loss of a game will end in your automatic termination, as will disqualification due to rule-breaking. We aspire to uphold fair play, and will tolerate no deviations.”

The water of the pool shudders beneath the loud echoes. The waves of sound melt into a brief silence, making Jim aware of the heavy beating of his heart and the quickness of his breaths.

A glance towards Spock reveals the same uncertainty that had occupied his gaze before. It is gone as soon as it came.

“Now, for this week’s game.

Each of you stand before a wedge of the pool. Competitors are not allowed to enter any wedge but their own. If they do so, they will be disqualified.”

Jim glances at the black divider between his segment of the pool and Spock’s. He doesn’t meet his first officer’s gaze.

“Your challenge is to retrieve a weighted ring from the floor of your pool. Each competitor may only retrieve a single ring. The rings you seek will be 15 centimeters in diameter. Each wedge has one red ring, three gold, five white, and ten gray. Red will receive the highest reward, followed by gold, then white. Gray will receive none, save for your life.

Each wedge holds twenty competitors. You are advised to seek your rewards quickly. If you fail to retrieve a ring, you will lose the game.”

Breathe.

Jim glances to his left. Another Human is beside him, a slender woman with a significant height advantage over him. She only meets him with a curious look before turning her gaze to the rest of the competitors in their wedge.

He can’t find a single nervous expression amongst the mix. A few seem eager, some confident, and others simply unreadable.

Kirk turns his gaze forward again.

Breathe.

The knowledge that failing to do so is increasing his risk of seizing underwater doesn’t make the concept any easier.

“Get whatever you can get,” Kirk says under his breath, avoiding Spock’s gaze. “Don’t care about the color. Let’s just make it out of here.”

In his peripheral, he sees the Vulcan hesitate, then nod.

“As always, we eagerly await your inspiring performance. The game will begin on my mark. Twenty… nineteen… eighteen…”

Breathe.

Jim’s gaze darts over the water, but he can’t make out the floor of the pool from the surface.

“...fifteen, fourteen…”

An echo of Captain? ripples through his thoughts, along with the hesitation that had followed. He wonders what Spock had meant to say, then.

“...ten, nine, eight…”

He wonders if Spock will have the chance to say it at all.

Breathe.

“...four, three…”

Jim crouches at the edge, pulling on the goggles from around his neck. He dares one final glance at his first officer, whose expression is utterly smoothed and focused.

The sight is inexplicably comforting.

“...Begin!”

The water is colder than he expects it to be. It sends a shock through his system, knocking most of the air from his lungs. He resurfaces briefly to take one breath, then another, before he dives towards the floor of the pool.

The water is deep enough that the light is dim at the bottom, and even with goggles, it’s a struggle to see. There’s a wealth of weighted objects littered about its surface, scattered in patternless heaps. On first glance, he can’t even spot a ring at all, let alone one of a particular color.

Fuck.

His lungs are already growing tight. A competitor knocks past him, scooping up the golden ring he had failed to notice amongst the debris and kicking their way back to the surface.

He has no choice but to follow.

How many have already been found?

Jim allows himself only seconds to gulp another breath before he plunges again.

He digs through the piles as fast as his water-ladened arms will allow. He finds disks, cans, boxes, and objects in a wide variety of shapes, but no rings.

On another resurface, he notices nine competitors in his section already standing at the edge of the pool with their rings. Spock isn’t anywhere to be seen.

Kirk dives again.

Another patch of debris turns up nothing. The air in his lungs is nearing depletion again, but just as he turns to kick back to the surface, he spots a red ring sticking out of a pile ahead of him.

Jim kicks forward, his heart thudding heavily against his ribs. His lungs burn, and his head is beginning to grow fuzzy, but the feeling of a ring finally caught in his grasp is more than worth it.

With his reward in hand, he kicks his way back towards the surface. Halfway to the top, another competitor tackles him with bruising strength, causing him to release the last bit of air he’d been holding onto.

The Klingon. Already a difficult strength for a Human to match. Though adrenaline is pounding through Kirk, the verge of suffocation he’s already gotten himself onto is making him far too weak to fight back. The ring is ripped from his grasp, and he is given one final shove before the competitor resurfaces.

Jim’s body is trembling by the time he manages to break back into the air, taking greedy, desperate gulps. As the fuzziness in his head clears, he notices the Klingon leering at him from the edge of the pool. At his side, fifteen other competitors hold their own rings.

Kirk dives again.

His body is drained, a discordant mix of adrenaline and exhaustion. Jim searches the debris again with shaking hands, desperate to find something, anything. He knows there are three rings at most somewhere on the floor, but even just the notion of continuing to comb through the bottom in his current state is making the captain feel weaker.

He can’t tell if the fuzziness in his brain is the lack of air or a creeping aura of a seizure. He isn’t sure if he wants to know.

Can’t stop. I’ll be dead either way.

Jim shoves past more debris. His lungs are complaining again, but he ignores them.

Then, beneath a disk he pushes out of the way, there is a lone gray ring.

Kirk grabs onto it as hard as his trembling grip will allow. There is movement ahead of him; another frantic set of hands reaching out. He kicks from the floor of the pool as hard as he can.

Just as he surfaces, fingers wrap around his ankle and pull him back under.

Jim’s body is burning, desperate for the air just above him. He’s losing the energy to kick, but the hand on him is losing its grip, too.

With one final pull, Kirk shakes himself free.

At the surface again, he is nothing but adrenaline, and frantic gasps for air, and white knuckles clinging to a gray ring. The remainder of his energy is spent clawing his way back out of the pool, an effort that feels monumental to a hazy, frazzled brain. With nothing left in him to force himself upright, he rolls onto his back and rips his goggles off, panting heavily as he stares at the red sky. His vision swims with specks of black, obscuring the clouds above.

He’s delirious enough that he could almost swear he hears his name on his first officer’s voice, but Spock is all sirs and Captains whether on duty or off, and according to the Vulcan himself, uttering even a single Jim would be unacceptably unprofessional.

But he hears it, again–

“Jim,” Spock’s voice sounds again, closer this time. Cyan eyes move blearily to the dark ones above, noticing only then the Vulcan kneeling beside him. His bangs are mussed, and his hair dripping–

Then, Kirk shoots upright with a jolt of memory, the world spinning around him as he comes to a sitting position. His voice is hoarse when he asks, “Shit, Spock– did you find–”

The Vulcan holds up a white ring. Something dangerously close to relief is in his gaze. “Yes. It appears we are both safe.”

Jim nods, still fighting to catch his breath. At length, he manages to croak out, “Good.”

Spock looks as though he intends to say something else, but a loud jingle that rings out over the pool silences him. Slowly, the pair both stand.

“All rings have now been collected. Congratulations to our victorious competitors– you have provided us with yet another invigorating show.”

There is a splash in front of Kirk as a competitor resurfaces– the same one he had seen shortly before they had attempted to drag him under. With their shock of white hair and antennae, the Andorian isn’t difficult to recognize the second time around.

This time, when their eyes dip to the ring in Kirk’s hand, there isn’t desperation there, but dread.

“To those who have lost, we thank you for your time in The Ring.”

A pair of heels click on the ground as an attendant steps up to the edge of the pool– another Andorian, dressed in the same outfit as Kirk’s had been.

The metal tool in her hand changes shape, and she aims at the stranded competitor.

A second later, with four loud cracks still reverberating in the captain’s ears, he is standing again in the changing stall.

Several compartments snap open in the metal walls, expelling waves of sonic that dry his dripping hair and trembling form. For several beats after the compartments snap shut again, he is too numb to move.

Then, another jingle plays overhead.

“Competitors, once you are done changing, you may press the button on the wall to return moonside. Thank you for your participation, and happy hunting.”

Jim takes one shallow breath, then another.

He can’t meet his eyes in the mirror.

----

Kirk is the second to materialize at camp.

The moment he’s standing back on solid ground, his first officer is already saying something to him, the words distant. His head nods absently, but his body steers him towards the rock at the edge of the creek.

The sun is nearing its midpoint now– couldn’t have even been an hour since leaving.

Spock is still saying something. Jim’s gaze is fixed on the planet overhead.

“Captain,” the Vulcan repeats, louder now, close enough to touch. Close enough that he does touch, with the unexpectedly warm hand at Jim’s shoulder finally bringing a widened gaze back to Spock’s.

The hand lingers only for seconds, but even after Spock pulls away, Jim can still feel the warmth left on his tunic.

“Perhaps you would benefit from lying down and seeking rest–”

“I’m fine, Spock,” Kirk dismisses, willing some semblance of confidence back into his tone. “I just– need a minute.”

Just barely, a tiny frown twitches at the Vulcan’s lips. “Captain, I believe you are showing signs of–”

“Look, just–,” Jim huffs, scrubbing his face with his shaking palms. “I just got a second person killed in the span of a day. Can you get off my back for one fucking minute?”

His first officer does not answer. He is silent long enough that Kirk glances back at him. The Vulcan’s expression is blank again, shuttered.

The sight only deepens the guilt in the captain’s gut.

“Sorry,” he mutters, turning back to the creek. “That wasn’t fair.”

Another beat of silence. Then, he hears the receding crunch of boots against pebbles as Spock retreats from the creek. Kirk rubs the back of his neck with a grimace.

Great fucking job, Jim.

He assumes that’s that, but less than a minute later, footfalls return, and a ration bar is extended wordlessly to him.

“Thanks,” he mumbles. Spock simply nods.

The pair eat in silence. What would have once been an unbearably awkward activity for the captain is now oddly comforting. The Vulcan’s presence is no longer what had felt like constant judgment since the Kobayashi Maru; it’s a quiet reassurance, an anchor in the haze that Jim continues to wade through.

Once he manages to force the remainder of his bar down, he exhales a slow breath, then states, “We’ve still got half a day left. We should scout the area– see if there’s any other good places for shelter. People may be looking for us now.”

“I am capable of scouting independently,” Spock offers. “You may rest–”

“No chance in hell, Spock,” Jim interrupts firmly. “Splitting up is not going to happen here. Understood?”

The Vulcan looks like something unspoken is on his tongue again.

This time, he only nods.

Chapter Text

While dense woods had been unpleasant to traverse the first time around, doing so after nearly drowning turns out not to be any better of an experience.

The reception of Spock’s reward from the game doesn’t make anything much easier, either– a mere handful of ration bars and a backpack had been the only occupants of the small box that had materialized in camp. It’s just as well, anyways; having little supplies means packing light in their search for new shelter.

Though not fully willing, Jim allows his first officer to lead the way, well aware that his ability to clear any debris in their path is minimal in his present state. Every limb aches with the malaise of withdrawal amplified in the aftermath of the game, and his brain remains fuzzy at the edges, slowing every reaction and muddying all thought.

It’s just exhaustion, he tells himself. And the rest of this bullshit.

He avoids Spock’s frequent glances.

Following the creek, the trees begin to grow less dense after an hour’s hike, and the air slightly cooler. The water widens, and the view opens up to reveal an expansive valley that is cut across by branching webs of the river. Though the land appears largely untouched, there is a lazy column of smoke poking through a thicket of trees to the pair’s left.

“Let’s get as far from that as possible,” Jim suggests, his voice somewhat lowered. Spock nods.

Though Kirk attempts to keep a watchful eye on their surroundings, the haze of exhaustion dampens his ability to focus. It isn’t until Spock’s already reaching to clear a low branch from their path that Jim notices the threat at last and surges forward to pull his first officer away from it.

The dark eyes that turn to him are baffled. “Captain, what–”

“That’s a hunting trap,” Jim explains breathlessly. “Don’t touch it.”

Spock blinks several times, glancing back at the branch. “How are you able to tell?”

Jim gestures towards where the end of the branch disappears into brush. Dark rope, almost the same color as the bark, snakes up the length of the adjacent tree trunk, climbing until it reaches a joining point above the pair with several other strands. Below them, Kirk disturbs the thick layer of leaves until the lattice of a massive net comes into view.

“I’ve made one of these before,” he mutters, his voice lowered again as he backs off of the material. “Someone’s probably still nearby if nothing’s disturbed this yet. We need to keep moving.”

Though a hint of surprise remains in the Vulcan’s gaze, he nods his assent, giving the net a wide berth before continuing through the trees. Spock’s glances begin to turn more towards their surroundings than back at his captain, and though Jim isn’t eager to run into definite signs of neighbors, it’s still somewhat relieving to have some of the intensity of his first officer’s attention removed from him.

By the time the sun is well into its descent towards the horizon, the captain can feel the exhaustion pressing at the backs of his eyes. It buzzes through his body, leaving his hands shaking and his footing barely steady.

With over another hour of hiking behind them, and anxiety beginning to mount towards finding shelter before nightfall, the water that they had followed dips suddenly over a dropoff. After making their way down the hillside, Kirk is met with a sight that finally loosens the tight hold of tension on him: a natural cave nestled within the rocky structure, partly obscured by the falling water.

“Home sweet home,” he murmurs, heading immediately towards the entrance. Spock is close on his heels.

“This location may be unsafe–”

“We’ve been walking forever and haven’t seen any signs of anyone since that trap,” Jim dismisses without looking back. “We don’t have much choice this late in the day. We can reassess tomorrow.”

Though his first officer does not reply, he can practically feel dark eyes boring into the back of his head.

At the entrance, Jim pulls the lantern from where he had affixed it to his belt. The glow reveals a wide space that continues several meters back before turning on a slight curve. He follows the bend, though only a few paces beyond, there’s nothing but a dead end.

“Let’s set up back here,” Jim suggests, placing the lantern down. Though the notion of being caged in by an unexpected visitor makes his back prickle, he knows the cave is better than being sitting ducks in the open.

Spock sets down his pack, observing the space around them. It is a long minute before he states, “This will be satisfactory as a temporary shelter.”

Jim exhales a low breath of relief. Another argument is far beyond his current capacity. After a brief stretch of sore limbs, he states, “I’m gonna grab some water.”

The Vulcan’s glance at him has become unreadable again. He simply nods his acknowledgment.

Back at the cave’s entrance, Kirk looks out on the land as he approaches the water’s edge. In the light of the setting sun, the scenery around him is undeniably tranquil. A gentle breeze rustles the trees beyond the water, stirring a great sea of leaves that endless birds dive and surface in. The serene sight stills the captain in his tracks.

Though he knows he hasn’t been here before, the view feels strangely familiar. Not only the view, now that he thinks about it– even standing at the mouth of the cave feels like an exact replication of some forgotten dream.

Jim’s gaze drifts upwards. The movement is automatic, thoughtless. He can’t quite bring the planet above into focus.

Can’t quite bring the voice behind him into focus, either– his ears are ringing too loud to discern the words. Even the water and the leaves are overshadowed by it, lost beneath the swiftly growing white noise.

On his second attempt to bring the sky back into focus, he realizes, distantly, that his eyes have closed.

It takes effort to force them back open. Though his vision is still a blur, it’s immediately evident that the day has dimmed somewhat, and the world is now at a new angle.

There’s something soft against his face; dark blue, rumpled fabric at the side of his vision. It smells nice, too. It’s a shame that he’s drooling all over it.

When the fuck did he start drooling?

The question holds his attention for all of a few seconds before the splitting ache throughout his body finally registers with his brain.

It’s not only malaise now, but a throbbing, bone-deep pain. The worst of it is the ache in his head, squeezing in a fierce band around his skull.

“Jim,” a voice sounds somewhere close to him. The same not-Spock that had spoken the syllable some hours ago. Whenever he had been on his back at the edge of a pool, and not on his side at the edge of a watering hole.

He closes his eyes, opens them again. His eyelids are unbearably heavy.

Not-Spock is saying something else, but the words are distant, too slippery to grasp.

The pain is making him nauseous.

It takes another minute of staring out over the water before he remembers how to shut his mouth. He swallows the rest of the drool that had been pooling in his cheek.

“Jim,” not-Spock says again, but this time, there is a warm hand on his shoulder that feels a lot like real-Spock’s.

When Kirk manages to drag his gaze from the water, the Vulcan above him comes into focus, that crease returned to his brow. Something about his expression is different this time, though. Unsteady, maybe.

“Do you understand me?”

Jim’s gaze drifts away again. His effort to lift his arm is clumsy for a beat, though he manages to scrub the drool from his face, uncoordinated as the movement is.

He struggles to prop himself up on an elbow. The dark blue beneath him comes more fully into view. A Starfleet science tunic.

What he wants to say is why did you put real-Spock’s shirt on the ground or maybe real-Spock is going to hate that even more than me getting drool on it, though to be fair, he’s not going to be happy about the drool, either, but what comes out of his mouth instead is a formless note.

There are two hands on him, now. Real-Spock, he’s pretty sure, but gentle enough that he suspects it could be not-Spock in disguise. Even after he’s aided to a sitting position, one hand lingers on his shoulder.

“Jim,” his name comes again, bringing his focus back to the Vulcan in front of him. Real-Spock, for sure. He’s 99% on that one. “Do you understand me?”

Kirk has a feeling another go at the speaking thing won’t be more successful than his last. He nods mutely instead.

“You have had a seizure,” real-Spock says. “The duration was an approximate 2.63 minutes. It has been a further 18.77 minutes since its conclusion.”

Jim’s mouth opens, closes. Fogginess and shock mingle beneath the sharper note of pain. “Seizure,” he repeats, blinking once, twice. He shakes his head slightly, which hurts worse with the movement. “I don’t…”

He fumbles for the rest of the thought, but it dissolves like sugar in water.

“You are currently without your medical implant,” Spock supplies, “which is the likely cause.”

He knows that sounds right, but it can’t be. He’s misplaced a lot of things in his lifetime, sure, but an implant seems beyond even his own talent.

With a furrow in his brow, he lifts his hand to press at the sore skin on his arm.

“Do you know our present location?”

Apparently not the Enterprise, he’s tempted to snark back, considering his first officer has decided that now is the perfect time to quiz him with how goddamned sore and exhausted he is– but the fact that they’re not on the Enterprise is enough alone to quiet him. He knows that he should know the answer, but attempting to recall it feels like fumbling for something with cold, numb hands, or running on sleep-slow legs.

“You require rest,” Spock asserts at length, his voice somewhat lowered. Jim’s utter lack of will to argue the point only unsettles himself further.

An arm loops under his, tugging him to his feet with enough ease that it pulls a soft moan of surprise from the captain. Supported by him like this, the warmth Jim had previously felt only through patches of his command tunic presses fully against him now, more comforting than he expects it to be.

When he’s eased down into his sleeping bag, the loss of it is more disappointing than he expects it to be, too.

In his peripheral, Jim sees Spock settle across the light of a lantern. He wants to turn and look at him– to see if that unsteadiness is still there– but this time, he can’t fight the heaviness of his eyelids.

Sleep comes, restless as it is. The cave goes in and out of focus. Every time his eyes open again, his first officer is still in his peripheral, sitting across the warm light between them.

The fourth time Kirk opens his eyes, some of the fuzziness in his brain has dissipated. Though his body still aches like hell, and his head isn’t faring much better, the crushing reality of their circumstances has returned, for better or worse.

The moment he begins to sit up, he sees the Vulcan starting to stand, and immediately waves him off. “I’m fine,” he assures, his voice somewhat hoarse. Though a tiny frown twitches on Spock’s lips, he settles back down.

“I would argue that your present condition does not qualify as ‘fine’,” the commander asserts. Jim does not respond immediately, only scrubbing his face with a sigh under his breath.

“How long have I been out?”

“You have been resting for approximately 72.2 minutes.”

He glances towards the bend in the cave. The light hitting the rocky wall is considerably less bright than before, wavering in small movements with the partial obstruction of the waterfall.

“Are you in any significant pain?” Spock presses after a beat. “Without a medical tricorder, I am not able to fully evaluate any injury you may have sustained during your seizure.”

Jim only shakes his head. He feels like hell, but there’s nothing acute that causes him any concern. Though it’s been years, he hasn’t forgotten the pain that always lingers after a seizure, injured or not.

For a long minute, there is only silence, save for the falling water beyond the entrance. The light is slowly dimming further, and the shadows dancing on the cave wall are beginning to fade. Though he can feel his first officer’s eyes on him, Kirk keeps his gaze on the sight.

He isn’t an idiot. He knows that one seizure– for him, at least– will mean more. Maybe not for hours, or days, or even a week, if he’s lucky– but eventually, a second one will come.

And the next time it comes, he might not have a Vulcan at his back, or an empty forest around them. Probably won’t, if the pool, and the smoke, and the net speak to anything.

Under any other circumstances, that looming seizure would have already been a threat hanging over the captain’s shoulders. But here, it isn’t just him. It’s a Vulcan, too, who made the mistake of signing up to be the first officer of someone who couldn’t even handle a simple diplomatic dinner alone.

The knowledge that Spock was never meant to be here only makes him more nauseous.

Jim takes one slow breath, then another. He closes his eyes briefly, swallowing.

“Captain?”

The dark eyes he meets aren’t quite readable, but the crease in Spock’s brow is.

Kirk’s voice is flat, quieter when he responds, “I’m gonna get you killed, Spock.”

Just barely, fleeting enough that the captain isn’t sure he had seen it at all, the Vulcan’s eyes widen. His expression is instantly smoothed again, but something off remains in his gaze.

“We still have very little definite knowledge of our present circumstances,” Spock argues. “Furthermore, the Enterprise is certainly searching–”

“You said it yourself,” Jim interrupts, “we could be across the goddamn galaxy for all we know. And the context we do have has made it clear that people have a reason to hunt us down. I can’t–”

His hands tighten into fists in his lap. He feels the prick of angry tears, and only breathes until he’s certain his voice won’t waver.

At length, he finishes, “Every time this happens again, I’m putting you in danger, too.”

“Danger is an inherent aspect of active duty,” Spock responds, his voice firmer than Jim expects it to be. “It is also the responsibility of every crewman to assist one another, regardless of whether that assistance incurs danger to oneself.”

“Reasonable danger,” Kirk reminds him. He wonders if it’s the first time anyone’s ever had to quote regulation back to a Vulcan. “If that assistance has a high probability of getting you killed, that’s not reasonable danger.”

“The probability of encountering grave harm to my person as a result of assisting you is not high–”

“By what fucking metric, Spock?” Jim snaps, then winces at the resulting throb of pain in his head. With a lowered voice, he continues, “If you break the rules of a game to help me, you die. If you lose a game because you’re too busy helping me, you die. If we run into someone else out here– which is going to happen sooner or later– and you get distracted by me for even a second, you die.”

“These statements cannot be made with absolute certainty,” Spock argues back. His voice is creeping closer to a sharp edge, reminding Jim of how taut the air had felt between them on the bridge shortly before the Vulcan had snapped. “Furthermore, I am capable of forming my own judgment on what danger is ‘reasonable’, and what is not.”

Fixed beneath the intensity of his first officer’s stare, Kirk is rendered mute. After a beat, the Vulcan seems to become aware of himself, and his gaze smooths again before turning away. The silence between them stretches on until Spock speaks again, quieter, “There is water in the bottle beside you. You require hydration.”

The words bring an inexplicable pinch behind cyan eyes again. He’s still hazier than he had realized– nothing more.

The metal surface of the bottle next to his sleeping bag reflects the warm light of the lantern. There’s a ration bar beside it, too.

He ignores the tightness of his throat as he drinks without a word.

Chapter Text

When Jim rouses to the weak light of dawn, Spock is in the exact same position he was at sunset.

The world spins briefly as the captain sits up, though after it stabilizes again, a small bit of relief trickles in when he notices his head is no longer aching as badly as before. Though soreness lingers throughout his body and he can feel the beginnings of bruises forming, the discomfort is much more manageable without an ice pick in his skull.

His voice somewhat rough, he asks, “Have you not slept this entire time?”

“I did not require it,” Spock intones. “I engaged in light meditation, which was sufficient rest.”

Kirk’s look turns flat.

“You might be able to convince someone who knows less about Vulcans,” he states, “but you’re not going to pull that bullshit with me.”

Just barely, angled brows twitch closer to one another. “Your knowledge cannot be comprehensive. There exists no public literature on Vulcan anatomy.”

“Good thing I know an old friend.”

It’s the second, maybe third time Jim has ever acknowledged Spock’s elder self to him. Just the same as the first, a strange expression comes and goes through dark eyes– something almost like irritation.

I should really win a medal at this point with how talented I am at pissing him off.

“He and I are not the same being.”

“You have the same DNA,” Kirk points out. “I’m pretty sure you’re not going to magically need less sleep than he does.”

Spock does not reply to that, save for the slightest narrowing of his eyes. With a sigh, Kirk rolls the kinks out of his shoulders, then states, “Go to sleep, Spock. I’m not going anywhere. If I feel weird, I’ll wake you up.”

“You may not be able to communicate in time–”

“I wasn’t feeling well on the walk here,” he admits, ignoring the immediate surprise and offense on his first officer’s features. Spock opens his mouth, but Jim quickly continues, “I didn’t think it was anything, but I know to be more careful now, alright? I’ll tell you if I start feeling off again.” Seeing the continued uncertainty in the Vulcan’s gaze, Jim adds, “When I was a kid, I usually had time to warn someone. I almost never just dropped out of nowhere.”

Probably the only reason I’m alive, he thinks, but doesn’t say. Nor does he mention how often at home he would simply lay himself down somewhere safe and wait for the inevitable instead of telling Frank.

“You are certain of this?”

“I am,” Jim affirms.

Spock is silent for a long moment, his gaze wary. In the quiet, Kirk is able to see the exhaustion barely hidden in his features– something he would have overlooked only weeks ago. It’s clear in the slight dullness of his eyes; the barely-there shadows under them. With every other aspect of his appearance entirely neutral, Jim is surprised he’s able to pick up on it at all.

“Very well,” Spock concedes at length. “So long as you remain here.”

“Yep,” Kirk agrees without missing a beat.

The second he’s certain his first officer is fully out, Jim stands, stretches, and leaves the cave.

The cool breeze of the morning surfaces goosebumps beneath the captain’s sleeves. Though the temperature verges on uncomfortable, in combination with the growing sunrise, it feels pleasantly refreshing.

He steps around the water, observing the surrounding brush. The woods aren’t as dense here as they had been at the camp, but there’s still a decent amount of timber around. After walking the area long enough to stretch the soreness out of his legs, he selects a modestly sized branch, then returns to the cave entrance to seat himself near the water. Though the urge crosses him to dip his feet in, he sits far enough back that he’s certain he couldn’t accidentally fall in. Bathing will have to wait until he’s got supervision around, whether that supervision is particularly desired or not.

The thought turns his face red. He quickly redirects his attention.

In spite of the unpleasant memories stirred up by the task, the methodical carving of a point at the end of the branch is soothing. If only for the moment, his mind empties, and his attention is devoted fully to the knife in his grasp.

He can still remember making his first spear; how his hand had been almost too small to hold the knife. Much like the rest of that summer, it was something he had had to grow into early, for better or worse.

At least one of us has real survival skills.

It’s a strange calm, knowing he’s lived through worse before.

By the time the sun has crept high enough to chase the last of the sunrise from the horizon, he’s got a suitably sharp point to his makeshift spear. It’s nowhere near as menacing as Spock’s metal one, but it’s enough for its purpose.

Jim sets it to the side, leaning back on the heels of his palms and tilting his head up with a sigh. The day’s already warming, and by the earliness of the hour, it seems likely to be a hotter one than yesterday.

He closes his eyes, simply taking a moment to breathe and assess his internal state. Though he’s not thrilled with sleeping so much more than his first officer, he is feeling more rested than before, and the fogginess that had lingered both before and after his seizure has largely dissipated, save for some lingering pain. It’s enough for him to exhale– for a moment, at least. Lying beneath everything is an old fear he isn’t quite ready to acknowledge yet; how unbearably vulnerable and terrified being so out of control of his own body always leaves him.

With effort, he brings his attention back to the calm land around him.

Cyan eyes remain closed until a syllable sounds in the cave behind him, far too close to alarmed to have come from his first officer, “Jim?”

“Out here,” he calls, straightening back up from his hands. The Vulcan that appears at the mouth of the cave seems more rested, though his hair is slightly mussed again, and the tiniest frown is present at his lips.

“You agreed to remain in the cave,” Spock reminds him with a flat tone.

Kirk offers an innocent smile back. “I said I’d stay here. Here is subjective.”

Just barely, dark eyes narrow again. Jim rolls his.

“Just sit for a second,” he urges. “It’s nice out here.”

What he expects is You are too close to the water or You must return inside for your safety, but to his surprise, the Vulcan complies with his request. After settling beside him, Spock glances at the spear on the ground between them.

“You have created another weapon?”

“Kind of,” Jim corrects. “It’s for fishing.”

The Vulcan considers this for a beat, then nods. “I have never attempted the activity, but believe that learning to do so would be trivial.”

“Aren’t you a vegetarian, though?” Kirk’s brow furrows slightly. “I didn’t think you ate fish.”

“You are correct,” Spock acknowledges. “Surak’s teachings are that of nonviolence, regardless of whether the subject is sentient or not. However, as with self-defense, his teachings also place care for oneself at a higher priority when that care is within reason. It is illogical to refuse fish when one is in danger of starvation.”

“We have other food, though,” Jim reminds him. “You don’t need to fish with me.”

“We have other food presently,” his first officer corrects. “That truth will not hold indefinitely.”

The captain averts his gaze to hide the flinch that threatens to surface. His stomach briefly turns.

“We’ll have to see what we can find in the area,” he states after a beat. “There could be edible plants around here, too.”

“An exploration of the area would be prudent,” Spock agrees. “However, I must strongly advise against overexerting yourself. And if you feel at any time–”

“I’ll let you know,” Kirk quickly interjects, holding his gaze. Though it appears he might argue the point further, after a beat, the Vulcan nods.

It’s not until they’ve finished their appetizing breakfast of more ration bars and begun to walk the surrounding area that Jim states, just loud enough for his first officer to hear him, “Thanks. For helping me– with everything.”

“You need not thank me,” is Spock’s automatic response. “It is of no consequence.”

If Jim had no memory at all of the event, maybe he would have believed him; simply accepted his evident neutrality and calm at face value.

But the only thing that comes to mind is the unsteadiness that had been in dark eyes after the seizure– and the fear that had been there, too.

----

With a sharper eye than the previous day, exploring the land around the watering hole serves not only to spot any nearby sources of food, but also to reassure Kirk that there are no neighbors waiting to give them another warm welcome.

Though the prospect of missing a trap or a set of prints in his haze had left him far from confident in their relative isolation the previous night, the new day has offered some peace of mind that no other competitors seem to be nearby– not recently, at least. It’s enough to release some of the stubborn tension in the captain’s form, and for him to inevitably fall back into his habit of mindless chatter.

Spock is silent for long enough that Jim isn’t all that certain he’s even listening. He’s all but made peace with the fact that his first officer has evidently decided to tune him out until the Vulcan suddenly interjects, “You appear to have a proficiency in survival skills beyond what is taught at the Academy.”

Kirk turns towards his first officer, surprised to see dark eyes not only focused on him, but holding him with a hint of curiosity. He’s unable to meet the Vulcan’s gaze for longer than a few moments before glancing away, needing the entirety of his attention not to lose his footing as another wave of unpleasant memory surges and wanes. Without looking back, he sidesteps, “What about you?”

He expects a clipped, short answer, as he’s grown accustomed to receiving from his first officer. He would be hard-pressed to think of anyone else he’s ever known in his life that appears to enjoy giving personal information less than Spock does.

But Spock answers without hesitation, “The majority of my experience originates from my participation in the kahs-wan.”

Jim blinks, turning back to him. “Kahs-wan?”

He can tell by the brief twitch of an angled brow that his pronunciation is nowhere near acceptable, but Spock doesn’t bother to correct him.

“It is a test administered to adolescent Vulcans to determine if they have successfully reached the maturity of an adult. The adolescent must survive in Vulcan’s Forge for ten days without food, water, or weapons.”

Kirk doesn’t realize his mouth is hanging open until his first officer glances downward with a slight lift of his brow. Recovering, he blurts, “That sounds pretty barbaric,” then winces immediately. Maybe don’t insult someone’s dead planet and endangered species, Jim. “I mean, uh–”

“The test’s origin is pre-Surakian,” Spock offers. “Your comparison is not wholly incorrect. The kahs-wan is not based in logic, which is the precise reason that it has remained in use. At the time of reform, it was reasoned that the kahs-wan was necessary to ensure that Vulcans were not rendered weak by a system of pure logic.”

This may be the longest Jim’s ever heard his first officer speak of anything personal, whether that be himself or his home planet. It’s enough to leave the captain stunned silent for a second, and though he surprises himself with how reluctant he is to push this unexpected window into Spock’s life, his curiosity wins out.

“So you completed the test?”

The Vulcan pauses. “I failed my first attempt,” he answers. “I succeeded on my second.”

Kirk’s brows raise. Fumbling for a response that won’t cause his first officer to clam back up, he wagers, “Must’ve taken a lot to go through that twice.”

There is a beat of silence as the pair continue to walk the area. Jim’s on the verge of accepting the premature death of their conversation when Spock asks, “What is your experience?”

The captain’s mouth dries, and the warmth of the day grows less comfortable. Suddenly, the prospect of an immediate end to this conversation doesn’t seem so bad.

“Nothing to write home about.”

----

By the time the pair make it back to the watering hole with their questionably edible finds, Jim’s command tunic is clinging to him with sweat.

His first officer, of course, looks like he just stepped out of a goddamn shower.

“Is Vulcan really so hot that you don’t even sweat in this?” Kirk gripes, gesturing vaguely at the area around them. Spock lifts a single brow.

“Vulcans do not sweat.”

Jim turns fully towards him, all grouchiness forgotten for the moment. “Seriously?”

“A curious misconception. I was under the impression that you were an expert on Vulcan anatomy,” Spock replies dryly, and– wait, is he getting teased by his first officer?

The tiniest hint of amusement that passes through dark eyes seems to confirm it. As if he wasn’t already overheated enough, Kirk can feel his face growing red.

He clears his throat, turning away to hide the burning of his face. “Never said that,” he corrects.

Spock does not reply. When Jim glances back, his first officer’s gaze is still on him, a hint of intrigue joining the slight amusement there.

“Anyways,” he huffs, tugging his gold tunic off of himself. “I’m gonna wash off before it gets dark. If you could just, uh…”

The heat already on his face isn’t making the question any easier. Apparently feeling merciful, Spock completes for him, “I will remain beside the water, in case of emergency.”

Jim exhales under his breath, offering a short nod and a muttered thanks.

Spock takes a seat near the cave entrance, seeming set on using the time to examine some of their findings. Though he isn’t even vaguely looking in his direction as Kirk begins to strip, the captain still feels somewhat awkward.

Not the way I imagined getting undressed with him.

Not that he’d ever imagined that.

He weighs his clothes down with a few stones in the shallows to allow them to soak off some of the grime of the day. The garments are joined by his first officer’s science tunic– though Spock had been either too polite or too focused on other matters to complain about the dirtied tunic, Jim knows he’ll need more than just his long-sleeved undershirt once the weather cools again.

Wading out into the water, he feels his first relief from the heat of the day since the early morning. Though his mind threatens to sink back to the murky bottom of a pool, he tries to focus on the soothing feeling of cool water enveloping him instead.

Jim leans back enough to wet his hair, slicking the darkened blonde strands out of his face. The red planet above comes into view again.

“You are still feeling well?” his first officer asks suddenly, drawing cyan eyes over to the Vulcan in shock. Though he’s never been a particularly modest person, the thought of Spock watching him like this–

But dark eyes are still turned away, focused on a berry grasped between his thumb and forefinger.

His hands are pretty nice, now that Jim thinks about it.

“Peachy,” Kirk calls back, wincing at the slightly hoarse edge to his voice. Spock does not appear to react to it.

With a sigh under his breath, Jim turns to look out over the land surrounding the watering hole. Though the trees around them remain empty, he’s still aware that his own brain isn’t the only threat to him while he’s defenseless in the water.

He quickly scrubs off what he can, sorely missing the body wash sitting abandoned in his shower aboard the Enterprise. Back at the water’s edge, he shakes the excess water off of himself, then slips his briefs back on. After laying out the rest of the clothes to dry against a few rocks at the edge, he seats himself beside them.

At least I’ll dry off quickly in this weather.

Another glance at his first officer confirms Spock is still keeping his focus away from him.

The sun sinks closer to the horizon, and the heat gradually falls. With the breeze turning pleasant, Jim lingers a couple minutes longer than necessary before pulling on his mostly dried clothes and heading back over to the Vulcan.

“Anything useful?”

He stretches the science tunic towards him in offering. After his first officer accepts the garment, he seats himself across from him, then grabs the water bottle that sits beside the rest of their finds.

“I do not appear to be experiencing a negative reaction thus far to the blue and red berries we gathered,” Spock notes, gesturing to where the fruits had been pressed against two small spots on the inside of his forearm. “They have not yet been proven inedible, which is encouraging.”

Only ever having been around him in uniform, Jim can’t remember a time he’s ever seen the Vulcan’s sleeves rolled up. The hint of dark hair that starts at his wrist apparently continues in a generous dusting up his arm.

Not that he’s looking.

“I will perform an oral test next.”

Jim chokes on his water.

He immediately waves the alarmed Vulcan off, croaking out once he’s through his coughing fit, “Good– I’m good. Christ.”

Spock’s brows have inched higher. “Are you certain you are feeling–”

“I’m good,” Kirk repeats. “Good. Fine. Seriously.” He hopes that his forced smile isn’t as idiotic as he feels.

Can you keep it together for one goddamn second, Jim?

The thought of even vaguely succeeding in doing so is seeming more like a lost cause with each passing minute.

Determined to resolutely ignore whatever the hell that was, he plucks a couple of berries from the mound they had gathered. Though he has little hope for his own tolerance towards them, he gently presses both against his arm until he’s left with two round dots of juice.

“I’m probably allergic to these,” he remarks, “but hopefully you can eat them, at least.”

The tiniest frown comes and goes from his first officer’s features. “Why do you believe so?”

“I’m allergic to most fruit,” Jim replies. “Earth-native or otherwise. Figs and dates are the only ones my immune system feels like tolerating, for whatever reason.”

Even just thinking about the time he tried strawberries as a kid makes him grimace. He’d been covered in hives for days.

“That is unfortunate,” Spock comments. Kirk has to resist the urge to snort.

“Is what it is,” he dismisses.

A brief silence falls between the pair. The sun is low on the horizon, casting brown eyes in warm light.

Jim is only drawn away from the sight when his arm begins to sting. With a muttered curse, he rises to crouch at the edge of the water, scrubbing the spots off of his arm as vigorously as he can. Once clean, red splotches still remain on his skin.

That tiny crease has found its home back in the Vulcan’s brow.

----

Sleep eludes Kirk for over an hour.

Each time his eyes close and his attention is forced inward, he can’t stop overanalyzing every feeling; searching for any hair out of place. Is fogginess settling in because he’s drifting off after another exhausting day, or is it something more? Is another wave of deja vu starting to creep up on him? Is his anxiety just that, or another encroaching aura?

Just as sleep begins to come within reach, he sees a flicker of the Vulcan above him again, speaking in tones he can’t understand, Human enough to look at him with the same fear he had seen over and over again as a child.

But when his eyes snap open, Spock is still seated across the cave, eyes closed in light meditation. With the lantern almost entirely dimmed, he’s barely visible in the darkened space, more lines than anything.

Only seconds later, dark eyes reopen, immediately fixing on his restless captain.

“You are unable to sleep?” Spock asks, his voice low in the night. Jim ignores the heart that just barely picks up in his chest at the sound.

He turns his gaze back towards the cave ceiling, scrubbing his face with a sigh. “Yeah.”

There is a long enough pause that Kirk assumes the Vulcan has simply returned to meditation, but at length, another question comes: “Do you desire assistance?”

Jim blinks, turning back to him with a furrow in his brow. “Assistance?”

“I am able to use my touch telepathy to guide you to sleep, if you are amenable.”

His instinctual, automatic reaction is a resounding, Hell no. With everything between useless anxiety and stupid butterflies racing through his mind, the last thing he needs is a Vulcan picking up on his thoughts.

But he is exhausted. More than that, the thought doesn’t terrify him as much as it should– not when that Vulcan is Spock; someone he had never imagined trusting, but cannot ignore the fact that he does, not only with his thoughts, but with his life.

“As a telepath, maintenance of privacy is my first and foremost priority,” Spock offers, as if already reading his mind without touch at all. “I will not seek that which you do not choose to share.”

Jim swallows. Though it takes him a second to work up the courage to do so, he nods his assent.

His first officer kneels beside him. When fingertips make contact with his face, goosebumps ripple over the captain’s skin.

Deepen your breaths, a low voice sounds again, reverberating not through the air between them, but in his mind. Count the seconds as you inhale and exhale.

A sense of calm trickles through him like a warm sip of tea. In only a few breaths, he’s already losing track of counting. The numbers drift away with everything else, unimportant. There is only warmth and a deep voice, soothing.

An inexplicable sensation overcomes him, but this time, it is not a misplaced familiarity of his surroundings. It’s something he’s never quite felt before– never so surely, nor strongly.

It feels like coming home.

The warmth spreads, and the cave melts away.

Chapter Text

Jim almost mistakes the beginnings of dawn for the light of his own quarters.

He feels more rested than he has in days– hell, maybe even since he started his captaincy months ago. It’s the kind of absolute rest that has always been sparse in his life with his myriad of health oddities; a slumber so deep that it’s dreamless. Instead of rising against sore muscles and the lingering reach of fatigue, it’s renewed energy that he sits up with, and an unexpected, but wholly welcomed calm.

Whether comforted by his captain’s deep state of rest, or simply too exhausted to remain upright, it seems that Spock has finally opted for a night of sleep. Across the extinguished lantern, he can just make out the Vulcan’s form in the weak light, mostly covered by his sleeping bag. The curve of a pointed ear is only just visible to Jim, as are the smoothed lines of his face.

Though it isn’t the first time he’s seen him asleep, the sight is still transfixing. Seeing his first officer– always pushing forward, working at some endless problem or tending late hours in his lab– now vulnerable like this, slowed at last for sleep, is surreal.

I wonder if Vulcans dream.

It’s yet another fact missing in his supposedly expert knowledge of Vulcan anatomy. He’s had a few conversations with the older Spock, but any tidbits of info he knows were gained unintentionally in passing.

Only moments after the captain sits up, Spock opens his eyes.

How the hell does he keep doing that?

Either Vulcan hearing is way more sensitive than Jim had imagined, or he’s just a particularly good alarm clock this evening. Morning?

Suddenly unsure of himself, all Jim can offer is a quiet, “Hey.”

The Vulcan sits up, his brows raising slightly. “You are awake.”

“Observant,” Jim deadpans back, unable to fight a smile at the sigh he can just barely hear under Spock’s breath.

“I did not believe you would be awake at this time,” his first officer elaborates. “I estimated that you would obtain a further 40.9 minutes of sleep.”

That’s weirdly specific, Jim thinks, but doesn’t bother saying. He’s come to accept at this point that all Vulcans– or, at least, his two reference points– are just like that by default.

“Didn’t need any more,” Kirk answers, honestly. “I feel pretty good.”

Something just barely seems to soften in Spock’s features. After a beat, the Vulcan nods. “I am gratified to hear so.”

The rest of the morning carries on in relative silence. Sharing meals now– however meager those meals are– has become natural. Comfortable, even. Where Spock’s quiet nature had previously left Jim feeling judged beneath his gaze, it’s almost soothing now. As much as Jim hates that his first officer has been dragged here along with him, it’s almost impossible at this point to imagine keeping himself together without his presence.

By the way Spock continues to hover around him– and does a poor job of hiding it at all– he wonders how Spock feels about the prospect of finding himself alone here, too.

They’re here together, for better or worse. But still, the question lingers:

Where do we go from here?

Kirk glances uneasily at the planet overhead.

“Do you think we’re being watched?” he asks his first officer suddenly, drawing dark eyes to him with a hint of surprise. Spock steps back from where he’d been collecting the falling water by the cave entrance, replacing the cap on the bottle in his grasp.

“Considering our predicament has been referred to as a ‘show’, I find the notion likely.”

Though he’d already assumed the same himself, hearing it echoed by his first officer only makes him more uneasy. He glances around, but as usual, there’s no trace of cameras or recording equipment of any kind.

“Pretty advanced species,” he remarks, his voice somewhat lowered.

Spock seems to consider something for a beat. Then, he steps forward, causing Jim to miss a breath as he takes his captain’s wrist in hand, holding it up between them.

If you are concerned about speaking on the subject aloud, Spock projects, we may alternatively communicate through touch.

With widened eyes, all Kirk can offer back is a dumb, Oh. Yeah– yeah. Good. That’s good.

The Vulcan just barely lifts a brow, seeming almost amused. Then, he states out loud, “You appear to be healing satisfactorily,” drawing Jim’s attention back to his wrist. A small bruise the captain had found himself with after his seizure has yellowed where it dots the side of his arm, lying just above Spock’s fingertips.

Then, he’s released, leaving his skin buzzing in Spock’s wake.

Blinking several times, he forces a nod, uncertain of his ability to string coherent words together. It isn’t until his first officer looks away that he’s able to release the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in.

----

With the immediate area around the watering hole thoroughly examined, the pair set off on a cautious exploration into uncharted land.

Though Jim is certain his crew is continuing the search for their command team, he knows he can’t sit around waiting for rescue. Even if by some miracle the Enterprise manages to track them and overcome the vast difference in technological capabilities between the ‘Fleet and whoever is behind the games, there’s no telling whether himself or his first officer might already be dead.

The notion of escape seems a lofty one, but Kirk has never given in to the idea of a no-win scenario, and he isn’t about to change that now. If they could find something– anything– that gives them more information about their location or how the games are run, it’s at least a start.

Forging further into the great bowl of the valley, the captain keeps an eye out for traps, but nothing of significance crosses their path. The task of scanning the area, at least, allows him to feign obliviousness at how often Spock is glancing at him again. He can practically feel the air between them taut with an unspoken question, always on the precipice of being voiced: Are you still feeling well?

Jim wonders if Spock will ever stop looking at him like that after this. He only just suppresses a frown at the thought.

Though the pair comes across more patches of berries, there isn’t much else noteworthy in their findings. There’s no sign that anyone else has been here at all, really. It makes the captain wonder just how huge the moon is, and where the other competitors may be choosing to hide out– or to hunt.

“Captain,” Spock speaks suddenly, halting to turn and face the blonde behind him. Guess we’re back to that, then. “Considering that we have approximately 2.1 hours of daylight remaining, I suggest turning back to our place of shelter.”

Jim sighs under his breath, glancing around as though one extra look might find something of use. Though he hates the idea of turning back without anything gained, he isn’t particularly fond of the idea of getting lost in the dark, either.

“Guess so,” he concedes.

The journey back is largely a silent one. With the entirety of the captain’s focus fixed on ignoring his growing twinges of fatigue and keeping himself steady, his first officer’s hovering, at least, is easy to leave unacknowledged.

It’s better for them both.

----

When the welcomed sound of falling water comes back within earshot, the sun is already low on the horizon.

The light winks off of the water, reflecting the pinks and reds of the darkening horizon. The rocky hillside is cast in bright gold, too; apparently a sight transfixing enough to slow the Vulcan on his approach. A few meters from the water, Spock comes to a complete halt ahead of the captain.

“Pretty view,” Jim muses at his side.

Spock does not agree with the sentiment, which Kirk doesn’t particularly expect him to, because aesthetic beauty is an illogical standard by which to evaluate something, or whatever.

The thing is, he doesn’t argue it, either. Doesn’t do much of anything, really; his features seem even more void of emotion than usual, not a single visible trace in existence of whatever the hell is going through his head– if anything is at all.

The captain tries not to let the disappointment show on his features.

One step forward, two steps–

“You flatter me,” a deep voice responds, though it’s not that of the Vulcan beside him. Widened cyan fix on the Klingon that emerges from the mouth of the cave, holding a crossbow in one hand and Kirk’s fishing spear lazily in the other. He smiles, his expression playfully bashful. “Are you going to ask me to dance, too, Captain?”

Before Jim can so much as open his mouth, Spock has taken a step ahead of him. In one swift movement, his metal spear snaps to its full length, pointed at their new visitor who seems more amused than threatened by the development.

“Hmm,” the Klingon tilts his head. “Guess you’re already spoken for–”

“Koden!”

It takes a moment of searching to find the woman quickly making her way down the hillside, one hand cautiously training a gun in the direction of the captain and first officer, and the other held out to keep her balance–

The tall woman, Jim realizes, who had been the competitor next to him at the pool.

Outside of a wetsuit now, she’s dressed rather casually in jeans, a tank top, and a green button down with sleeves rolled towards her elbows. It’s a contrasting sight to her apparent companion, who’s in full military uniform. “Put their spear down. Are you trying to get yourself shot?”

“They don’t have anything to shoot me with,” Koden points out with raised brows, gesturing towards the frozen pair across the water.

“Vulcans have strong arms,” the woman counters flatly. The Klingon pursues his lips, then drops the spear, somewhat petulantly, back onto the floor of the cave entrance.

With a low breath, Jim takes a step forward and projects, “I’m Captain Kirk of the U.S.S. Enterprise, and this is my first officer, Lieutenant Commander Spock. Who are we speaking with?”

“Dr. Wilhelmina Hast,” Spock intones beside him, causing Jim’s head to whip towards him in shock. “An accomplished theoretical physicist who has authored and co-authored many publications in the areas of particle physics and cosmology.”

“You know her?”

“I know of her, Captain,” the Vulcan corrects. “She is well-respected in her field.”

The woman lets out a short, surprised breath. “You’re the first one here to ever call me doc. Hast is fine.”

In spite of his apparent respect of her work, Spock doesn’t stand down, keeping his spear trained towards the Klingon. On Hast’s approach, he turns the weapon on her.

“Easy,” she placates, though does not lower her gun, either. A rifle, now that Jim is able to get a closer look, with a scope fixed to the top. He’s sure Sulu would be able to rattle off the exact model, down to the year.

He ignores the twinge of homesickness that passes.

“We’re not here to hurt you,” Hast states, “as long as you don’t hurt us. Hell, took too long to track you just to kill you.”

“Track us?” Jim echoes, his gaze flicking from the amused Klingon back to the woman before them.

“Competitors that live alone die alone,” the woman elaborates. “We had a team of five, but we lost one of our own in the last game. We could use the extra numbers, and you could use our experience.” She glances at Spock. “A Vulcan can overpower just about anyone else here,” she comments, then turns to Kirk. “And you seem fit enough.”

For now.

Jim swallows. Keeping his voice steady, he counters, “Why should we trust you?”

“If we wanted you dead, you would be already,” Koden smiles, waving his crossbow. “I do not miss. Hast is not half bad, either.”

“Thanks,” she deadpans.

For a beat, there is silence as the captain looks from the Klingon, to the physicist, then back. Forcing his own hand away from the knife at his belt, he states, “Stand down, Spock.”

The Vulcan glances towards him, unmoving. “Captain–”

“Stand down,” he repeats, firmer. Though uncertainty remains in the Vulcan’s gaze, he lowers his spear, collapsing it back down into the smaller rod. Apparently satisfied, Hast lowers her rifle, slinging it over her shoulder.

“I have never understood what could compel a superior species to bow to the commands of an inferior one,” Koden casually observes.

“You obeyed the command of a Human precisely one minute and 21.4 seconds ago,” Spock counters without batting an eye.

“She’s not in charge of me,” the Klingon sniffs. Hast does not acknowledge him.

“It’s getting late, and we have a better camp than this,” the physicist asserts. “We have tents, hot food, medical supplies, and spare weapons. And you won’t have to sleep on a cave floor.”

Food catches Jim’s attention before anything else. He wills the knee-jerk spike of desperation down.

“Why do you trust us?” he asks. “We’ve given you no reason to.”

“I don’t trust you,” Hast corrects. “I’d like to. Until then, I’ve got my rifle.”

Jim glances at Spock, who is already turned to him. He expects an immediate opinion or quiet argument on the matter, but instead, the Vulcan simply holds his gaze. The careful calm there helps Kirk breathe, even if only a little.

At length, he nods at Hast.

“Lead the way.”

----

On the consequent walk, Spock remains close enough to Jim to touch.

He can’t think of a time when the Vulcan had ever been this close to him for a prolonged period. Though their time serving together on the Enterprise hasn’t been long, he’s seen enough of Spock to know that he has a generous bubble of personal space, and except for extreme circumstances, has always strictly maintained that.

As it stands now, they’re practically brushing arms with every step.

Almost half an hour into their journey, the land darkens enough for their guides to fetch a pair of flashlights, which Koden withdraws from his belt and Hast from a sizable pack.

Jim wonders exactly how many points their experience has gotten them. He keeps the thought to himself.

In the distance, a bubble of light becomes visible through the darkened spines of trees. With it comes the smell of a campfire– something both comforting and disquieting. Though the idea of hot food and warmth on a cool night is alluring, the unknown of who else in the forest might easily spot the fire leaves Jim with little hope to relax.

On their approach to the camp, Kirk almost jumps when warm fingers seek his wrist again.

We will not separate here, Spock’s voice weaves beneath his skin. Regardless of what accommodations we are offered.

Jim’s brows raise at the intensity in the Vulcan’s tone, firm even just through touch. It isn’t only in his tone, though– it’s in dark eyes that fix him, and the close proximity that Spock remains within, the heat of his body a tangible thing.

It takes several dumb beats for the captain to project back, Yeah– yeah. Of course.

“I was joking,” Koden comments where he’s halted at the edge of camp, turned now to face them. “But it appears you are spoken for, Captain. Or am I wrong?”

Jim follows Koden’s gaze to where Spocks fingers are still curled around his wrist. He pulls away, but before he can respond, his first officer affirms with a simple, “You are not.”

Kirk’s eyes widen. He almost splutters a bewildered spoken for? at his first officer, but the Vulcan’s gaze remains serious, and beneath it, he is briefly stunned into silence.

He realizes belatedly that Koden and Hast are both watching him curiously. With a reddened face, he clears his throat, affirming, “Yeah. Uh– yep. What he said.”

“Breeding with an inferior species is even more baffling, Commander,” Koden jabs, kissing his teeth before continuing into the camp. Hast’s expression remains neutral, save for a brief look of distaste she directs towards the Klingon.

“Whatever you are is your business,” she states, “as long as you don’t put the rest of us in danger.”

The physicist holds their gazes for a beat longer, then follows her companion.

Once Kirk manages to force himself back into motion, he turns to question Spock, but a hand is already on his wrist again, and a deep voice follows: Vulcans do not touch other beings trivially. Both Koden and Dr. Hast appear to have some knowledge of Vulcans, and are likely aware of this. If they do not believe we are intimately involved, they will become suspicious of our contact with one another.

With that, the Vulcan withdraws his hand and steps into camp.

Jim is left gaping, his brain short-circuited by the word intimate bouncing around his skull in Spock’s voice. Once he gets a grip on himself, he snaps his mouth shut and follows, hoping his face isn’t burning as hotly as it feels.

He knows the whole Vulcans don’t lie thing is bogus– another tidbit of the species he’d gained from Spock’s older self taking a rather liberal definition of implying. It shouldn’t surprise him to see his first officer lie– especially when that lie is simply a logical cover-up for something that could easily put them in danger if noticed.

It isn’t quite as easy to convince the heart that’s busy racing in his chest.

Struggling to reel himself back down to Earth– or whatever this stupid moon is called– he only just catches the names that are given to him by the two competitors seated at the fire.

The closest to Kirk is Gevni, an Orion woman who greets him warmly, though appears to speak limited Standard. Gevni introduces the Human male beside her– Desmond– who remains silent save for a nod of acknowledgment. Five tents border the camp, the furthest of which Hast gestures to.

“Feel free to set your belongings in there. You can join us for a meal after.” She pauses, glancing at Spock, then Kirk. “I assume one tent is sufficient for both of you.”

“One’s great,” Jim forces out with a smile, restraining the fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck that’s started up a miserable chorus in the back of his head.

The space inside the tent is even smaller than it appears from the outside, only just large enough to lay out both of their sleeping bags beside one another.

Guess we won’t only be cozying up in front of them.

He kneels on his bag, scrubbing his face as he takes a minute to catch his breath. When he looks up, Spock’s gaze is already on him.

And there, at last, is the looming question he had been waiting for: “Are you well?”

For the moment, everything drains from Kirk except old fear.

He forces one breath, then another, though it does little to calm him. Through the canvas of the tent, distant chatter is audible by the fire.

Jim lifts his hand, hovering in the air. After a beat of hesitation, he places his fingers on Spock’s wrist.

I’m fine, he projects. …But if it happens again, I need to get as far from them as possible before it starts. If they see me–

Kirk glances again at the flap. His heart is racing, but this time, adrenaline is the only catalyst.

They can’t know.

Chapter Text

“I must know,” Koden smiles across the bonfire, “how did the mighty captain and commander of Starfleet’s flagship find themselves in a place like this?”

“Probably the same way a Klingon soldier did,” Kirk answers, his tone lacking the amusement of Koden’s.

Unfazed, Spock interjects, “Were you within the vicinity of the planet Ambera or its star system at the time of your transport?”

“Ambera?” Koden echoes. “I have never heard of such a place.”

“You weren’t far from it,” Hast informs him. She turns to Spock. “I was en route to a deep space experiment when I was transported here, about… 38 lightyears away from the Amberan system. We’re still in the Draconis sector, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

For the first time in days, Kirk feels genuine hope, the sensation enough to make him sag somewhat in relief.

His first officer asks, “How are you certain we have remained in the same sector?”

“Look up,” she answers, simply. Sprinkled around the looming planet above, the stars are visible in the night sky, if somewhat dulled in comparison to the planet’s light. “I’ve done a lot of research in this area. I know the systems here.”

Jim scans the night sky. Though he has a few guesses at some of the stars he can see above, he doesn’t have as sharp of a memory as his first officer. He glances at the Vulcan to gauge if there’s any recognition in his features, but is briefly stilled by the sight of him. The flicker of the campfire warms brown eyes and dances over angular features, robbing Kirk’s next breath and derailing his train of thought.

When dark eyes turn to him, he quickly looks away. In his peripheral, the Vulcan watches him for a moment longer before turning back to Hast.

“Your statement is sound,” Spock intones.

“If we’re still nearby,” Kirk ventures, “do you think your crew would have the capability to locate you?”

Hast’s gaze flicks to him, her expression unreadable.

“Whether they could or couldn’t doesn’t matter,” she answers. “I’ve been assumed dead at this point.”

The captain’s brows twitch closer together. “But how could they–”

“It’s been over a year since I was transported here,” the physicist states. “They stopped searching a long time ago.”

Cold prickles from Jim’s scalp down through his limbs, quickly chasing any remaining relief. He echoes, “A year?”

“Year is little compared to Desmond,” Gevni pipes up. “He has been here five– no, six?”

“Six,” Hast affirms.

Jim’s mouth parts, but no words surface through his shock. The man in question seems little inclined to speak, either; he doesn’t so much as meet anyone else’s eyes when the attention is turned to him.

Spock is the first to press, “On what ship were you aboard–”

But before he can finish the question, Desmond hauls himself to his feet and steps away from the fire, making no noise save for the footfalls of his boots and the consequent closing of his tent. Gevni turns somewhat distraught, whereas Koden seems content to call after him with an oh, don’t be such a–

The rest of which is lost on Kirk when Hast turns to the newcomers and explains in a lowered tone, “His brother was the teammate we lost. Don’t take his mood personally.”

Another wave of homesickness comes and goes, but this time, its root is closer to grief than nostalgia. The only answer he can produce is a simple, “Oh.”

“That is unfortunate,” Spock supplies. Though Jim’s aware that his first officer isn’t as cold as his monotone response might make him seem to others, he’s glad that Desmond isn’t around to hear it.

“The games don’t usually eliminate that many competitors at once,” Hast elaborates. “It took us all by surprise. If the odds of loss are ever that high again, we’ll need all the help we can get, and having a larger team is a start to that.”

As long as my brain doesn’t sabotage us in the middle of one.

“Not all games are played individually?” Spock clarifies.

“Most aren’t,” Hast affirms. “Alliances are more entertaining for the audience.”

“There is an audience?” Jim presses. “Is it the species native to this system?”

“I don’t think any sentient species is native to this system,” the physicist denies. “Not unless they’ve been cloaking their presence for millennia.”

“A colony, then?”

Across the fire, Koden laughs. “And in your Federation space, no less.”

“The colonizers may be a species entirely unknown to us,” Spock points out. “They are not necessarily of the Federation.”

“If they aren’t, why take almost exclusively competitors from the Federation?” Hast challenges. “There are a lot of species native to this sector that aren’t Federation members, but very few of them ever show up here.”

Even that’s enough to quiet Spock. In combination with the exhaustion that is beginning to weigh heavily on the captain’s back, lingering on the thought only serves to make him nauseous.

“Perhaps this conversation would best be continued in the morning,” Spock suggests. When Jim looks up in surprise, the Vulcan’s gaze is already on him. Even without contact, he feels stripped bare.

On the walk to the tent, Koden calls at their backs, “Don’t go making too much of a ruckus in there!”

Suddenly, Kirk becomes very interested in looking at anything but the Vulcan beside him. Save for Hast’s distant scolding, no one responds to the Klingon.

Though he does need rest sooner than later, Jim can’t bring himself to lay down. He sits instead on his bag, running a hand through his hair absently. Several questions churn, but all of them leave him too nauseous to voice.

Eventually, he settles for a quiet, “Six years, Spock.”

In the weak light that filters through the canvas, he can just barely make out the Vulcan beside him. A beat passes before Spock murmurs, “The Enterprise is likely to have much more precise sensing and tracking capabilities than any other vessel a competitor has thus far been abducted from. Their search for our location has a higher probability of success.”

“But will it be enough?”

He has faith in his crew– he knows he has the best and brightest in the ‘Fleet. But with even the means of their transport here unknown, he can’t be certain whether any trace to track them had been left at all, or if they’ve simply vanished.

Six years ago, he was still a backwoods hick, spending as much time as possible drunk, high, sore from a good fight, or all of the above. Recklessness had been a tenet, rather than a fault. The knowledge that he’d get himself killed sooner or later as a result of that meant little to him. On some nights, it was even a welcome thought.

It’s a state of mind that feels utterly foreign to him now; more a ghost of a past life than a part of his own. He can’t even begin to imagine what six years could look like here. After everything went to hell on Tarsus, it wasn’t even six weeks before the rescue ships came, and that alone had been enough to shatter his sense of self and safety.

Even if Jim managed to survive this for six years, the person he is now won’t.

“We have no way of reaching a definite answer to the question you pose,” Spock voices at length, grounding the captain’s wayward thoughts. “As such, expending energy to seek it is not an endeavor that will serve either of us presently.”

What he once would have taken as a polite shut up or stop being so illogical is more clear to him now: a Vulcan’s attempt to offer a Human comfort.

More surprising to Jim, though, is the fact that it does offer him some comfort– even if that comfort comes more from Spock trying at all than anything he’s said.

After forcing himself to settle in his sleeping bag, the captain finds himself lying awake again, though this time, the addition of a body so close to his own is only keeping sleep further from reach. He can hear each quiet breath his first officer takes; feel a hint of his body heat. With the word intimate still bouncing around his skull and the ghost of fingers stuck on his wrist, Jim is painfully aware of his first officer’s proximity to him.

Wide awake as he is, he feigns sleep, anyways. Somehow, he can’t imagine that playing pretend-lovers with a Vulcan will be made any easier by that Vulcan picking up through his skin where exactly his thoughts are going just laying next to him.

----

Not that playing pretend-lovers with a Vulcan is easy to begin with.

Jim almost forgets the task altogether until they’re greeted as lovebirds by a Klingon the following morning. A Klingon who is far too much of a morning person, the captain decides vehemently, where he sits sleep-deprived and half-awake with a thermos of black coffee in one hand and several dots of allergen tests on his left forearm.

“I must say, I’m surprised Starfleet allows a captain and commander to share a bed,” Koden continues after his first jab receives no response.

“There are protocols to ensure a lack of a conflict of interest and prevent abuse of power,” Spock intones.

“Oh, I’m sure the rational Vulcan could remain unaffected,” the Klingon smiles. “But what about you, Captain? Would you really choose your ship over him?”

The words Jim had hammered into himself arise, an immediate reflex: My ship comes before anything else. As reckless and shallow as some might see him, he had been well aware of what becoming a captain would entail– a job that would have to come before anyone, no matter who. With getting close to others not particularly in his nature to begin with, it had never been something to scare him away from captaincy.

But a smaller voice creeps out of nowhere, far less certain than he has any right to be:

Would I?

He takes a sip of coffee to hide the twitch of surprise that briefly passes over his features. At length, he settles for a flat, “I don’t have a ship here.”

The Klingon’s smile grows. “Avoiding the–”

“Koden,” Hast coolly interrupts, setting her coffee beside her and fixing him with an unamused look. “Will you give the rest of us a chance to wake up in peace?”

The question, though a welcome one, is disquieting when Jim realizes that us does not include Desmond, despite the fact that his tent is open and vacant.

Suppressing a frown, he glances down at the spot tests on his arm. Then, he holds it out towards Spock, murmuring, “Do any of these look irritated to you?”

He holds the dark eyes that turn to him, telepathically shouting– though uselessly, he knows– as loud as he can: Get the hint, Spock.

Jim almost exhales a sigh of relief when the Vulcan takes his arm in his grasp, leaning over for a closer look. The captain projects, Did you hear Desmond leave the camp at any point?

Without the slightest reaction on his features, his first officer replies, I did not.

“They appear normal thus far,” Spock answers aloud, letting go of him. Where a warm palm had been, Kirk’s skin remains buzzing.

“Thanks,” he nods before blurting out a belated, “–babe.”

The second the syllable leaves his mouth, he regrets it. The slightest twitch upwards of an angled brow is nearly enough to send him to his grave.

Doing great, Jim.

----

It’s shaping up to be another hot day.

Though he’s grateful that his first officer seems comfortable in this weather, it doesn’t make the task of helping around camp a particularly pleasant one. In combination with the fatigue that weighs him down, what should be simple chores for the captain turn into exhausting trials– and the longer he sucks it up and keeps pushing himself, the worse he feels.

But each time Spock finds a reason to touch him, Jim sucks it up more, and forces a more-or-less convincing I’m fine. Maybe less convincing, considering that the Vulcan only seems to touch him more frequently as the day goes on.

Jim is able to convince himself, at least, until he halts mid-reach for a few twigs he had stooped to collect as kindling. A fierce wave of pins and needles travels through his hand and up his arm, the feeling causing him to drop the rest of the kindling in his grasp. He stares at the appendage, now utterly foreign to him.

Didn’t I dream this last night?

No, he barely slept at all, let alone dreamt about anything. But this feeling–

“Jim?”

He can’t force his eyes off of his hand.

Maybe he did dream this, and simply forgot until now. It isn’t the first time he’s seen this– can’t be. It’s the only explanation his floundering brain can come up with, anyways.

Just as quickly as it came on, the tingling fades. He experimentally flexes his fingers.

Kirk blinks once, twice. He realizes he’s been breathing heavily, open-mouthed and ragged.

“Jim,” his name reaches him again, closer. When he turns his head, Spock is kneeling beside him. A warm hand grasps his arm, the touch surprisingly gentle.

Is something wrong?

Kirk’s mouth closes, opens, closes again, his breaths still slowing. It takes several seconds for him to manage an honest, I don’t know.

A tiny frown twitches at Spock’s lips, fleeting.

I do not believe anyone else is in the immediate vicinity, the Vulcan continues. Do you desire to move further from camp?

Jim isn’t sure what to say to that. Isn’t sure why he’s able to even contemplate what to say in the first place.

The tingling, and the distance, and the hazy familiarity are all gone. Though he’s left somewhat off-kilter, he feels largely the same as he had only a minute ago.

He answers, I don’t know if I need to. I feel– fine now.

If it had been anything, he wouldn’t still be conscious. Maybe he’d only worked himself up– allowed a simple feeling in his hand to cause a brief panic.

Spock seems no more certain than he is.

Perhaps we should remain in this area for several minutes as a precaution, the Vulcan suggests.

Still unnerved and at a loss, Kirk, for once, doesn’t argue.

He resumes his search for kindling, and though braced for another wave to pass over him, nothing comes. If Spock wasn’t continuing to watch him like a hawk, he’d have questioned whether the event happened at all.

The journey back into camp is a tentative one. With unease leaving his temper short, it takes an increasing amount of effort not to snap at the Klingon that never seems able to shut up, now wondering aloud what took the lovebirds so long.

A dragging hour passes, and Jim ducks out to fetch more water, desperate for anything to keep his mind off of his body. Though he hadn’t asked, Spock trails closely behind.

The river, only a brief walk from camp, glints in the light of the setting sun. Water threads between jutting rocks, its flow faster here than the lazy creek they had first camped beside. The babbling sound is soothing, and for a moment, Jim simply remains on his heels at the water’s edge, listening.

Beneath the white noise, he asks his first officer in a low tone, “Did anyone follow us here?”

“No,” Spock replies. “I did not hear anyone behind us.”

Kirk is quiet for a beat. Then, he continues, “What do you think about this? Should we stay?”

Willfully asking his first officer for advice before making his own decisions was something he never thought he’d do, but then again, he never thought he’d be playing boyfriends with said first officer, either.

“I have seen no indication that they intend us any harm,” Spock asserts. “Furthermore, they have ample supplies and are more experienced in this setting. I believe our chances of survival are higher if we remain.”

The captain nods. He pauses, looking out over the water. “I don’t know how much I trust them, but I guess they’re our best option for now.”

In his peripheral, his first officer continues to observe him. Jim keeps his gaze out over the water, not quite able to meet the eyes on him.

It takes several seconds for him to realize that the tiny currents, sharp at first, are growing blurred. His gaze drifts upward absently, landing on the fuzzy, angry red dot above.

That same wave, long-gone from his arm, travels from ear to ear this time, rippling through his skull and bringing with it the ghost-dream that seeps over him.

There is a hand on his back, warm through his command tunic. Spock is saying something to him, but he can’t drag his eyes back down.

Distantly, he registers the sensation of the water bottle being taken from his hand. It makes a small clink where it’s set on a rock somewhere to Kirk’s left.

The wave passes.

Jim is panting again, each breath shallow, hungry. He closes his mouth, struggling to reign his breathing in as his vision returns back to the water, then the Vulcan beside him. For only a brief moment, he catches a crease between angled brows and concern in dark eyes. Then, as swiftly as the river, they’re washed away.

“Jim?”

The captain blinks. He glances back at the water, then down at himself, before returning to the gaze on him. Finding his tongue again, he breathes, “I’m okay.”

“I do not find your definition of ‘okay’ to often be an accurate one,” Spock argues, though not harshly. Kirk realizes only then that his first officer’s hand has remained on his back, the warmth of it a steady, grounding thing.

With an exhale, he amends, “I feel okay.”

Spock pauses, searching his gaze, still unconvinced. “You do not believe that you will have a seizure?”

“I just did,” Kirk corrects. “The weird things I get before seizures are seizures, too. Partial ones. They– spread, or whatever.” They’re supposed to. 

He can’t remember a single time as a kid that an aura had ever just remained an aura. His brain, at least, wasn’t one to take half-measures with anything.

Not having it spread now almost feels worse than if it had.

“But it did not,” Spock completes for him. Jim exhales, scrubbing his face.

“It wasn’t ever like this.”

He knows it’s been years– knows that things can change. Even just as a kid, a handful of years had seen daily clusters of absence seizures that got him in trouble for spacing out in class eventually come under control, all but vanishing with time and medication. The generalized ones hadn’t granted him that same mercy for a long time, but he had known what to expect from them, at least.

He doesn’t know what to do with this.

“It may be prudent to return to the camp in order for you to obtain rest,” Spock suggests. “You are fatigued.”

Jim can hear the tiniest hint of displeasure in that last word. An inkling of guilt follows, but he doesn’t acknowledge it.

“If I go back now, I could drop in front of them. I don’t know what might happen.”

“I do not believe we may remain here for any significant duration without someone seeking our location,” the Vulcan counters. “They do not expect our absence to be an extended one.”

Or, what his first officer is too tactful to say: We’re fucked either way.

He would laugh if he had the energy for it.

What seems to be becoming a habit as of late– whether he wants it to or not– he allows Spock to take the lead.

From a distance, he’s able to exhale, at least, when he notices Koden and Gevni appear occupied with constructing a new fire for the oncoming evening. Hast is the only one who takes notice of their approach, and by the slight change in her expression, it’s clear she can see there’s something off.

As if the day couldn’t get any more disorienting, Kirk feels a warm hand meet the small of his back, the touch nearly enough to startle him before he reigns himself back into pretend-lovers land.

“Jim may be experiencing mild heat exhaustion due to overexertion,” Spock intones beside him. “I will assist with any remaining tasks while he rests.”

Hast’s gaze moves from the captain, to his first officer, then back. After a beat, she responds, “I’ll get a cool towel.”

Restraining a breath of relief, Jim forces out an awkward thanks. Spock merely nods beside him.

Though the weather is the least of his problems, the towel does feel good around his neck. Where Spock kneels next to him in the tent, he looks almost as reluctant to leave as his captain is for him to go.

“I will return every fifteen minutes to ascertain your status,” the Vulcan murmurs. Jim has half a mind to complain about the attention, but the tiny crease that’s returned between angled brows is enough to shut him up.

Instead, he only nods.

The dim space of the tent fades in and out. He has no real intention of sleeping, but restless sleep comes, anyways. Though he’d never admit to it, overexertion might not have been an exaggeration at all.

Some time later, drifting in the fuzzy space between light sleep and consciousness, he’s startled fully awake by another wave of pins and needles that shoots up his arm. The ghost-dream creeps over clammy skin, and the ceiling of the tent blurs, both impossibly distant and suffocatingly close.

And still, the wave passes, and heavy breaths slow, and he returns to reality, whether he wants to be there or not.

Only minutes later, Spock returns to his side, seeming somewhat surprised to find him awake.

When Jim tells him he’s fine, he’s grateful for the space between their skin.

Chapter Text

After a fourth wave comes and goes, one uneasy hour of calm passes, then two. Jim finally stops holding his breath, but anticipation lingers at the back of his mind, a constant, nagging weight.

The sun is long-since set when he finally braves leaving the tent, motivated more by an empty stomach than any real desire to be seen by anyone tonight. At the fireside, Spock sits almost close enough to brush legs with him. Jim wonders if it’s for the guise of intimacy, the ease of subtly communicating through skin at this distance, or a continuing urge to hover over his captain.

Considering his propensity for efficiency, Kirk would guess all of the above.

He’s grateful for the haze of exhaustion that muddles him, if only for the lid it keeps on dangerous thoughts. With Spock touching him what seems like almost every other minute, there’s nowhere else for him to hide.

Jim falls into silence as he eats one of a measly two options he’s discovered his immune system will tolerate so far– an orange soup that tastes vaguely like carrots. He’s certain that if Bones were around, he’d comment that the one good thing about this place is his forced new diet of more vegetables and less junk food. Couldn’t get your stubborn ass to change your ways for years, but these aliens fix your diet in days! Guess my bedside manner’s gone too soft.

Another pang of homesickness passes. This time, at least, he’s too exhausted to linger on it.

Jim’s gaze turns from his meal to the fire, watching the flames lick their fodder. Across the flickering light, he catches Desmond’s eyes already on him.

Kirk stills. There’s no malice in his gaze, but there isn’t anything decipherable there, either.

After moments that feel like minutes, Desmond looks away.

Jim glances at the Vulcan beside him, who appears too occupied with a discussion with Hast to have noticed. He catches the words polarization and superposition before he tunes back out of their conversation.

Across the fire, Desmond’s eyes are on him again. Before he has a chance to react, a pleasant jingle rings out through the forest, jarring everyone at the fire.

“3 points have been awarded to Braafram Dvorkurc,” an animated tone declares. “We offer our heartiest congratulations and gratitude for such a show! Your rewards will be delivered shortly.”

The silence that follows on the heels of the announcement is heavier than sound, leaving the air too thick to breathe. After a few beats, the murmuring of insects in the trees starts back up.

Koden is the first to break the silence of the group with a whistle. “Remind me to avoid the bad side of a Tellarite.”

“Is each point awarded for a separate death?” Spock asks Hast, who nods a confirmation, her expression still somewhat surprised.

“It’s one point for every termination, no matter your standing in the game,” Hast elaborates. “He killed three.”

Jim restrains a grimace. “His standing is how many, uh… points he has? Do you know his total?”

“That should bring him to 17,” she answers.

If Spock has a reaction to that, he doesn’t show it. Without batting an eye, he asks, “Is that an uncommon amount?”

Koden laughs. “Braafram is good, but he isn’t anywhere near the top. Even Hast has more than him.”

“That isn’t something to brag about,” the physicist replies, her cool tone leaving little room for further comment. Though Koden holds his hands up in a mock gesture of placation and his expression remains unserious, he does not press the point, either.

The air around the fire, once calming in its pleasant warmth, feels taut. There are eyes across the flames that have found the captain again, but whatever lies there is no more decipherable than before.

Desmond is the first to leave. Hast takes her exit shortly after, instructing Koden to put out the fire when he’s done. Any responding complaint is absent.

On the walk to the tent, Jim’s back prickles.

Killing more than 17 in a year, Kirk projects through the warm fingers on his wrist. He shifts where he sits on his bag, unable to get comfortable. Could every single one have really been in defense?

Spock pauses. We have both seen how easily violence may escalate in this setting.

For a brief moment, the captain feels a phantom body on top of his own.

He shakes his head as if to clear the thought. I guess we can’t know. But I don’t feel good about it. Cyan eyes trail towards the closed flap of the tent. And who knows how many Desmond’s racked up over six years.

Though it is not palatable, Spock responds, aligning with competitors of a higher standing will benefit us both in protection and resources.

Or get us killed just as easily, Jim points out.

I calculate that the chances of any plot being carried out against us at present are a mere 5.25%.

Did you factor a seizure into that one?

The captain holds his gaze. He can’t quite make out the details of brown eyes in the darkness, but he can imagine the crease that’s likely just above them.

We cannot know when you may experience one, Spock acknowledges. However, we do know that sleep deprivation will worsen the likelihood of one occurring.

A tiny flicker of guilt passes through Jim’s features. He swallows, glancing away. I know.

His gaze remains downward until a gentle squeeze of his wrist surprises him into looking back at the Vulcan.

Spock’s voice comes again, somehow softer: Let me help.

Those simple words are almost enough to cleave Jim in two.

When he lays down and fingertips meet his psi-points, he has to make an effort not to lean his face into Spock’s palm. Each time their skin meets, it feels like some hidden inertia between them grows, making it harder with every passing brush not to lean in; to ask for more.

In darkness, he can’t make out the lines of the Vulcan’s face, but he can feel the familiar presence of a warm mind against his own, and a deep voice instructing him to breathe, and the return not of homesickness, but of being home again.

----

For a fake couple, their propensity to get into spats sure does come pretty damn close to the real deal.

The relief of feeling rested in the morning lasts all of a few seconds before Jim realizes that it looks as though Spock hasn’t rested at all. The dullness of his eyes is just as pronounced as it had been the morning after the first seizure, and if the frustration of his damn first officer constantly failing to look after himself wasn’t so strong, the guilt of being the cause of that would have swallowed Jim whole.

It nearly does, anyways.

When Kirk first exits the tent, he catches sight of Desmond and Hast standing at the other edge of the camp. Desmond is saying something too low to understand from a distance, his arms crossed over his chest. The physicist’s expression, though mostly neutral, seems somewhat perturbed.

Both glance at the captain, their conversation halting. By the time Spock’s emerged behind him, Desmond has already busied himself with something else, leaving Hast alone to observe the pair for a moment longer before she approaches them.

“We’ll have some ground to cover today,” she states in lieu of a greeting. “Keep your breakfast brief.”

“Ground to cover?” Jim echoes.

“Scouting for other competitors to ally with,” Hast elaborates. “The next game won’t be far off, and we’re already at a disadvantage with Braafram and any of his allies enjoying his rewards. Having more numbers will make us safer here, too.”

The captain suppresses the urge to frown, careful to keep his expression neutral. “Do you have anyone specific in mind?”

“Gevni found some tracks yesterday,” she answers. “We believe they may belong to a pair of Humans that were brought here a few months ago. A married couple.” Hast glances between the two of them, commenting dryly, “Perhaps you’ll have a chance for a double date.”

Though there’s a tinge of humor in her gaze, unease remains in the captain’s gut.

He takes a ration bar over to a rock that lies a few paces into the grass beyond their tent. The surface is just big enough to hold himself and his first officer with their legs brushing. In the cool morning air, Kirk struggles not to lean into the warm Vulcan beside him.

“Still at 5.25%?” he murmurs. Spock glances at him in his peripheral.

“9.33%,” his first officer quietly corrects.

Jim’s never been one to assume that Spock would fudge an estimate on anything with how painstakingly precise he always has to be, but somehow, he can’t help but feel like he’s being handled with kid gloves on.

A brief silence settles between them. Then, a deep voice comes again, just barely above a murmur, “How are you feeling?”

The Vulcan’s gaze is almost entirely neutral, but Jim can see a tinge of something else there that he can’t quite read.

“I’m okay,” he answers, glancing away. Then, after a beat, he adds, “Still kind of… unsettled.”

Or, my brain is still trying to kill me, but not in the way it’s supposed to be, so now I have no idea how to tell when it might try to kill me next.

“You are not presently experiencing any symptoms?”

“No,” Jim shakes his head. “Just a little thrown off.” He looks back at the Vulcan beside him, observing the shadows he can just barely see beneath dark eyes. “Did you sleep at all?”

Spock doesn’t answer that, which is answer enough. The captain scrubs his face with a sigh.

“Haven’t you ever heard of putting your own oxygen mask on first?”

“Oxygen mask?” the Vulcan echoes, his tone perplexed.

“It’s an old Earth– nevermind,” Kirk waves his hand. “You can’t look after someone else if you don’t look after yourself. That’s not sustainable.”

A beat passes between them. Then, Jim adds, quieter, “You can’t be the only one helping. This has to be a two-way street. I’m not going to let you get yourself killed for me.”

It’s hard enough talking about this at all– acknowledging how much help he’s needed; how much he’s burdened his first officer in just a few days alone. What’s even harder to bear is the unexpected well of emotion that surges beneath the thought. It isn’t a distanced concern for another officer, but an inexplicable protectiveness of his first officer. The resulting guilt, and the helplessness, and the frustration, and the fear are a tangled knot in his throat, heavy enough that he can hardly speak around it.

“You seem to operate under the assumption that you have not helped me at all,” Spock observes, drawing a surprised gaze back to him. “That assumption is faulty.”

Jim becomes acutely aware of how close his first officer is to him. He can’t meet his gaze for longer than a few moments before ducking his head and rubbing the back of his neck. The quiet between them is broken not by an answer, but by another jingle that rings out, freezing the captain’s movement.

“In light of an upcoming change of scenery, we will be hosting our next game in 2 hours,” a voice ripples through the trees. “We suspect some of you may be in need of extra supplies for your move. Fear not, competitors, for your chance to earn them is near… so long as you have the endurance for it. Until then!”

Kirk’s mouth dries.

Back at the center of camp, the only member of the group who appears unfazed is Koden, though it seems doubtful that anything is able to faze him at all. The air is taut with tension between the rest, much more oppressive than any blanket of heat ever could have been.

“We’ll stay here until the game,” Hast decides at length. “We need to spend this time preparing for the move.”

With the slightest upward twitch of his brow, Spock asks, “We will not remain in this location?”

“We’re moved around every few months or so,” the physicist affirms. “Livens the competition, I suppose. Our stay on any moon is only temporary.”

“Any moon?” Kirk echoes, his tone disbelieving. “There’s more?”

Koden huffs a short laugh. “For the commanding officers of a flagship, you have rather poor observation skills.”

“That isn’t something we could have known,” the captain responds with a flat tone. “What are we supposed to do, ask for a rulebook? Why aren’t we told anything in the first place?”

“The answer to any question you have is almost always for entertainment purposes,” Hast states. Ignoring Koden, she continues, “This planet has at least 5 class-M  moons that all competitors rotate through together over time. Nobody would watch a group of people run around the same woods for years. Can’t have the audience get bored.”

“The Ring,” Gevni pipes up, drawing a circle with her fingertips. “Moons are it.”

Beside the captain, the Vulcan has lifted his head to peer up at the sky, no doubt attempting to discern any satellites visible from the surface. He murmurs a barely audible, “Fascinating.”

“This move– do they just dump us all in the same place?”

“We’ve never been right on top of one another,” Hast denies, “but we’re close enough for everyone to be within the same square kilometer or so. Deaths are inevitable. It’s usually a scramble to find higher ground and shelter.”

Jim feels his heart starting to pick up in his chest. He forces a slow breath, willing himself to stay level.

“What can we do to prepare?”

“Pack,” Hast states, simply. “You’re transported with anything on your person, and nothing more. If you drop your weapon a second before you’re taken, that’s gone forever. We’ll need to get our supplies ready to go. They’re likely to move us soon after the game finishes.” She glances around. “Everyone needs to stay close once the move approaches. They’ll only transport teams together if they’re touching. Had to learn that the hard way.”

“From your prior experiences, do you have any suspicion of where we will be moved to?” Spock asks, his gaze returning from the sky back to the physicist.

“...I don’t,” she answers, a slight twinge of frustration there and gone. “It’s not only another moon, but a specific region of that moon. We could be in any kind of climate. All we can do is pack heavy and hope that we’re prepared.”

Jim winces at that. With our luck, we’ll wind up in the snow.

A seizing captain and a freezing Vulcan. Really capable duo, there.

“We can talk more about this after the game,” Hast decides. “We need to get everything together before we go in case we’re moved immediately after.”

The camp, once a companionable air in the midst of shared chores, feels almost claustrophobic now. Every time Jim is turned away to take down the tent or consolidate their supplies within, he feels the prickling sensation of eyes on his back again. The image of Desmond and Hast looking up at him from across the camp is burned into his vision, joining that inscrutable gaze on him just beyond the flames, stripping him of any command or rank, rendering him as small as he had been beneath the eyes of Kodos’ guards.

All it had taken was one seizure to get caught–

Are you well? Spock’s voice weaves beneath his skin, grounding him as solidly as the fingers curled around his wrist. Jim blinks, realizing he’d been staring off into the trees.

Yeah, Jim quickly reassures. Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.

Vulcans do not experience fear, his first officer automatically corrects. He holds onto his captain’s wrist for a beat longer than necessary.

Jim isn’t sure which one of them believes him less.

----

In the space of a blink, Jim finds himself back in a cramped changing room.

There is a slight tremor in the hand that opens his locker, revealing an outfit identical in color to the last, though his gift appears to be a tracksuit this time. Crimson red lines run down the sides of the matching black pants and jacket, the only other accent of color being the red zipper that seals the top snugly against him, another perfect fit.

He shuts the locker and takes a step back, flexing his fingers out at his sides, then clenching them into fists. Studying the walls around him reveals nothing again, save for the glowing button that awaits his press.

“Can I get some help in here?” he calls out, feeling somewhat silly speaking to thin air. Surely enough, though, the same attendant appears in front of him again, her face blank.

“What do you require, Mr. Kirk?”

The urge crosses him to try for the thin rod he can see in her hand. He keeps his tone carefully calm when he asks, “Can you tell me more about why we’ve been brought here?”

“To play today’s game,” she answers automatically. “As you have been told.”

“I mean here,” he corrects. “This– Ring. Who’s running this?”

“I am unable to answer that,” the attendant dismisses. “You will be tardy if you do not join your fellow competitors immediately, Mr. Kirk.”

Searching her gaze for a beat, Jim takes a step closer, softening his tone. “You don’t have to do this. There are kids out there– innocent people that don’t deserve to die.” He reaches a hand towards her arm. “You could help us–”

A jab to his abdomen sends an electric shock through him, forcing him back into the wall behind him with a grunt.

“Tardiness will be penalized,” the attendant intones. Another blink, and she’s gone.

With a hand over his stomach, the captain curses under his breath.

The button on the wall emits another pleasant tune when punched.

By some small mercy, there’s no water in sight this time. Sprawled instead before the captain is what reminds him of a gigantic playground, with the closest part being a web of intersecting balance beams that branch off towards climbing walls speckled with colorful rocks. The remainder of the area beyond is obscured.

Looking around, he realizes that he’s on a tall platform with the majority of his camp– incomplete for only moments before Desmond winks into existence as the last member to join them. To either side are several other platforms holding teams of varying sizes, one of which contains a rather enthusiastic Tellarite that Jim can only assume is Braafram. A gap of several meters separates each platform, the comfortable distance serving only as a brief comfort before Jim notices just how far up from the ground they are, and the complete lack of any barriers between the balance beams and the jagged rocks down below.

Spock steps up to his side, close enough to brush the backs of their hands. The Vulcan’s voice passes through his skin: Stay close to me. Do not rush through anything.

Jim is tempted to snark back about his first officer hovering again, but his track record leaves him with little ground to stand on.

Instead, he projects a simple, Okay.

Glancing back at the rest of the team, he spots Desmond’s gaze on him again. It’s gone quickly enough that Jim isn’t sure he’d seen it at all.

“Greetings, competitors,” the announcer chirps. “We hope that you enjoy this opportunity to stretch your legs before your big move. You will find the game an easy one to play: your only objective is to make it to the other side of this course. As always, intentional violence leading to the death of a competitor is against our rules here, but rough play itself is not.

The generousness of your rewards will be determined by the order in which the entirety of each surviving team crosses the finish line. The last team to cross will receive no reward, save for their continued lives.

We suggest that you take care in your footing.”

Kirk glances again at the rocks below. His wave of nerves is met with a reaffirming calm through skin; a steady gaze above.

“Our section of the course is wide enough for two of us to move forward at once,” Hast observes, stepping up to the edge of the platform. “Gevni, you take the lead on the left. Spock on the right.”

“Why Spock?” Jim interjects– perhaps too quickly, by the slight twitch in Hast’s brow.

“He and Gevni are the strongest of our group,” Hast explains, gesturing towards the far rock wall. “They’ll scale that the fastest and be able to help pull people up at the top if necessary.”

“Your logic is sound,” the Vulcan acknowledges.

“Good to me,” Gevni adds in. She smiles with a playful flex of her muscles, which Koden whistles at.

“I’ll take the back on the left,” Hast states, positioning herself behind Koden and Gevni. She nods at Desmond. “You follow them.”

He doesn’t argue, but he doesn’t agree, either. Coming to a silent stand behind Kirk, it’s the closest the pair have been since meeting. He offers only a nod, when Jim returns before turning back around.

He could knock me off in a split second, the captain’s brain rattles off. ‘ Accidentally’ jostle the beam I’m on, or just bump into me. There’s nothing I could do about it.

Jim’s heart is hammering in his chest. Though Spock’s expression is almost wholly blank, the captain knows him well enough by now to see that there’s an edge to his gaze.

He isn’t happy.

“Alright, competitors, on my mark! 10… 9…”

Kirk’s hands are shaking at his sides. He clenches them to still the movement.

“8… 7… 6…”

Breathe.

Even though they’re no longer touching, he can still hear that voice in his head, a gentle echo from a darkened tent.

“4… 3… 2…”

Though he could if he wanted to, Spock wouldn’t ever have to use mind control on his captain. Doesn’t even have to persuade him the good old-fashioned way.

Jim would follow him anywhere. Would place his life in his hands without a second thought.

“Begin!”

It’s a good thing he has to, now.

Chapter Text

If there’s anything worse than balancing far above a certain and violent death, it’s watching your first officer do it directly in front of you.

Spock moves with a measured calm, and if it weren’t for his continual glances behind himself to ensure that his captain is still close by, he would have appeared entirely unruffled by the circumstances. He doesn’t wobble even once, pausing only to determine the easiest path forward through crossing beams. Jim is certain that he’s more nervous for his first officer than the Vulcan is for himself, and he’d feel more embarrassed about that fact if it wasn’t evident that Spock, whether out of professional obligation or not, returns the sentiment.

With the Vulcan well outside of his reach, Jim wishes desperately that they still had a way to communicate thought without touch– being able to use whatever bond-thing he’d once read about Vulcans having in a xenobiology class.

Marriage bond, his brain reminds him.

He immediately puts the thought out of mind.

The narrow beams are already difficult enough to navigate, but the worst of it is at the intersecting points in which a turn is needed between bars, leaving either foot temporarily out of alignment with one another. Spock handles it with grace, because of course he does, while his captain wobbles significantly more, needing longer to navigate the turns than the much better-balanced Vulcan.

Each time Jim falters, his first officer pauses to wait for him to catch up, never straying more than a couple paces ahead. To their left, the other trio’s progress is fast enough that Hast has already passed Kirk, and Gevni’s nearly at the other side.

“You need to keep moving!” the physicist calls out to them.

“We are presently doing so,” Spock answers in a tone that’s perfectly even by almost any account, though Jim can hear the agitated undercurrent to it.

Hast doesn’t respond to that, but before she turns back away, Kirk can spot a brief ripple of frustration.

Over halfway to the end of the beams, Jim is slowly starting to get a better sense of his footing, following behind his first officer at least at a marginally faster pace. Some of the tremors in his form have lessened–

An improvement that’s immediately negated when a competitor in a team to their right shrieks, and the squeal of shoes slipping against a metal bar is followed by a body tumbling from the beams.

Most of the competitors in the surrounding area freeze. For several dragging beats, the captain hardly breathes, only just managing to keep his gaze up and away from the stained rocks below.

But everyone continues forward, and Jim has no choice but to follow.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fucking fuck.

He should be able to do something to stop this. Has to be able to. The captain of Starfleet’s goddamned flagship– and more people continue to die meaningless deaths as he sits by and twiddles his thumbs.

The adrenaline is starting to make him nauseous.

Kirk’s breathing is ragged, hard enough that it fills his hearing. They’re steadily approaching the other side, but keeping his balance is becoming a harder and harder task with every passing step.

Just beyond, Gevni and Koden are already scaling the wall. Hast has stopped at the edge to look back at them, her hands on her hips. With a frustrated sigh, she turns to follow her teammates.

Somewhere to their left, another competitor plummets.

The only anchor Jim has is the sight of his first officer finally reaching solid ground ahead of him. Instead of continuing towards the wall, Spock turns at the edge, watching him intently.

On the final turn between beams, Jim almost slips.

He just barely catches himself, but the wobble lasts long enough for him to see bare, open terror on the Vulcan’s features. The expression is gone a split second later, but Spock’s hands continue to hover in the air between them, frozen.

The second his captain comes within reach, the Vulcan grabs him and hauls him the rest of the way onto the next platform. Even once Jim is on solid ground beside him, he doesn’t immediately let go.

“I’m fine,” Kirk breathes, glancing behind himself to make sure Desmond had crossed to the platform. “Hast is right. We do need to keep moving.”

Though Spock looks like he wants to argue, he continues forward, anyways.

Up close, the rock wall is significantly larger than it had seemed from across the bars– at least 15 feet tall, if not more. As he watches Spock start to scale the surface, he notices the Vulcan is purposefully neglecting to choose rocks he could’ve easily reached with his stature, selecting ones closer together instead; a path that his less height-advantaged captain can follow, too.

Kirk copies his moves, but is substantially slower than him again, lacking the inhuman strength that allows the Vulcan to pull himself up with ease. The captain is in shape, at least– but with the adrenaline from the balance beams having torn through his system, his frazzled state has his palms sweating and shaky where they grasp each anchor upwards.

When Spock hefts himself over the top, he turns again instead of continuing forward, watching his captain. Distantly, Kirk can hear a shouted request from Hast for the Vulcan to help with something.

“Go ahead,” he calls up, throwing a quick glance at Desmond, who’s continuing to advance up the wall, nearly at his height now. “We’ll be fine.”

It takes a beat for the Vulcan to obey the command. Before he leaves, a brief flicker of uncertainty comes and goes from his features.

Jim turns the entirety of his focus to scaling the remaining wall, struggling to maintain the fight against the ache building up in his muscles. He’s taken hold of a rock just shy of the top when a wave of pins and needles races through his arm, causing him to lock up involuntarily where he clings to the wall.

Cyan eyes drift from the foreign appendage up to the red sky, unfocused. Another ghost-dream descends over him, covering his vision and forcing the world into one distant, incomprehensible note.

It takes several beats for a sound to filter through the haze, surfaced on an unfamiliar voice: Kirk. The syllable is as foreign as his hand, unable to click into place. Attempting to parse it feels like running in a dream: sleep-slow and futile.

Movement passes in his peripheral. The captain can no longer feel where he grasps the wall, his hands numb, slick. Slipping.

A face appears above him, obscuring the red sky. Hands quickly follow, grabbing onto his forearms and attempting to pull him upward with effort.

The captain’s vision slowly clears, and blurred features above finally fall into place:

Desmond.

Jim is clumsy, but a renewed surge of adrenaline is enough for feet to scramble awkwardly against the rocks below, pushing himself upward as he’s pulled the rest of the way over the edge. Trembling on his hands and knees, it takes significant effort for him to reconnect his mouth with his brain, barely intelligible when he delivers a breathless thanks.

He doesn’t quite have the coherence or the nerve to say what he really wants to: Why didn’t you let me fall?

But even with the captain struggling to regain control of his tongue, Desmond, evidently, has finally found his own.

The responding words are low, spoken on a tone just loud enough for Kirk to make out:

“Hast knows.”

The next second, Jim is being yanked to his feet. With his body gone cold, and each breath suddenly much tighter than before, it takes several bloated seconds for him to force himself back into motion and follow Desmond towards the next obstacle–

A puzzle that Spock and Hast are presently at work solving.

Attached to a gate barring their path forward is a large grid of glowing tiles, each containing seemingly random lines, though as they’re rotated the correct way up, the same mascot that had been printed on every label gradually comes into focus. By the time Jim catches up to them, the gate is already ringing out a happy tune, and the completed mascot disappears as the barrier winks out of existence. A couple of other teams have already long-since cleared their gates, and Hast seems well aware of the fact by the urgency with which she commands everyone to keep pushing forward.

And everyone does move forward, except for Spock– who grabs his captain’s wrist, briefly halting him as he projects a hurried: Are you still well?

Utterly stunned by the question, Jim fails to reply immediately, only gaping up at the increasingly confused dark eyes above him. Then, regaining control of himself, he answers, I’m okay.

Ahead of them, Desmond glances back. What the captain had struggled to read over and over again comes closer to clarity:

Apprehension.

Next in their path is a steep incline, with several knotted strands of rope attached to its peak. The material is rough in Jim’s grasp, a jarring abrasion as he hefts himself upward, but the sensation is far better than the pins and needles he remains braced for. Once the team makes it down the other side of the incline, the end of the course comes within sight, but it’s hardly a comfort with his breath still held, and Hast just beyond, casting glances back at him that now feel just a second too long.

A bridge separates the group from their final platform, constructed precariously with rope and missing beams. Jim fights to keep his footing steady, struggles through each breath, but with every glance back he gets from Hast, and every glance back he gets from Spock, he can no longer decide which is making him feel worse.

As soon as he stumbles to the other side, he sinks to his knees, heaving uneven breaths. Somewhere ahead of him, Koden whoops with an enthusiastic press of the team’s buzzer, and a congratulatory tune rings out in response, the sound nauseating.

There is no room for relief, or for relaxation; there is only one thought, stabbing through him with an unbearable clarity:

I’m going to get Spock killed.

He feels a warm hand on his shoulder only a second after the words come and go. Concern is an immediate presence, even through the fabric of his jacket.

Before Spock can reach his skin, Kirk uses his remaining energy to force his mind empty.

----

In the excitement of the return to camp and the delivery of the team’s rewards, Jim makes an excuse to slip away for water.

To his surprise, it’s not only Spock that attempts to argue his exit, but Hast, too, citing that they still don’t know when the imminent move will happen. He promises to need only a few minutes– and when Spock begins to follow him, he halts him in his tracks with a short, firm shake of his head.

On the walk towards the river, his thoughts remain frazzled; frayed. Everything comes slowly to him as if swimming against a current, struggling to register through a worsening fog. He can’t quite decide exactly what it is he wants to do– turn back; keep going– but he figures he’ll have a better idea by the time he gets to the water.

In the best case scenario, he thinks, the move happens in the next few minutes, too suddenly for him to get back to camp in time or for anyone else to follow. If he’s out of the way, Hast has no reason to kill Spock, and Spock will no longer have an out-of-commission captain to get distracted by. Of equal importance, he won’t only be safer without him, but he won’t be rendered alone by his captain’s disappearance, either.

In the worst case scenario, he’s found mid-seizure by a rather unhappy Vulcan, leaving Spock utterly exposed to anyone that had chosen to follow him.

Best case scenario probably isn’t very likely. It’ll be best for him to keep walking once he hits the riverbank; have more time to think.

The problem is that he never reaches water, or anything that prompts any recognition to begin with. In the sticky fog that clings to him, he doesn’t know where he’s gotten himself at all.

Jim can’t help but laugh at that.

Guess I’m staying here, then.

He halts at the foot of a large tree, sinking down to sit back against the bark. His body buzzes with exhaustion, deep enough that he can feel it in every bone. Maybe he’ll get lucky– pass the time here with a nap.

Kirk tilts his head to look at the red planet above. The leaves in his peripheral rustle with a gentle breeze, cool on clammy skin.

He closes his eyes.

When he reopens them, he is no longer looking at the sky. The first thing he registers in his vision is his arm, sprawled awkwardly on the grass in front of him, palm up. Beyond is a blur of green and brown where tree trunks meet grass, the colors broken up intermittently by a few fallen leaves.

As he’s staring at his arm, he realizes it really, really fucking hurts.

His entire body does, for that matter, feeling like one big bruise where he lays in the grass. Some points hurt more than others, deeper bruises on top of bruises, with the worst of it in his skull and his back.

Several birds call to one another in the branches above, some clear, others more faint. There is one sound that feels more familiar than the rest, not quite fitting in with the other chatter:

Jim, Jim, Jim.

He’s never heard a bird like that before– not in Riverside, at least. Maybe there is some weird bird like that out there somewhere, but there aren’t many animals of particular interest in the middle of Nowhere, Iowa. Unless you like cows.

Jim, Jim, Jim.

Maybe it’s a parrot. But what the hell would a parrot be doing in Iowa? He can’t think of a single family nearby that’s ever been known to keep one as a pet.

The sound moves further away, then gets closer again. He opens his mouth to ask for some goddamned quiet while he’s trying to sleep, but at the movement, he notices that his lips feel wet at the corner. It’s a struggle to lift his palm from the grass, his arm clumsy and slow. When his hand comes away from his mouth, it’s red with blood.

Huh.

Now that he thinks about it, his mouth really fucking hurts, too.

The pain brings his attention back to every other ache in his body. When he tries to follow through on his request for peace, all that comes out is a moan.

That seems to be enough, at least. The sound stops immediately.

Well-trained parrot, then.

But then it repeats, much louder now, a breathless shout that is far closer to Human than a parrot has any right to be.

It definitely isn’t a parrot that kneels in front of him, though. The hand that grabs his wrist lacks any feathers, and he doesn’t think there are any featherless parrots. Or parrots with hands.

When he forces his gaze upwards, he sees dark eyes turn from his palm to his face, wide with panic.

He’s pretty sure he knows this not-parrot. Knows, at least, the voice that comes to him, almost frantic with the question, “Where are you hurt?”

Oh, yeah. He remembers now. Spock. Nobody else he knows has those pointy ears. Well, except Old Spock. But that’s still Spock. Just, you know–

Old.

Spock doesn’t wait for him to answer the question, letting go of his wrist to take hold of his face with one hand and push through his hair with the other, tilting his head as he intently examines him.

The Vulcan’s fingers feel nice against his scalp. Nice enough that he forgets the question being asked of him until Spock repeats, “Jim, where are you hurt?”

Everywhere, is his first miserable reaction. Attempting to refine the answer to something more useful comes out as another formless note. He tries to gather his thoughts instead, focusing all of his attention on the pain in his mouth.

Spock, bright as ever, seems to pick up on it. He gently grasps Kirk’s chin to peer into his mouth, the movement jostling the raw side of the captain’s tongue uncomfortably.

The knowledge seems to relax the Vulcan marginally, but his gaze remains troubled.

“We must return immediately,” he states, withdrawing his hands from his captain.

Return where? There isn’t much in Riverside he can imagine Spock would want to see.

Oh, wait–

“The shipyard?” he guesses, the words almost too slurred to be intelligible. It’s either that or the bar that all the cadets frequent, but he doesn’t think Vulcans like alcohol.

Angled brows twitch closer together. “No,” Spock corrects, “we must return to the camp.”

Camp?

He can’t remember the last time he went camping. Never particularly liked it to begin with. Sammy always knew how to scare the shit out of him when he expected it least.

Somewhere above, a more animated voice rings out, “Good afternoon, competitors! Your move will commence in five minutes.”

Spock mutters a word in Vulcan under his breath. Jim’s pretty sure it’s some sort of swear.

He didn’t think Vulcans liked swearing, either.

“Are you able to sit up?” is what Spock asks next, but just like before, he doesn’t wait for an answer, instead grasping his captain’s shoulders to help him to a sitting position. As soon as he starts to withdraw, Jim grabs his wrist, a shred of clarity returning to him. He has to tell Spock something–

“Jim, we must return immediately,” the Vulcan insists. When he pulls back to break contact, his captain reaches for him again, trying desperately to remember–

But before he can get a grasp on the memory, arms are already snaking under him, and he’s hefted up against the Vulcan’s chest with a soft whoa.

Spock sets off at a quick pace, the motion driving a spike of vertigo that spins an aching head. It’s hard to focus through the nausea, but he knows there’s something he has to tell him–

“No,” he breathes. “No– hold on–”

Even through layers of clothing, he can feel the Vulcan’s frustration as he comes to an unwilling halt.

“Jim, we do not have time–”

“Hold on,” the captain repeats, his breaths shallow as he struggles to dredge up anything useful from his brain. After several beats, he manages a slurred, “Not safe.”

Talking is really fucking uncomfortable with his tongue bitten to hell and back. A weak grimace pulls at his features.

“Not safe?” Spock echoes. “The camp?”

Yeah. He remembers a man telling him… what was it–

“Hast knows,” he finally completes.

For a moment, the Vulcan ceases all movement, his chest stilled without breath. He asks, his tone lowered, “Hast knows what?”

There seems to be little true question in the words.

“Two minutes, competitors!”

Even trying to pull up an image of Hast leaves him blank. With his brain feeling more like hopelessly scattered pieces than one whole functioning unit, the effort alone is as exhausting as speaking currently is. He fails to do either.

“Our supplies–” Spock continues suddenly, then falls silent again. He shakes his head, a frustrated sigh escaping under his breath. “I have only our backpack with me.”

That doesn’t sound good.

He wants to vocalize that, but he lets his head slump against Spock’s shoulder instead. The world continues to spin around them, as if everything else was caught in their orbit.

There is a vague sense of guilt building in him, but he can’t quite figure out why.

“Prepare for transport in 59… 58… 57…”

“Jim,” Spock rouses him, the syllable buzzing gently through the Vulcan’s chest. “You must remain conscious and hold on to me. Do you understand?”

Yeah, sure. Easy enough.

He doesn’t know how well he gets the answer across, but Spock seems satisfied enough when his captain manages a weak hold on his shoulder, the limb aching with the movement. The golden sleeve that comes into the captain’s view is littered with small tears and punctuated by a scrape that is visible where the end of the sleeve has ridden up, the angry mark lying just below the back of his hand.

“32… 31… 30…”

“It is likely that I will need to run,” Spock continues. “We will be in imminent danger. I will attempt to locate a safe place of shelter as quickly as possible.”

“15… 14… 13…”

Seems like that’d be a lot easier if he wasn’t lugging an entire Human around.

“7… 6… 5…”

Another flicker of guilt passes.

The forest continues to spin lazily around them.

One blink later, the blurry leaves above give way to an overcast sky. There is the smell of salt in the cooler air; the sound of crashing waves. He hears the crunch of sand beneath boots as Spock takes one step, then another, turning to survey the land around them.

One tiny, aborted breath is all Jim registers before he’s being hauled from the beach at a sprint.

The surprise of it is enough to jar him further awake with a gasp. He clings harder to the Vulcan’s shoulder as he attempts to lift his head enough to look around, but the swiftly passing scenery immediately worsens his vertigo, making it difficult to process any of the surrounding area.

While he has the stomach for it, he catches a receding rocky beach and a lighthouse that cuts through a layer of fog, its beacon slowly spinning around, and around, and around, staining Jim’s vision with a shrinking dot of color before he manages to blink it away.

Okay– not in Riverside, then. But where the hell–

Spock jerks suddenly to one side, just barely escaping an arrow that whizzes past them. His pace somehow increases further.

Kirk tries to piece together why they’re being shot at, but the only possibility his brain can produce is Kodos’ guards. The thought alone is enough to send a cold wave of fear through him, turning his veins to ice. He strains to look around again, but the figures are too distant to properly make out, then gone altogether once Spock rounds the corner of a dilapidated building.

Even out of sight, he continues to run.

Their pace slows as the Vulcan hits steeper ground, and the sound of restless waves fades into the distance. Deep, plush green leaves overlay Jim’s view of the gray sky above, broken up sporadically by the walls of weathered buildings, each growing further apart from one another the deeper Spock pushes into the land.

Exhaustion presses down on the captain with a heavy hand, clashing with adrenaline and vertigo. The longer he fights to stay awake, the worse his head hurts, a pain sharp enough that it almost drowns out every other sore point his body is riddled with.

He doesn’t realize his eyes are slipping closed until Spock comes to a stop, the halt enough to jar Kirk back into wakefulness. The only sound is the rustle of leaves in the cool breeze and the Vulcan’s heavy breathing, steadily slowing now.

“I estimate a 65.9% likelihood that we will be undisturbed if we shelter here for the night,” Spock states. “Although I desire greater certainty for safety, you are in need of medical treatment, and prolonging that treatment any further will exacerbate the likelihood that any unaddressed injuries may pose a significant danger to your health.”

Jim’s head aches worse with the effort to lift it. He is met with the sight of a small house; another building that looks like it hasn’t been occupied in a long time, reminding him of all the homes that had sat abandoned on Tarsus, ghosts of a rotting countryside.

Spock steps slowly through the entrance. Though it’s hardly warmer inside, the relief from the persistent breeze is a welcome one. The Vulcan nudges the door shut behind them, then steps through the largely empty space, old hardwood creaking beneath his boots.

It’s a tiny, one-story thing, with most of the floor taken up by a living area and kitchen. Through a doorway is a bedroom, bare save for a low, narrow bed and a dresser. Jim is eased to a sitting position on the mattress, and the backpack placed on the floor nearby. Spock kneels before him, his eyes closing, and a sigh escaping under his breath. He remains still only for moments before his eyes open again, and he reaches into the pack, pulling out a small first aid kit, a cloth, and a water bottle.

“I carried only a limited portion of the reward from the game,” he notes, a hint of regret in his tone. “The rest remained at the camp.”

Jim wants to ask what game are you talking about and why the hell do you keep mentioning a camp, but communicating through the thick fog that clings to him and the fierce ache in his skull feels like far more effort than he has the energy for. Instead, he mutely allows his first officer to ease his command tunic off of him, only half-successful at holding back a moan at the disturbance of spent muscles and a sore back. Left in his black undershirt, the chilly air on exposed skin sends goosebumps over him.

The hands on his arms are gentle, turning him as Spock checks over the scrapes and bruises that litter his skin, the slightest frown on his lips. He bends each wrist and elbow, but he is met with no indication of any sprains. The Vulcan moves to his face next, brown eyes brushing over him methodically. After a beat, he withdraws to wet the cloth, using it to wipe dried blood from a scrape on the captain’s chin, then the side of his brow, still gentle. More gentle than Jim can take.

Almost automatically, the words slip from him, somewhat rough on a dry throat, “I’m sorry.”

Spock blinks, pulling back a fraction. “For what are you apologizing?”

Jim’s gaze dips. A lot of goddamned things, he thinks, but most of them are murky, half-formed and out of reach.

“All the… touching,” is what he settles for. “Skin contact. You don’t–,” he quiets briefly, his train of thought fading, then returning. “I know it’s… makes you uncomfortable.”

Spock is silent for a long minute. Long enough that Kirk thinks he’s made his first officer even more uncomfortable by acknowledging it.

But then the Vulcan responds, quieter, “Jim, if I have led you to believe that I am uncomfortable touching you, it is I who should apologize.”

Kirk’s mouth parts, soundless. Even if he could figure out what to say to that, his throat feels too tight to get anything out.

He leans forward before he can think better of it, forehead pressing against the Vulcan’s shoulder, hands shaking where he clutches at his back. The warm arms that encircle him only make his throat tighter.

Everywhere their skin brushes, he feels a relief that isn’t solely his own.

Chapter Text

Even though the only thing Spock’s been able to give him is pain medication and cleaner wounds, Jim feels far better than he had when they’d passed through the entrance of the house.

Nothing much has really changed– everything still hurts, and the world remains somewhat out of focus, too slippery to fully grasp. He’s still exhausted, confused; couldn’t tell you even for his life how they’d gotten where they are, or why they’re here in the first place.

But somehow, with every meeting of their skin, he feels calmer. Safer.

Embarrassing as it is, he attempts to protest his first officer’s withdrawal when Spock stands to investigate the remainder of the house, but it’s only minutes before the Vulcan returns with blankets and a small battery-powered heater.

“There does not appear to be any food stores in the home,” Spock states. “However, we have limited rations in the pack that will be sufficient for the night. I will need to identify further sources of food tomorrow.”

Jim watches him tiredly from the bed as he sets his finds down, then moves to the dresser. As if picking up a piece of paper, he lifts the furniture without any apparent effort, then places it against the closed door of the bedroom, barricading them in.

From who?

He doesn’t realize his breath has gone shallow until Spock is on the floor in front of him again, a tiny frown returned to his lips.

“The measure is only a precaution,” the Vulcan assures him. “I have heard no indication of anyone in the immediate area.”

“No guards?” Jim rasps, glancing at the dresser, then back at the dark eyes on him, a hint of confusion now present there.

“‘Guards’?”

“The ones we…,” he attempts to elaborate, then trails off, unable to complete the train of thought before it escapes him. He shakes his head absently. “Kodos’ guards…” Why were they being followed? If they have rations– “They’ll know we stole…”

Fuck, his head hurts. He places his forehead in his hands briefly, breathing through the pulsing pain, wishing miserably that the pills he had swallowed would hurry up and kick in. When he looks back up, Spock’s expression has changed, but he cannot place the new emotion there.

“Jim,” the Vulcan responds in a low tone, each word spoken carefully, as though barely held steady, “we are not on Tarsus.”

The only light in the room filters in through a small window, covered with an old, semi-sheer curtain that further dulls the fading day. Even still, he can see that a tiny crease has wedged itself between angled brows.

He asks, the question far smaller than he intends it to be, “Where are we?”

Spock is silent for a long beat; unreadable. At length, he turns to collect one of the blankets from the floor beside him, quietly asserting, “You require rest. I will wake you if I become aware of any threat in the vicinity.”

Kirk wants to protest, but the urge slips through his fingers only moments later, lost as his fleeting focus shifts again, asking instead, “You’re not sleeping?”

“I do not presently require it,” his first officer responds automatically.

Even as hazy as he is, Jim can plainly see that that’s far from the truth.

After laying down, the spinning of the room worsens initially, making him close his eyes with a grimace. When he reopens them, he notices Spock’s tricorder is now in his hand.

“What’re y’doing?” Jim mumbles, the words bumping into one another and barely intelligible, but it seems to be enough for his first officer to parse.

“I am attempting to determine whether my tricorder may be operational in this environment,” Spock answers. “I could not identify any apparent cause for its previous cessation of functioning, so the possibility remains that it may yet be useful.”

Kirk can only get out a hum in response. He isn’t sure how long he closes his eyes for, but the room is darker when he reopens them, the space mostly illuminated by the weak glow of the heater that warms brown eyes, now powered between the Vulcan and the bed.

There’s something he had said to Spock before… but he can’t quite remember what it was. Something about a plane…

“Oxygen mask,” Kirk mumbles suddenly, drawing a confused gaze over to him.

“I was not aware that you were awake,” his first officer states, observing him with a slightly raised brow.

Jim huffs, fumbling for words that continually escape him. “You have to…,” he scrubs his face with his palms, struggling to follow the string before it can fray again. “Y’know… your oxygen mask… first…”

Spock is completely stilled now, his hands hovering where one grasps a tiny metal tool and the other a small piece from the interior of the tricorder. In the low, warm light, he is somehow softer; easier to reach.

Kirk completes, barely above a murmur, “Please sleep.”

“I am functioning adequately–”

“Spock,” Jim sighs, “if I have to hear that one more time…”

He intends to create a colorful threat, but his mind comes up empty. Bones would be disappointed in him.

Giving up on any attempt of finishing the sentiment, he simply adjusts himself on the bed, scooting back until he’s as far towards the other side as he can manage, grimacing with the renewed aches that the movement prompts.

Spock looks utterly stunned, now. If Kirk wasn’t so exhausted, he’d love to get some good teasing in on that one.

At length, the Vulcan carefully states, “You are already utilizing the bed, which is wide enough for only one occupant to sleep comfortably in. It is important that you regain sufficient rest while still recovering from your seizure.”

Jim’s gaze is bleary. Every second, it’s getting harder to remain awake.

“I don’t take up that much space,” he mumbles, just barely bordering on coherence. When Spock continues to remain still, and dark eyes uncertain, the captain adds at length, “M’not uncomfortable with you, either.”

The task of keeping his eyes open is quickly becoming too exhausting. He is just starting to give up the fight, half-lidded and fading, when the blanket rustles, and there is body heat beside his own, impossibly warm.

Safe, some part of his mind tells him, even with the prospect of guards still out there somewhere. Even with the prospect of dwindling food, and dark skies, and a haze he cannot escape.

When Kirk sleeps, he sleeps dreamlessly.

----

Jim’s quarters are much warmer than usual.

If he thinks about that for longer than a millisecond, that doesn’t make sense, though. He lives in a fancy tin can in the middle of outer space; there’s no such thing as temperature variation on board unless something has gone very wrong in Engineering, and if something had gone very wrong in Engineering, Kirk would have woken to a call from Scotty.

He makes up his mind to investigate the issue, but it takes significant effort to force heavy eyes open. The shade of light in bleary vision is all wrong– and the fact that there’s light to begin with. Jim’s never been one to sleep with a night light, and there aren’t exactly any sunrises around to brighten his quarters without manually commanding the lights to turn on.

It isn’t just the light that’s wrong, though. It’s the source of the warmth in his quarters– another body in his bed. Something he’s not unfamiliar with waking to, but never on the Enterprise, and never such a high degree of body heat to begin with.

He fumbles for any memory of the previous night, but for a long minute, it remains just out of his reach. Then, a single word comes to him, reminding him of who exactly he’s found himself plastered to in his sleep:

Spock.

Kirk goes immediately from half-lidded to alert, scrambling to let go of the Vulcan and put space between them on the tiny mattress.

“Spock– fuck, I didn’t mean to–”

“You have no cause for apology,” the Vulcan calmly assures, placing a hand on his captain’s shoulder briefly to still him. “I chose to remain here. I did not desire to disturb your sleep.”

Even once his hand is gone, it leaves a warm patch on the sleeve of the captain’s black undershirt, quieting him in combination with that stupid, perfect voice so close to him, deeper and slightly rough with sleep.

Jim sits up after Spock rises from the bed, grateful for the lack of skin contact between them as he attempts to reign himself back in. It takes only moments to do so– with the events of the past day catching back up to an aching head, any remaining fluster quickly leaves him. He stares down at the bruises on his arms, his stomach filled not with butterflies, but with dread.

The last 24 hours feel like a dream. His brain can supply him only with patches of imagery: endless balance beams, a rocky shoreline, overcast skies, blurry figures in the distance, a palm stained with red.

All he can get out is a quiet, absent, “Fuck, Spock.”

When he looks up, dark eyes are already on him. They flick from the bruising on his arms to his gaze, seeming carefully smoothed. After a beat, Spock asks, “How are you feeling?”

“Like hell,” Jim exhales a short, humorless laugh. No point in trying to hide it– not with the dysfunction of his brain now on full broadcast all over his body. “How long was I asleep?”

“Approximately 10 hours, 29 minutes, and 5.4 seconds.”

He wishes he could feel that. As it stands, he might as well have not slept for days, weighed down as he is by an exhaustion bone-deep. Even with that much rest under his belt, all he wants to do is crawl back under the blanket and sleep the rest of the day away. If he was home in Riverside, he probably would have.

But he knows now that he isn’t in Riverside, or on the Enterprise, or running from–

Kirk’s mouth dries.

“I need some air,” he mutters, standing too quickly from the bed and swaying as another round of vertigo passes over him. Though Spock looks uncertain, he removes the makeshift barricade from the doorway, trailing his captain out of the small home and into the cold morning air.

Though far from comfortable in short sleeves, the shock to his system is a welcome one. The grass is damp with recent rain, and the dirt path that trails off from the home slightly muddied. Kirk crosses goosebump-ridden arms as he looks out on the overgrown yard, his body tense; gaze distant.

He states, low enough that he’s not even sure his first officer will hear him, “Don’t ask me about Tarsus. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Even just saying it aloud makes him feel sick to his stomach, unbearably exposed.

When he finally manages a glance towards his first officer, Spock offers only a silent nod. Though it does little to ease him, some small tension still smooths.

His first officer begins to speak, but a pleasant chime rings out over the land, causing both men to stiffen.

“Good morning, competitors,” the announcer chirps. “You all put on a spectacular show this past evening. We congratulate all who rose in ranking: Tyth Ch’itarath, 3 points. Davisa, 2 points. Wilhelmina Hast, 2 points. Kit T’Kel, 1 point. Braafram Dvorkurc, 1 point. We look forward to your continued efforts today.”

In the silence that follows, Jim’s shallow breaths are unnaturally loud. With an uneasy glance towards the trees around them, he retreats back into the relative safety of the house.

“Did you see them after we were moved?” he questions his first officer. “Hast, Desmond– any of them?”

“I did not,” Spock denies. “I witnessed a total of six other competitors in the vicinity of our initial transport, none of which we have previously interacted with.”

“And you haven’t heard anyone else since then?”

The Vulcan shakes his head. “I was attempting to reset my tricorder to check the vicinity for lifesigns. I did not complete the task before resting.”

Kirk runs a hand through his hair, exhaling a tense breath as he observes the living area around them. “If there’s any chance you can have that operational before we go out, keep working on that.”

Spock nods again, disappearing into the bedroom. The captain can’t quite meet his eyes on his way past.

He takes to investigating the rest of the home. There is a small closet near the entrance, though its shelves are almost totally empty. A few dust outlines remain where Jim assumes Spock’s finds had come from the previous night. The only occupants left in the closet are spare batteries, a stack of towels, and a toolbox.

Next is the kitchen cupboards. Even just the act of approaching them makes Jim nauseous, knowing they’ve already been searched to no avail. Still, a part of him has to look– to hope, maybe, that his first officer was simply exhausted and had missed a cabinet or two.

But Kirk’s own check reveals barren shelves, and the nausea worsens.

There seems to be little else to search until Jim looks up, finally spotting an attic entrance. A frayed pull string dangles from it, too high up for him to reach. He carries over a chair from the kitchen table, grimacing at the uncomfortable ache that his back and arms protest with. A ladder slides out from the door he manages to pull down, carrying with it a cloud of dust motes that dance in the dull light of another overcast day.

The ceiling is low, forcing Jim to hunch slightly as he steps over creaking floors. It’s another mostly empty space, aside from a few cardboard boxes.

None of them are taped shut, held closed only by the interweaving of cardboard flaps. Though he holds out hope for food, what he finds in the first box isn’t a complete disappointment– winter clothes of varying sizes are folded within, the stack mostly made up of jackets and sweaters. He sets the box to the side, grateful at least for something his first officer will appreciate.

The second box appears to have had its contents stored with less rhyme or reason; jars of candles and matches are lumped in with antique silverware and trinkets, one of which is a tiny figurine resembling the four-eyed mascot of the Ring.

With a slight frown, he moves on to the final box in the attic. Pulling the cardboard flaps to the side, Jim freezes at the lone occupant he’s met with:

An old revolver.

He cautiously lifts it from the bottom of the box. A check reveals it to be fully loaded, save for one empty chamber. Though the notion of firing it is an uneasy one, he straps it to his belt, then hauls the winter clothing down to the main floor.

In the bedroom, Spock is seated on the mattress, currently peering at the screen of his tricorder. When he looks up at the gifts his captain bears, something close to relief passes through dark eyes before he’s able to contain it.

“Hopefully there’s something that fits you in here,” Kirk voices, setting the stack on the floor with a sigh. He plucks a sweater from the top– one he had eyed as likely a good fit for himself. The green is reminiscent of his formal uniform jacket, though he hasn’t had an occasion to wear it so far in his career.

The reminder of the life waiting for him out there, trapped in an indefinite pause, is a disquieting one; something to immediately put out of mind. He pulls the garment on, focusing instead on the relief of covering the marks that litter his arms. Like this, he can at least feign some shallow semblance of normalcy.

Jim doesn’t realize he’s still being watched until he glances up while smoothing out the disturbance to his hair, catching dark eyes still on him. Blinking, all he can offer is a dumb, “What?”

Spock is silent for another beat, eyes flicking down, then back up, as though he’s analyzing an interesting finding at his station. Then, he observes, “The color suits you.”

What?

He manages to contain the question this time, though only just. The sweater may not have been such a great idea after all, considering it makes him feel about a million times hotter as his face warms.

“Thanks,” he says– or tries to, at least. The word comes out like more of a question that’s jumped an octave, but Spock doesn’t seem fazed by it.

As if having commented on the weather, the Vulcan simply continues, “I am receiving environmental readings that align with my present observations, which is promising. However, more usage will be needed to determine if the tricorder is fully functional.”

Jim nods, grateful for anything to distract him from the redness of his face. After a beat, he finally recalls the revolver on his belt, removing it to extend towards his first officer.

“This was in the attic,” he elaborates at the surprise and curiosity in Spock’s gaze. “It’s got five bullets. You should take it.”

The I’m not currently competent enough to handle anything this dangerous goes unsaid. He’s relieved that Spock doesn’t acknowledge it, either.

Stepping back, he glances towards the window with a sigh. “Guess we should take a walk, then.”

Just about nothing sounds less appealing to him– save for remaining in a building where their only food left is a single ration bar. Though he’s painfully aware of the danger of venturing out into an entirely unknown area with a mild haze still lingering between each thought, the memory of starvation is one hell of a motivator to do it, anyways.

The jacket that Spock pulls on just barely fits him, hugging broad shoulders more firmly than his uniform. Broad shoulders that Kirk really, really does not need to be staring at right now.

Outside, the day has chased away the worst bite of the cold, leaving the air more uncomfortably cool than frigid. Spock’s focus remains intent on his tricorder, but as they tentatively explore the land around the small home, no other entities appear on the screen save for birds and the occasional rodent.

Roughly half a kilometer out, another building comes into view– a shed with a metal lock securing its doors. Its weathered walls are more stripped patches than white paint, and its dark roof gap-toothed and crooked. Though the tricorder continues to register no significant life forms in the surrounding area, Jim still glances uneasily around them on their approach.

“I am detecting organic material inside,” Spock comments. “It may be food stores, or other plant or animal products.”

Jim swallows, glancing behind them again, then at the padlock. “Do you think you can…?”

Spock merely lifts a brow at him. Then, letting go of his tricorder, he takes hold of the chain that the lock dangles from, snapping the metal links apart in seconds.

And yeah, Kirk already knows about Vulcan strength, but seeing it pushed far beyond any Human capacity isn’t something he’s gotten used to. And maybe he gapes, but it’s only a little, and just for a couple of seconds.

Reaching for at least some shred of his command voice, he states, “Let’s get in and out of here as fast as we can. I don’t want to be out here any longer than we have to be.”

The muted light of day spills into the dim space beyond, illuminating dust motes and the haphazard clutter they’ve been disturbed from. Junk is strewn across shelves and over the floor, making it difficult to spot anything of use amidst rusted spare parts, broken objects, and neglected antiques. A bicycle missing an entire wheel blocks the shelving to the immediate right of the entryway, and the shrill complaint of old metal is uncomfortably loud as Kirk lifts the obstruction and discards it outside of the shed.

Digging through the junk is a painstakingly slow process. Jim watches Spock’s search with his tricorder intently, aiding in clearing the way towards the readings. With each step closer, the captain’s heart climbs further from his empty stomach and towards his throat, a stranglehold on each breath.

The immense relief of spotting a sack of rice lasts all of one brief glance before the split in its side becomes evident, as does the unpleasant odor in its vicinity.

Kirk expects the tidal wave of nausea that rips through him, but that doesn’t make it any easier to weather.

He steps past his first officer, avoiding his gaze. A search of the immediate area reveals another ruined sack of grain, its split running directly through the happy mascot at the center. Empty cans are strewn about the area, a sea of toothy smiles that set the captain’s empty stomach ablaze. The urge to petulantly kick them away is stayed only by the repetition of a syllable beside him, finally registering over a pounding heart:

“Jim.”

A monotone that should be as clinical and smoothed as ever, softened again. Kirk can’t bear to meet his eyes, but he does notice the two cans in his grasp, each still sealed.

“This appears to be the extent of useful organic readings,” Spock continues. “I advise that we return to shelter promptly to avoid any further unnecessary exposure.”

“What, so we can go enjoy our half a meal in peace?” Kirk scoffs. He regrets the words even before the silence that settles in their wake. With a muttered apology, he leads the way out of the shed.

Spock keeps close to his side the entire walk back; practically as close as he’d been during their romantic charade. It’s impossible to tell if it’s for the threat of other competitors, hovering in wait of another seizure, or both. Regardless, Jim can’t find it in himself to voice what would otherwise have been a knee-jerk, I can handle myself. Though nothing about their situation has changed, having his first officer close to him, simply traveling together in silence, is slowly smothering the fire that his empty stomach had stoked.

And once the anger is gone, the only thing left is exhaustion.

In the house, he sinks into a chair beside the kitchen table, a distant gaze cast towards the scratched surface. He waits for the inevitable comment– the scientist pushing on, unable to let anything alone until it’s been mapped and understood– but the only thing he gets is a warm hand on his shoulder, the brief touch threatening to tighten his throat.

He attempts to distract himself by dissecting his dead phaser and determining if there’s any hope in restoring its power, but the process is painstakingly slow. His movement is plagued with sudden pauses, unable to recall precisely what he’d been reaching for, or to complete a train of thought on something he’d been peering at. The headache is back, too, and with the fog that continues to ebb and flow inside an aching skull, it takes all of half an hour for him to give up on the task completely.

The half of the ration bar that he consumes for dinner makes him more nauseous than sated.

----

Jim’s sleep is restless; spotty.

Coming awake far more times than the previous night, he’s able to clearly see the progressive exhaustion taking hold of his first officer’s features– and once he finally persuades a stubborn Vulcan to sleep again, each awakening to a warm body so close to his own is a continual hazy surprise. Even still, as new as it is, it doesn’t take long for it to feel normal. Comforting, even, though he’d hardly admit that to himself.

And when he wakes to weak morning light, the surprise isn’t a body beside his own, but the disappointment of finding the rest of the mattress empty.

He sits up, expecting to see his first officer back to work on some endless analysis, but instead finds the entire room empty, too. The dresser has been removed from the doorway again, and the door left ajar. Kirk frowns, attempting to blink the sleep away from heavy eyes as he strains to listen to the rest of the house.

“Spock?” he calls, wincing slightly at the dryness of his throat.

But it isn’t a monotone that responds to him–

Instead, it’s a cheery jingle, muffled through the walls of the home.

“Good morning, competitors! You continue to delight us with such invigorating displays of passion and might. Two points have been awarded to Gallez, one to Tyth Ch’itarath, and one to Wilhelmina Hast. Happy hunting!”

One shallow breath passes, then another, before Jim scrambles to his feet.

“Spock?” he calls again, louder this time. Wood creaks beneath his feet with quick steps into the common area of the house, the only sound aside from tightening breaths.

This space, too, is empty.

The captain runs towards the front door, any concern for nearby competitors entirely forgone. He opens it with enough force to knock it into the wall, and it’s left ajar behind his race into chilled air.

“Spock!” he shouts, his head turning about wildly, eyes darting through the surrounding trees. Desperation bleeds into his tone, caught on the vivid image of a rifle, a barrel sighing smoke, a deep emerald pool just below. “Spock!”

In his dash towards the trees, he nearly collides with a sudden wall in front of him–

A Vulcan, very much alive, though his features are stricken with an alarm he fails to mask.

“Jim?” he returns, breathless. “What is wrong–”

But before he can complete the question, his captain surges forward, hugging him tightly enough that his hold would have been painful for another Human. Jim only becomes aware of himself when tentative hands meet his back, and Spock repeats, softer, “Jim?”

Kirk pulls away, still fighting to catch his breath. “Sorry– fuck, I thought– I didn’t know where you–”

“I apologize,” the Vulcan interjects, his expression quickly sobering. “I did not intend to cause you distress. I inaccurately estimated how long you would remain asleep. I was investigating a noise, but I did not identify any threat.”

Jim places an unconscious hand over a hammering heart, shaking his head absently. His panting slows, but the ghost of helpless, blind fear remains. “Don’t– Christ, Spock, don’t fucking do that again.”

If their time together on the Enterprise has taught Kirk anything, it’s that this should be a catalyst for yet another bickering match with his first officer. It was only logical, my calculations accounted for all variables and I of course know more than you do, you silly illogical Human, or whatever else the captain’s selective hearing would take away from the mess.

But Spock only nods– not with tight-lipped frustration, but with the barest hint of genuine regret. And when he walks with his captain back to the house, it’s not at a stiff, professional distance, but that same impossible proximity, a satellite now caught in his orbit.

Chapter Text

Beneath heavy clouds and patchy rain, the bite of morning’s cold hardly lessens as the day drags on.

Raindrops ping against dirtied windows and tap a steady rhythm on the roof of the house. The air is frigid enough for even Jim to have pulled on an extra jacket over his sweater, missing bitterly the comfort of climatized rooms. Though Spock shows no obvious signs of discomfort, he remains about as close to the space heater as physically possible, seeming little in want to stray even an inch from its warmth.

But even with the rain, and the cold, a fact remains that they cannot simply wait out:

After consuming what could hardly even be called a breakfast, there is no food left in the house.

By midday, the rain has ebbed to a drizzle, but still stubbornly continues on. The hunger gnawing at Jim’s stomach makes it difficult to focus on his dissected phaser, constantly stirring memories of rotting grain and skin stretched taut to bone.

“Do you remember passing by any other buildings on the way here?” Jim asks suddenly, drawing dark eyes up from where Spock had been observing his own communicator.

“The closest building in the direction of the shore is approximately 0.91 kilometers from our present location,” the Vulcan relays automatically. “It was another residence.”

Kirk glances towards the window, watching the light drizzle continue to mist the land. Then, he says, “Let’s go before it starts getting dark.”

A tiny frown twitches over Spock’s lips. “Traveling in the only direction we are certain that other competitors are located in is not safe–”

“Starving isn’t safe, either,” Jim argues. “And wandering in some other direction hoping we stumble across something is more risk for what’ll probably be no reward.”

The Vulcan pauses, uncertain. His captain adds, “We’ll have the tricorder with us, and you’re armed. That’s probably about as safe as we’re ever gonna get here.”

Spock’s mouth opens, closes. At length, he gives a reluctant nod.

Jim follows the lead of his first officer, drawing the hood of his jacket over his head as they step out into the rain. It’s light enough that it’s more of a mist than anything, but the cold makes it as unpleasant as a storm. He already dreads the idea of how long it will take to get warm after this– and knows the same thought must be at the forefront of the Vulcan’s mind.

Far from the first time, another wave of guilt passes over the captain for getting him into this mess.

Under the blanket of dark skies, the shadows beneath the trees are rendered murkier. It’s both a reassurance and a discomfort; like this, they’re less easy to spot from afar, but so is anyone else.

Though the tricorder displays no lifesigns in the area, Spock’s free hand remains hovering near his belt, and his proximity to his captain never lessens.

The house that the pair approach is larger than the previous, standing two stories tall and stretching wider over unkempt land. Overgrown rose bushes line the front of the home, their red blooms waterlogged and drooping. One of the windows on the top floor is broken, its displaced shards of glass caught in the flowers and thorns below.

With a slight frown, Kirk turns his attention to his first officer. “Any lifesigns?”

“Negative,” Spock replies. “The house appears unoccupied.”

After one last glance around them, the captain nods. “Alright. Let’s be quick.”

An initial sweep of the house reveals no competitors. If it weren’t for the staleness that lingers over everything, Jim wouldn’t have guessed the home to have been abandoned. Even the beds still have sheets on them, most made without a crease, though one has been left behind with sheets rumpled. It’s the same room with the broken window, though there’s no evidence left inside to indicate what had shattered it.

The carpet and belongings near the window are wet with rain. The sight isn’t surprising, but the captain still pauses beside it.

“Jim?”

He glances up at the Vulcan that lingers in the doorway. “This happened recently. Someone else has been here.”

Dark eyes flick towards the window, then back at him. “Elaborate.”

“None of this is moldy,” Kirk points out. He presses a boot into the damp carpet. “It seems like a rainy climate, but this can’t have been wet for long.”

Spock nods, his gaze briefly thoughtful. “I recommend that we limit our search to the kitchen and storage areas in order to minimize our time here.”

Though his empty stomach is nagging, the notion of anyone else making an untimely visit is enough to quiet it– for now.

“Agreed.”

The pair return to the first floor, combing through the kitchen cabinets first. Though there are many more than the previous home, they bear no more use. Aside from dishes and cookware, nothing else is present.

Across from the room’s entrance is a walk-in pantry, entirely barren. Each shelf is coated in a thick layer of dust, though some have outlines of recent occupants left behind.

The sight makes Jim’s back prickle as much as it makes his stomach turn.

After closing the door, it takes several breaths to steady himself enough to face his first officer. Spock is studying the display of his tricorder, a slight frown on his lips.

“What’s up?”

“I am no longer receiving any readings,” he answers, his voice somewhat lowered. “I recommend leaving the area promptly.”

Jim swallows, glancing at the hall behind him, then towards the window. “It just died?”

“It is still powered on,” Spock corrects, “but the display is blank. This behavior mirrors its previous malfunction.”

With every minute, the hunger gnawing a hole in Jim’s stomach is making it harder to remain composed. Everything in him wants to search every inch of the property; spend hours digging through it, even if all the search turns up is a few crumbs. It isn’t unbearable yet–

But he knows where this leads.

It takes every remaining ounce of willpower in him to follow Spock out of the house.

The rain has stopped, but the sky remains bloated and dark. Behind the clouds, the sun is beginning to set, blotting the woods around them with inkier shadows. The land, at least, is empty– quieter now without a steady drizzle. All Jim can hear is himself breathing, and the quiet breaths his first officer takes beside him.

Just over a minute out, that breath stops.

The soft click of a revolver hammer being pulled back is Jim’s only warning before he’s wrenched to the side by his first officer, and a Vulcan wall comes between himself and two figures emerging from the ink–

A Human with her rifle drawn, and a Klingon at her side.

“Spock?” she calls out, slowly lowering her weapon. “Where the hell have you two been? We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Spock is silent for a long beat, stiff as a statue. Then, he lowers his own gun, the movement seeming less than willing.

“We were unable to locate you after the move,” he replies, his tone utterly smoothed. “I was not certain how far apart we would be transported.”

Hast’s gaze moves to the captain, then back to the commander. “You’re both lucky to be alive. This move has been a bloodbath.”

“Where’s Desmond?” Jim interjects, glancing at the blank space behind the pair. “Gevni?”

Something passes over Hast’s expression, difficult to read from a distance. She answers, “We were attacked after the move. Outnumbered.”

The vertigo of that blurry day returns; of an unfamiliar voice, a gaze tinged with apprehension.

The only thing left in Jim’s stomach is nausea.

There is a subtle edge to Hast’s tone when she continues, “You both left right before the move, knowing we’d be separated. Why?”

“You are aware that I intended to return,” Spock states flatly.

The physicist’s gaze flicks between them. “Did you?”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Koden comments, his lips curling into a humorless smile. He shifts his grasp on his crossbow. With the movement, the metal tip of a loaded arrow catches the filtered sunlight. “Either we are expected to believe a Vulcan to be a fool, or you had no intent to move with us.”

One motionless beat drags into the next, each longer than the last.

A gust of wind cuts through the silence, kicking up the rainwater from deep green leaves above. With his entire body coiled, all it takes is one stray drop to make the captain flinch.

Before he can take his next breath, Hast’s rifle rises.

Several cracks pierce the air, leaving his ears ringing. In the frenzy, Jim instinctively reaches for his phaser, but finds only a knife at his belt. By the time he’s drawn it, a choked noise brings the chaos back to an abrupt halt.

Kirk stands, utterly frozen, as Hast looks down at the arrow that has been driven through her chest, the silver tip coated with crimson. She makes only another formless, stuttered note before her legs buckle. Koden stands above the collapsed physicist, watching as she stills amidst pooling red. His expression is not one of amusement, but contempt.

“Humans are more trouble than they are worth,” Koden says, simply. He looks up at Kirk, then Spock, his gaze lingering. His expression takes an odd turn, that contempt shed now for a smirk.

Before the captain can so much as open his mouth, Spock grabs him by his bicep and hauls him into the trees at a sprint.

Jim can barely keep up with his first officer, only just managing to dodge the trunks they weave between. Even well after the Klingon has been left behind them, the Vulcan continues to drag him as fast as his captain’s legs will allow. His breath is labored, uneven.

Minutes compress into mere moments, a blur of green, and dark skies, and inky shadows. Kirk’s brain has still hardly caught up with his body when the small house finally returns within view and the pair stumble inside, trekking rainwater onto the old hardwood.

The captain hunches over, panting heavy breaths with his hands on legs of jelly. He feels that exhausted haze seeping back in; desperately expends what little energy he has left to fight it.

When he looks back up, Spock is turned away from him, still facing the door, a hand lingering on its surface.

“Spock?” Jim voices, uncertain. A soft noise draws his gaze downwards, watching one drop of green hit the floor, then a second.

His first officer turns to him at last. His other hand is at his abdomen, mere inches from his heart, deep green seeping between his fingers.

A wave of cold races from Kirk’s scalp down through his body, far deeper than any wind ever could have cut.

He lurches forward as the Vulcan sways slightly, grabbing him to keep him upright, only just able to support the weight that Spock can’t.

Jim doesn’t notice the babbled, quiet string of no, no, no leaving him until Spock finally speaks, rough through ragged breaths, “It is alright, Jim.”

“What about this is–” Kirk chokes out, shaking his head in a short movement, his breaths shallow as he leads his first officer towards the bedroom. He can’t grasp anything more coherent to complete that with than a shaky, “Fucking hell, Spock.”

The Vulcan is beginning to pale by the time he’s seated on the bed. Kneeling in front of him, Jim’s hands are trembling hard enough that it takes several attempts to get the small medkit back open. Though he knows Spock will hardly appreciate having any layers ruined in this climate, he doesn’t bother to apologize as he hurriedly cuts away the sweater and tunic from his torso, exposing the bullet wound that continues to weep over his abdomen.

The bleeding isn’t profuse, but it doesn’t seem to be slowing, either. Though Jim’s thoughts are a frantic spiral, his body runs ahead on autopilot, grabbing a pack of gauze to press to the wound. Spock barely flinches, but the fact that he shows a reaction at all is enough to know how much pain he’s in.

“There is also an exit wound,” the Vulcan grits out.

“Fuck, okay, just– just take–,” he struggles to instruct, passing off the gauze for Spock to hold to his stomach as he turns his attention to the wound at his back. The bleeding there is worse than the entry, the back of his torn tunic and sweater soaked in it. After getting the rest of the shredded layers away from his skin, Jim opens another pack of gauze with trembling hands, pressing against the wound with as much strength as his arm has left in it.

The field care training he had taken as a cadet only a year ago feels more like a past lifetime rather than a recent memory. Simulations of blasts and burns had been unpleasant, but easy enough to learn how to treat. It was just another grade, another class– one more step towards graduating early and chasing the youngest captaincy that Starfleet’s ever known.

The green staining his hands now is nothing like those simulations. It’s brutal, barbaric; not only in its inescapable reality, but in the fact that it has been shed from his first officer. The fact itself almost doesn’t compute. Spock is too steady, too calm, too perfect to be the one bleeding beneath Jim’s hands. It’s unbearably, incomprehensibly wrong–

“Jim,” Spock catches his attention, grounding him back to the unreality he has found himself in. “There are wraps in the kit to assist–,” his features twitch slightly, the barest pain breaking through again before being smoothed away, “–assist with applying pressure.”

Kirk glances towards the remainder of the kit. Though he doesn’t want to let go of the gauze, he forces himself to move, anyways. “Right– right. Yeah.” God, Bones would be shaking his head at him if he could see how easily a single injury is unraveling him.

Securing the gauze, he wraps bandages tightly around the Vulcan’s torso, almost certainly using more layers than he needs to– but the fact that Spock’s skin is only slightly warmer than his own now is terrifying, and no amount of bandages in existence feel like enough to stave a further drop in temperature.

Temperature–

“Shit, Spock, I’m sorry–,” he breathes, fumbling to get the space heater going again, turning its settings to the max and placing it beside the bed. He grabs the blanket next, knowing he’s staining it with dirtied hands, but unwilling to move even an inch from the bed to resolve that. After easing the Vulcan to lie down, he scoops up the spare blanket from the floor for good measure, draping it over the first.

“Is this– warm enough?” Jim asks, feeling suddenly useless beside the bed. “I could get some towels–”

“That is unnecessary,” Spock interrupts, his tone somehow still steadier than his captain’s. Jim waits for the inevitable elaboration on statistics and precise degrees of body temperature and whatever else could be used to logically justify being just fine, but what comes, instead, is: “I estimate that I have a 2.6% chance of survival without further medical attention.”

Kirk’s mouth opens, closes, opens again. Even beside the space heater, he feels unbearably cold.

“You can’t know that–”

“Vulcans have a higher degree of awareness of their physiology than Humans do,” his first officer explains. Still fucking calm, somehow. “I am bleeding internally at a rate that will almost certainly lead to exsanguination within the next three hours.”

It’s not just Jim’s stomach that is empty, but his lungs, too. No breath seems able to catch any air, and with every second that ticks by, his chest is getting tighter.

“Jim,” Spock continues, his voice lowered, solemn. “My death does not need to be meaningless.”

Kirk just barely shakes his head, the movement absent. “You aren’t dying–”

“I am,” the Vulcan interrupts him, firmer now. “And if you receive a point for my elimination, you will be rewarded with food.”

One suffocating breath passes, then the next.

Then, Jim echoes, his voice hollow, “Are you asking me to kill you?”

“Given that the event is inevitable with or without your intervention, it is logical–”

“Spock,” Kirk cuts him off, hardly able to get the syllable out, the sound ripped from his chest. “In all the time that I’ve known you, I’ve never once thought you might be stupid until now.”

His first officer’s mouth briefly thins. “Jim–”

“The fact that you would even ask me to–”

“I–”

“–as if I could even hurt you, let alone–”

“Jim–”

“–do you even know–”

A hand shoots from beneath the blankets and grabs the captain’s forearm, silencing him. The hold isn’t tight enough to bruise, but it’s firm, a strength just barely kept in check.

Spock utters, his tone equally as firm as his hold, “I will not allow you to starve again.”

A pinch surfaces at the backs of Jim’s eyes. The complete resolve that he can feel through the Vulcan’s grasp only worsens it.

“I would live through Tarsus a thousand times over before I’d kill you, Spock,” Jim responds, a dangerous waver in his voice. “Before I’d even fucking hurt you.”

The longer he holds his first officer’s gaze, the more clearly he can see not only the pain there, but the desperation.

“You need food–”

“I need you,” Kirk corrects, his voice just shy of cracking on the final word. His body moves ahead of his mind, and before he can think twice about it, he covers Spock’s hand with his own. Though the realization alone terrifies him, he repeats, firmer, “I need you.”

There are lines in his first officer’s features he’s never seen before. Lines that are far too Human for someone so steadfastly not; lines far too close to his own.

Spock has no rebuttal for him– maybe for their first argument in history. If they’d been on the Enterprise, there would’ve been no chance of Jim getting that last word.

But those shiny halls, and cozy quarters, and endless laboratories are so far away from them now–

“Spock–,” Jim speaks suddenly, seeming to surprise them both. “What was that thing you said– about the flower?”

“‘Flower’?” Spock echoes, a tiny crease forming between his brows.

“The one in your lab– you compared it to some kind of coma, or something–”

“A healing trance,” the Vulcan corrects.

“Can’t you try– I mean, couldn’t that be used for something like this?”

“I have never attempted one,” Spock carefully states. “Due to being a hybrid, I am uncertain if I am capable of one to begin with.”

“But you could try,” Kirk insists. “There’s no reason not to.”

“In a healing trance, I would be at the deepest possible state of unconsciousness,” the Vulcan elaborates. “I would be entirely unresponsive to any form of stimuli. You would be unable to wake me. Attempting to ensure my safety in such a state would be highly dangerous–”

“As dangerous as you taking care of me after my seizures?”

Spock quiets again, at that. Yet another empty space where a rebuttal should have been.

“Please,” Jim pleads. “Just try. We can’t waste any more time arguing about this.”

He can feel the confliction through the palm at his forearm, flickers of uncertainty and unease. When Spock nods at last and withdraws his hand, Kirk feels both relief and dread.

At first, the Vulcan only seems to be falling asleep. His chest continues to rise and fall, his breaths steady, albeit somewhat shallow.

Then, each rise and fall begins to grow further apart. Over the span of several minutes, his breathing slows to the point that it’s hardly detectable at all, and Jim has to check his pulse to reassure himself that Spock, although lost now to a depth the captain cannot understand, is still alive.

It is only once his awareness broadens from the narrow point of the man beside him that he realizes he is still trembling, and his stomach still gnawing. The light is almost entirely gone from the window now, and the rain has started back up, pinging gently against the glass.

His hands have dried blood on them. Run ragged, the least he can do is clean himself up.

But he lays, instead, beside the low bed that his first officer rests on, bunching one of the spare sweaters under his head. He lays close enough to hear Spock breathe, resting his arm on the mattress beside him. Hazy exhaustion presses down on him, warring with the nausea, and the terror, and the helplessness.

Every time he closes his eyes, all he can see is raindrops loosed from leaves, his idiotic flinch, a rifle being raised.

He doesn’t quite sleep, drifting instead on the border of unconsciousness. Each time he lifts his head again, he moves his hand to Spock’s chest, reassuring himself that he’s still breathing.

One hour passes, then two. As the close of the third nears, Jim’s stomach knots tighter with nausea, but in spite of that 2.6% chance, Spock is still breathing after its passage.

His captain breathes just a little easier, too.

“You better actually be healing,” he murmurs. “And not playing some kind of prank like the other you loves to do.”

Calling the lie that an entire universe would collapse if Spock had met Spock a prank is probably a bit of a stretch of the word, but it does fit the old bastard.

“I know you can’t hear me,” he continues, “but just so we’re clear, you aren’t allowed to die.”

He hasn’t even lost a single crewman yet. There’ve been injuries, sure– but nothing sickbay couldn’t patch up.

The thought of the first death being that of his first officer’s is too insane, too absurd, too hilariously fucking bleak to be true.

And Spock doesn’t die– but he doesn’t rouse, either. The night ambles on, and the only signs of his continued life are sparse breaths and a sluggish pulse.

Jim regrets not asking him exactly how long these healing trances are supposed to be.

Eventually, the captain gives in to sleep. In spite of bone-deep exhaustion, his dreams remain shallow, restless with images of raindrops and rifles.

When he wakes again, he instinctively begins to reach for the Vulcan beside him, but his hand freezes mid-air, unable to complete its journey. Pins and needles shoot from the appendage up his arm, and for several blind, distant beats, he can’t remember what he was doing in the first place. All thought grinds to a halt, coated far too thickly in tacky fog to budge even an inch. His eyes drift towards the wall, aimless and unfocused.

Only seconds later, the feeling fades, and awareness returns to him. Kirk quickly withdraws his arm, sitting up fast enough that the responding vertigo immediately makes him lock back up. He places his head in his hands, fighting to breathe through the nausea.

Once he’s certain he won’t puke, all he can get out is a muttered, hoarse, “Fuck.”

No sleep it is, then.

With shaking hands, he gathers the pieces of his phaser from the kitchen table and scoops up the communicator Spock had been tampering with. Its back is still open, but its guts are largely intact. Returned to the bedroom, he sets the communicator down onto the floor next to him, then turns his attention first to his phaser.

Throughout his time in Starfleet, Jim has never found anyone surprised to discover the Kelvin Baby on a command track, but has repeatedly come up against disbelief when he demonstrates a knowledge of engineering near-equal to that of any red-clad officer. Everyone knows about his father, the heroic, selfless captain– but nobody seems aware that his mother is one of the red-clad officers amongst them.

It doesn’t help, he supposes, that they haven’t interacted even once while he’s been enlisted. Might as well be just another face in the fleet.

He wonders if she’s heard about this, yet. There’s no way the brass would be able to keep the disappearance of their flagship’s command team quiet for long. If bored officers in space love anything, it’s gossip.

Perhaps because it’s futile– or he’s simply too scatterbrained to see it through– he still can’t find a cause for his phaser’s loss of power, or a way to get it back online.

“We need to get these stupid designs updated,” he complains to Spock. “A single point of failure in a standard-issue weapon is idiotic.”

Spock doesn’t reply.

Jim continues his one-sided conversation, anyways. As long as he’s talking to his first officer– about phasers, or flowers, or fucking anything– there’s less room to think about how empty his stomach is, or how close Spock is to death, or how badly, how childishly he wishes he could just go home.

He talks until his tongue stills again, and a wave of pins and needles travels from one ear to the other, his head a shaken snow globe. It takes over a minute to come out of it, but even once he’s solidly back in control, he feels slower, hazier.

Kirk lies down again. A hand on Spock’s chest reassures him that he’s still breathing, somehow. He checks his pulse next: still sluggish, and the skin beneath Jim’s fingertips still far from the furnace it should be.

Before pulling away, he projects, knowing he’s speaking to nothing but depths unreachable, Please don’t die.

Jim Kirk, saying please to his first officer, willingly. Months ago, he would’ve thought hell would freeze sooner.

He fights sleep, but it comes anyways, filled with more restless imagery and a constant undercurrent of fear. Each moment is spent trapped in the space before a flinch; knowing something is coming, but knowing that you’ll falter, anyways.

This time, when he wakes, it isn’t to pins and needles, but a noise.

It’s short enough that Jim can’t tell where it had come from. He casts an uneasy glance towards the covered window, then the door to the bedroom. His hand twitches, weighing the risk of reaching for the revolver when he could lose control of himself at any moment.

But the noise repeats, far closer than his sleep-addled brain had registered:

A soft chirp on the floor next to him.

Chapter Text

Still dreaming.

He’s still dreaming, or he’s finally cracked under the stress and started hallucinating.

It’s the only explanation he can produce for the sound.

But when the device chirps a third time, real or not, he’s finally spurred back into motion. Kirk snatches the communicator and flips it open with a breathless, “Enterprise?”

He’s met with static, almost too thick to make out anything caught in its midst, but after a few beats, there is a sound he’d know now through almost any interference:

Uhura’s voice.

“–tain? Is– d– copy? Captain?”

“Yes!” he answers. “Yes– fuck– you’re breaking up, but yes. Do you read me?”

Another beat of static. Then, “–trying to– ing some interfer–”

He scrambles to wake Spock, but just as promised, the Vulcan doesn’t rouse, neither to touch or his name. With a muttered curse, he turns back to the communicator. “Uhura, if you can hear me, you’ve got to beam us out now– Spock’s bleeding out–”

The static emitting from the communicator grows louder. There are a few more garbled syllables, then a clearer voice– not that of Uhura’s, but of a familiar announcer’s, utterly lacking any hint of the jovial tone he’d only spoken with until now.

“It is not Humans who are more trouble than they are worth… it is Starfleet.”

And all at once, the static stops. For a few frozen, breathless seconds, Jim doesn’t move.

Then, Uhura’s voice comes again, clearer, “Captain, we’re locking onto your signals now. Can you hear me?”

It takes a beat for him to manage, “I hear you. I hear you. Just–” he fumbles to pull the blankets from his first officer, getting an arm around his shoulders to heft him towards a sitting position. With his energy depleted and large Vulcans apparently being way denser than they already look, it’s a struggle. “Just get us out of here– and get Medical to the transporter room–”

“Stand by, keptin!” Chekov interrupts. “Don’t move– energizing now–”

Bright wisps of energy begin to swirl around them. Jim doesn’t move– doesn’t breathe for fear of shattering this, being taken again–

But when his vision clears, there are silver walls around him, and a flurry of crewmen in blue.

“God, kid–,” a gruff voice sounds beside him– one that’s almost enough to make him cry from the sound alone. He turns to where his friend kneels beside him now, relief and panic mingling on the doctor’s features. Bones’ hand is firm on his shoulder, grounding. “You look like hell–”

“Help Spock first,” Jim only just manages to choke out. Even as he gives the command, he can’t force himself to let go of his vice grip on the Vulcan’s shoulders. “Not me. He’s bleeding out– he got shot–”

The doctor turns his attention from the captain to the commander, expression troubled as he scans him with a medical tricorder. “Jim, he’s barely alive–”

“He’s in a healing trance,” he rushes to explain, almost babbling in his panic to get Spock to sickbay. How the fuck did he explain it? “It’s– Vulcans can–”

“It’s a Vulcan meditative technique for self-healing,” M’Benga completes for him, kneeling now at Spock’s other side. “Among other things, it can slow blood flow and promote clotting. It’s likely the only reason he’s alive right now.”

And even as relief fills Kirk, he can’t let go.

“Jim,” Bones catches his attention, his voice lowered. “We need to get him into surgery, alright?”

“Yeah,” he replies automatically. “Yeah– yeah.”

After he finally withdraws, he feels unbearably cold again.

“I want you in sickbay now,” McCoy demands as he helps lift Spock onto a stretcher, talking over his shoulder. “I’ll have a nurse check you over first, and I’ll come as soon as he’s stable.”

“I have a ship to–”

“Now.”

Jim watches, tight-lipped and stiff, as the flurry of blue trails the stretcher to sickbay. One nurse remains behind, but Kirk holds up a hand to halt him for the moment, moving instead to where Chekov is seated at the controls. The bright smile that the Russian wears and his chirped “Welcome back, keptin–,” falters as Jim comes closer.

Guess I really do look like hell.

“How’s the ship?” he asks, glancing at the red alert light that remains off. And why the hell did they let you transport us out?

“Let me get Mr. Scott,” Chekov replies, slipping back into professionalism far quicker than many officers his senior would have. Even now, he still continues to surprise Jim.

After a beat, Scotty’s voice filters through the speaker at the station, “We’re all so glad to have you back, Captain–”

“How’s the ship?” he repeats, quickly losing the thin shred of patience he has left.

“Just fine, sir,” the engineer assures without missing a beat. “Though, ah, I’m not quite sure I can say that for the rest of the system.”

The captain’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

There is a pause, filled with what sounds like distant tapping. “Sir, the CMO’s just let me know you’re on medical leave. Why don’t I come down to sickbay a wee bit later for a debrief?” After a beat, he tacks on, “I believe we’re out of danger, sir. There’s nothing to be done right now.”

Jim pinches the bridge of his nose. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the nurse continuing to watch him, uncertain.

“Fine.”

The journey to sickbay is a numb one. There should only be relief walking these halls again, finally reunited with his ship– but without a Vulcan at his side, it feels empty.

He can’t even muster a facade of his usual extroversion with the nurse that scans him over. Drained of adrenaline, a haze is returning between his thoughts, making it a struggle to form more than a sentence at a time. What little energy he has left is being eaten up with worry for his first officer. He resists the urge to barge into the operating room and abuse his rank to demand an update, but only just.

The nurse, to his credit, doesn’t prod him excessively. After administering a few hypos to curb dehydration and low blood sugar, he allows the captain to retreat to his quarters for a shower and fresh uniform– on the condition that he returns immediately to wait for the CMO’s evaluation.

For once, Jim doesn’t need any motivation to go back to sickbay. Leaving temporarily– even for a brief period– is already almost unbearable, knowing Spock is still in surgery.

He doesn’t notice that the time aboard the ship is well into the night until he enters his quarters and catches the blinking chronometer on his wall. He becomes painfully aware of how tired he is– but the knowledge only pushes him through his shower faster, determined to get back to the bay before he can slow down enough to stop fighting it.

In the bathroom, he can only take one glance at himself in the mirror before looking away. There are deep shadows under his eyes, healing bruises and scrapes still littering him, his hair a complete mess, and stains of dark green on his hands.

The sonic hardly makes him feel any cleaner. He still feels coated in staleness; struggles to ignore the discomfort left where dried blood once was.

By the time he gets back to sickbay, Scotty is waiting for him, looking more than a little exhausted himself. Jim can’t help but wonder how long his crew have been working on the bridge to bring them home safely.

I’ll have to get them all some shore leave soon.

Even with how tired he appears, Scotty’s welcome for his captain is still filled with a genuine excitement and warmth.

Jim leads him into Bones’ empty office, taking up one of the two chairs in front of the desk. Chairs with dangerously comfortable cushions– his CMO has always been one to appreciate a homey space.

As soon as he’s seated, his body threatens to give in to the exhaustion. He forces his attention on his chief engineer, fighting to keep his back straight and his thoughts clear.

“It took us a couple’a days to figure out how to locate you,” Scotty begins. “Seemed to be a lost cause at first. Mr. Chekov was the one to spot an ionization trail leading away from the Amberan system. Arguing over whether or not to follow it and potentially leave you lads behind on Ambera wasted a few more hours. None of us were certain whether it was the right call, but we thought we’d do what our captain would do, and follow our guts.”

Scotty smiles. Exhausted as he is, Kirk still attempts to return it.

“We were stuck at sub-warp to follow the trail. Took us a while to locate the system, and once we came into orbit around the moon that it led to, there were no sentient lifesigns on the surface. We all feared we may have been too late– but a broader scan spotted life on the planet and the moon you lads were really on. Problem was, there was an energy field around the moon that prevented a beam-down or communications.”

“How long ago did you get to the system?”

Scotty frowns, glancing away as he appears to mouth some numbers. “About… a day and a half, I’d reckon. Spent most of that time arguing with the population on the planet. It was an odd one– only a tiny community on the entire surface. Couldn’t have been more than a hundred there. They played dumb, but we weren’t buyin’ it. That act dropped the second we broke through the energy field of the moon, just before we beamed you up.”

Kirk’s brow furrows. “But you were able to transport us out?”

“Aye,” Scotty nods. “We were preparin’ a team for a surface investigation to be sent down after, but the second you were onboard, the rest of the lifesigns… vanished.”

Jim searches the engineer’s gaze, disbelieving for a second, but he sees no humor there.

“What the hell do you mean?”

“They’re gone, sir,” the engineer answers. “Them and the colony. We’ve performed extensive scans several times over, but there aren’t any energy fields that could be masking our readings. No ionization trails, either.” He pauses, frowning. “We’re checking the rest of the system now, but we’ve found nothing so far. The Farragut hasn’t turned up anything useful from Ambera, either. We’re waiting now for further direction from the brass.”

Kirk sinks back in his chair, his gaze dipping. He shakes his head absently. “They can’t have just vanished. There has to be a way to trail them again.”

“We’re working on that now, sir.” Scotty crosses his arms with a sigh. “Their teleportation capabilities are phenomenal. Far beyond anythin’ I can explain. I was hoping we might be able to squeeze outta them…,” he glances at his captain, then shakes his head. “Never mind that–”

The door to the office opens, revealing a rather put-upon doctor. “Out,” he commands Scotty, then turns from the sheepish engineer to Jim. “No more business until I clear you for it, alright?”

Kirk doesn’t bother to protest. Once Scotty leaves the room, he rests his head in his hands, struggling to think through the growing fuzz in his brain.

When he lifts his head again, Bones is crouched down next to him. Getting a clearer look at him for the first time, he can see how exhausted his friend is– and the remnants of fear there, too.

McCoy wraps him in a tight hug, his voice barely steady when he says, “Don’t ever to that to me again, kid.”

“I know,” Jim murmurs. He wants to promise it, even if he can’t. He settles for a repeated, “I know.”

After he’s released, he straightens back up, glancing towards the doorway. “Is Spock–”

“He’s out of surgery now,” McCoy nods. “Should be just fine, thanks to that Vulcan voodoo–”

Which is about all the doctor has a chance to say before Kirk bolts from the room.

The flood of relief at spotting his first officer alive and safe in a biobed is nearly enough to make his knees buckle. Spock is far less pale than before, though his vitals remain sluggish. At the bedside, Jim casts a concerned glance at the muted warning on the monitor, then turns back to Bones. “You’re sure he’s stable?”

“He is,” the doctor affirms. “According to M’Benga, at least. Said there’s no harm in leaving him in his healing trance for a while. If he doesn’t come out of it in the next 12 hours or so, we’ll reevaluate then.” He shakes his head. “I could hardly believe the state of the wound. Didn’t take much time at all to fix the bleeders. There weren’t very many left. At the rate he’s healing, I don’t imagine we’ll need to keep him long.” Bones glances at the Vulcan, then the captain. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

Kirk can’t help but huff a soft laugh. He sinks into a chair beside the bed, some small tension finally draining from him.

“Jim, I still need to evaluate you–”

“You can do it here, or do it later,” the captain cuts him off, his gaze lingering on his first officer. “I’m not leaving.”

For a beat, McCoy only glances between the two men. Then, he lowers his voice, asking, “What happened between you two down there?”

Jim swallows, unable to look his friend in the eye. “Nothing, Bones.”

The doctor pauses. With a sigh, he gets his medical tricorder out, the device whirring softly as it passes over the captain. In his peripheral, he sees McCoy’s expression turn troubled. A heavy beat of stillness passes before the doctor grabs his bicep, bringing the scanner closer. “Your implant– how in the hell–”

And here we go.

“They took it,” Kirk interrupts. “I don’t know how. Haven’t had it since we left the ship.”

Bones mutters a curse under his breath. He flicks the tricorder off, sitting in the chair beside him. “Any breakthroughs since then?”

Jim weighs not answering that. Not answering, at least, for as long as he can dodge it. He knows that as soon as it’s spoken into reality, the constant fear of how exactly the brass are going to take this will follow.

But he’s exhausted, and he knows McCoy won’t leave him alone until he gets his answer.

“Two,” he affirms, barely audible. “Tonic-clonics. Some auras– partials– I don’t know. I lost count of those.” The captain pauses, staring at the tile below, breathing through the increasing tightness of his chest. “The crew can’t know about this.”

There is a long beat of silence. When he finally turns to meet his doctor’s gaze, the worry he sees there only makes him feel worse.

“I’ll have another implant made,” Bones states. “In the meantime, I’ll taper you back up with hypos. It may take some time for you to stabilize. I want you off duty until we’re sure you have.”

“If I stabilize,” Kirk corrects, a brief, humorless smile on his face.

“You will,” McCoy assures. “The medication has to build back up in your system. You need to give it time.”

Jim doesn’t answer that. Doesn’t even protest the hypo that follows. Once Bones pulls back, he searches his gaze, then sighs.

“I’d order you back to your quarters for rest, but I know you wouldn’t listen.” The doctor stands and steps away from the biobed, rummaging through a drawer of a nearby storage unit. When he returns, he passes a warmed blanket to his captain. “At least just try to get some sleep here, alright? Com me if you need anything.”

There is a small, brief pinch at the backs of Jim’s eyes again. He nods, only able to get out a quiet thanks.

After McCoy leaves the dimmed bay, it’s entirely empty, save for the on-duty nurse Kirk knows will be manning the front desk around the corner. For the time being, at least, there are no prying eyes to witness the pathetic state he’s wound up in.

His gaze returns to Spock. Still taking those impossibly slow breaths, his face smoothed not with a careful mask, but with deep sleep.

“I wish you’d wake up,” Jim murmurs.

I’m terrified you won’t doesn’t make it past his lips. Neither does the fact that he’s more terrified of that than his own health remaining in the gutter.

Kirk places his head in his hands. “I don’t know what to do with this,” he admits to the sleeping Vulcan, his voice low enough to be inaudible to anyone else around. “This stupid fucking feeling.”

His mouth wavers. It takes several slow, steadying breaths before he’s certain he won’t cry.

“I don’t do this with anyone,” he whispers. “I don’t know how to do this.”

But even more than that, he doesn’t know how to go back to being coworkers at a barely tolerable arm’s length. Can’t go back to that.

He knows, without a second thought, that he would rather get kicked off duty for his health than go back to a tenuous, distant relationship with his first officer– and that only terrifies him more than he already is.

His mouth parts, closes again. There are words lodged in his throat, far more difficult to speak than any others combined.

Instead, he gives up any further attempts at coherence, mutely pulling the blanket over himself. It takes less than a minute for his head to start dipping towards his chest.

The noise that wakes him this time is even softer than the chirp, taking several repetitions before the captain finally opens his eyes with a soft moan:

“Jim.”

His bleary vision clears to dark eyes on him, as warm as the voice that had carried that soft syllable.

It takes several beats for Kirk’s mind to amble from Spock has nice eyes to Spock is awake to Holy shit, Spock is awake–

And there’s nothing that can stop the immediate, idiotic smile that overtakes him.

His arms ache with the urge to reach out, but with the walls of the Enterprise around them again and the border of rank redrawn, he’s less certain about crossing the space between them. Instead, he settles for a breathless, “Hey.”

It’s only once the word leaves him that he realizes his first officer isn’t only awake, but fully sitting up. His brow scrunches as he asks, “Whoa, wait, shouldn’t you be resting–”

“As Dr. McCoy stated, I have been healing at an accelerated rate, and will not require a prolonged convalescence. I am only in mild discomfort.”

Jim blinks once, twice. “But you haven’t been awake since Bones–”

“I have discovered that I am fully aware of my surroundings during a healing trance,” Spock supplies.

“Fully aware,” Kirk echoes dumbly.

If he isn’t losing it, there’s a tiny hint of amusement in Spock’s gaze. “That is what I stated.”

It takes several seconds for the captain to realize his mouth is hanging open. He quickly closes it, suddenly very interested in looking at the wall behind Spock. “Uh– about what I said– if you were listening– I mean, I guess you just said you were– I just– I don’t know what I–”

Spock’s hand meets his jaw, shutting him up in record time. Efficient, as his first officer always is.

Where dark eyes previously held amusement, there is a different kind of warmth– one that is raw, a damning reflection of what Kirk is too cowardly to face in himself.

But the moment Spock kisses him, the fear melts away.

A soft note of surprise leaves the captain, muffled between them. Relief quickly follows in its wake, drawing him back in after lips part from his own, leaning forward to chase a second kiss, then a third. He curls his fingers around Spock’s wrist, and a shiver runs through him at the responding brush of a thumb against his cheekbone.

Though he’d never slept around quite as much as was rumored at the Academy– he was taking six classes on top of extracurriculars, after all– he still has a decent body count, and he’s never been one to shy away from that. Maybe even enjoys being seen as a bit of a maneater. The reputation saves him, at least, from those awkward conversations when a fling ventures too close to mushy territory.

Something as simple as a kiss shouldn’t be making his entire body weak, or setting his stomach alight with nerves and excitement, or sending every inch of his skin buzzing–

But then again, anything involving his first officer has always been far from predictable. Far from goddamned reality, at that.

An interesting opinion to hold, considering how rarely you adhere to logic, a rich voice weaves between his thoughts, the affection there undeniable. Jim pulls back from the kiss with a breath that lies somewhere between a gasp and a laugh.

“Is kissing your captain in the middle of sickbay logical?”

An angled brow lifts slightly. “We are the only occupants,” he defends. “Our present location does not negate the fact that we are alone.”

Jim huffs another laugh. Of course he has an argument for that.

He can’t really complain, though. Not with a palm cupping his face that he’s helpless to lean into, the Vulcan’s skin impossibly, perfectly warm again.

“You’ve used up your near-death experience, by the way,” Kirk murmurs. “That’s the only one you get.”

The response he expects is it is illogical to assert certainty over an uncertain future or my continuation of active duty makes such a promise impossible but what he hears, instead, is a soft, “Understood.”

----

There’ve been few times in his life that Jim’s been as happy to lie down in his own bed as he is now.

Returning home from extended hospital stays as a kid is definitely up there. Sheets he had once been neutral to were turned perfectly soft by their absence, and the quiet of his bedroom away from the endless beeping of monitors a desperately needed solace.

Coming back from Tarsus, too, is another contender. He was lucky to suddenly find his bed to be the best one in the universe, considering how much he’d avoid leaving it in the coming months.

But now– even stiff-jointed and frazzled from a long night in sickbay and only just having laid down at 07:30– the feeling of familiar sheets surrounding him again is relieving enough to almost make him cry.

There’s only one thing missing from his bed– but with Spock currently occupied by a mandatory exam preceding his release and a doubtless need for rest in his own quarters after, Jim can’t complain about his absence too much.

Sleep comes quickly, but remains shallow. Raindrops, and rifles, and terrible stains of green return every time he slips back under, clinging stubbornly to the backs of his eyelids. Even Tarsus floats to the surface– something he’s hardly dreamed about in years. The surprise of it forces him awake with a sharp intake of air, leaving him fear-ladened and off-kilter.

The chronometer on the wall displays 13:08, far later than he had intended to sleep. He commands the lights back on with a hoarse voice and struggles to his feet, eager to shake the hazy remnants of Tarsus off of him as quickly as possible.

But even once he’s safely made it to the other side of his quarters, he hardly feels like a member of the waking world. Everything is distant, slightly out of focus; even his body struggles to connect with his fumbling brain.

He approaches his replicator with the intent of downing a strong cup of coffee, but a sharper ripple of haze stills him with his hand hovering just above the controls. He’s struck with the absolute certainty that he already dreamed this– or is still dreaming this–

But he is awake. Isn’t he?

His heart is racing far too hard, and anxiety mounting in his gut far too quickly, for him not to be.

Jim takes one step back, then a second. He’s too nauseous now for coffee. Probably better to just lay back down–

But as soon as he makes up his mind to do something about that, he realizes he is already laying down.

The floor beneath him is a pretty strong indicator of that, and one difficult to ignore. The hard surface isn’t very forgiving against limbs that hurt a hell of a lot more than they did moments ago.

Though unpleasant, the ache hardly holds his attention for more than a second before the sharp pain at the back of his head makes itself known with much more enthusiasm. It radiates from a sore point through the rest of his skull, a throbbing pain he can feel in his eyes, his teeth.

Kirk moans, the sound coming out muffled. Cracking his eyes open reveals familiar dark blue fabric under the side of his face, the only comfort to offset the hard floor–

That, and the hand that is rubbing gentle circles into his back, warm through his undershirt. He can feel something else through the fabric, too– a calm that seeps in like the steady drip of an IV, combatting the disoriented distress that is swiftly rising in him.

“You are safe, Jim,” a voice above him sounds. “You are recovering from a seizure. Dr. McCoy will arrive momentarily.”

Seizure?

That can’t be right. He stopped having those a long time ago–

Tries to vocalize that, but all that comes out is another moan. The hand at his back continues its slow circles, the only anchor in a world that remains frustratingly out of reach.

Somewhere further out, there is a soft whooshing sound. He struggles to place the source of the noise until another figure is kneeling beside him, and a small instrument begins whirring as it passes over him.

“No fracture. Doesn’t seem to be a concussion, either,” another familiar voice comes, “but postictal and head injury symptoms have significant overlap. I’d feel better with him under observation in sickbay–”

No, no, he can’t fucking stand hospitals–

“Easy, kid–”

“Jim,” the first voice sounds again, warm hands steadying him in his frantic scramble to a sitting position. Spock, he finally connects as he meets brown eyes, the calm there a mirror of that steady IV drip, taking the edge off of a racing heart. “We may remain here. You have no cause for alarm.”

“Spock, we can’t just leave him alone like this–”

“I do not intend to do so,” the Vulcan corrects. “As I am also on medical leave and have no other obligations to attend to, I am perfectly capable of observing him here.”

A huff. “You’re on medical leave because you need to rest, you stubborn–”

“Both of you,” Jim interjects, the words slurred enough to teeter on the edge of incoherence. He rubs his forehead with his hand, the movement somewhat clumsy. “Just…”

Whatever request he had intended to make dies on his tongue, lost to scattered thoughts and encroaching fog.

“...I’ll leave a few hypos with you. I want updates every hour on the hour. I’ll be back at 16:00 to check on him. The second anything changes–”

“I will keep you informed,” Spock completes.

The doctor lets out a sigh under his breath. He gently squeezes the captain’s shoulder, then leaves the room.

“Would you prefer to rest here, or my quarters?”

Jim blinks slowly at him, once, twice, the words making their way through his awareness like labored steps through mud.

“Your…?”

“I have been burning incense,” Spock elaborates. “You may find the smell soothing.”

Incense. The word sounds familiar, but he struggles to connect it with its meaning. He knows, vaguely, that it’s something Spock’s mentioned before– must like. And considering how picky Vulcans are, it probably can’t be a bad thing.

Jim nods, then immediately winces at the movement. The okay he gets out isn’t quite as coherent, but it seems to be enough.

An arm looped around his back helps him to his feet, supporting him on his slightly wobbled journey through their shared bathroom. The moment they pass through the opposite doorway, the smell of musk and spice that hits him is instantly recognizable: Spock. It’s something irrevocably associated with him; there’s always a trace of it on his clothes, ghosting his skin.

Kirk couldn’t tell you what year it is, or where exactly he is to begin with, but he can tell you who lives here. And here, at least, is safe.

The room is much like the previous one he’d been in, but the walls here are adorned with tapestries and artifacts. He’s guided towards a perfectly made bed, which he promptly messes up by crawling into. Once settled, Spock moves to pull away from him, but Jim catches him by his wrist, unable to give voice to a syllable that lies somewhere between a request and a plea:

Stay?

“I am not leaving, ashayam,” the Vulcan assures. “I am retrieving your medication.”

Asha-what?

For only the briefest moment, a tiny smile passes through dark eyes. Jim is left staring dumbly in his absence, suddenly doubting his grasp on Standard.

Spock is making up words now, he’s sure. Spocks really do seem to enjoy fucking with–

“I will administer a pain reliever and an antiemetic,” his first officer informs him, returned now to the bedside. “Is this acceptable?”

Yeah, sure, whatever. He mumbles something to that effect, but he’s still trying to wrack his brain for what the hell an ashayam is.

He’s definitely fucking with me.

Jim can’t really hold it against him. He’d probably find it funny, too, if he didn’t feel like such shit.

He doesn’t complain about the resulting hypos, but he does scrunch his face in protest. For his suffering, at least, he’s rewarded with a near-instant hit of relief and the welcome sedation of being loaded up on decent painkillers. He knows it won’t be long before he loses any shred of coherence and is dragged back under, and so he asks again, Stay here?

And yeah, maybe Spock was fucking with him earlier, but after the immediate nod he receives, Jim decides to let it slide. The body that joins his own under the covers carries that familiar smell with him, and holds him with that same impossible warmth. Kirk doesn’t particularly care where he is in the universe, so long as he isn’t forced to budge an inch from where he lies.

Everywhere they touch, he feels an immediate, wordless agreement.

----

The next time he resurfaces, it’s 17:05.

He isn’t sure what wakes him, but the pain is a likely contender. The floaty distance of sedation has mostly dissipated from his system, leaving his body sore and his head throbbing. Sifting through his thoughts is a slow process, but just past the threshold of manageable. He has enough sense, at least, to notice that he’s not only in someone else’s bed, but snugly clinging to the same Vulcan he had scrambled away from only a couple mornings prior.

He doesn’t flee now, instead pulling back just enough to meet dark eyes. He croaks out a quiet greeting, his voice rough with sleep.

“How are you feeling?”

“Awful,” Kirk answers, honestly. “But more awake.” Studying his first officer’s features, he asks, “Are you okay?”

“My health was verified as suitable for release,” the Vulcan affirms. “I expect to return to duty after 48 hours of leave. I will complete recovery here in the interim.”

Jim frowns slightly. “But are you in pain, though?”

Spock pauses. The captain is surprised when he’s granted an admitted, “A mild degree. However, it is manageable through meditation and rest.”

“I guess I don’t really feel bad about making you lay down, then,” Kirk offers a tired smile. His struggle to a sitting position brings a renewed flare of pain in his skull, but the glass of water he’s rewarded with is a cool relief.

Light eyes linger on the door to the shared bathroom, then turn back to Spock. “How did you know I was having a seizure?”

“I was in a shallow state of meditation here,” the Vulcan explains. He pauses, his expression briefly troubled. “I heard you fall.”

Jim can’t quite hold his gaze at that. He grimaces, rubbing the back of his neck. “Christ, I’m sorry, Spock. This is the last thing you need after–”

“You have made it abundantly clear that you desire to care for me, regardless of personal convenience,” Spock interrupts, his voice just barely softened. “You are not alone in that desire.”

Hearing words like that from the Vulcan’s lips– even after knowing what they feel like against his own– is still head-spinning. For the moment, it quells the low smolder of guilt.

Spock leans back over to the nightstand, producing two small objects in the palm of his hand. “Dr. McCoy brought neurological sensors to remotely track your seizure activity. He stated that the readings of a biobed would be more accurate, but that he doesn’t intend to order you to sickbay unless your health significantly worsens.”

Nausea stirs in his gut again. It isn’t the first time he’s seen these kinds of trackers– and getting stared at in school with them on was a difficult embarrassment to forget.

He reluctantly accepts them, sticking one to each temple. These, at least, are somewhat more discreet than the last he had used.

A long beat passes. Then, Jim admits, barely audible over the hum of the heating system, “I hate this.”

He wants to feel nothing but relief, being back on the Enterprise. Instead, he feels more like an outsider than anything; half of him lingering in a game he couldn’t stop, and the other half of him unable to walk the halls of his own ship without fear of seizing in front of his crew. He’s only months into his captaincy, and he’s already teetering on the edge of his first breaking point.

The eyes he meets don’t hold any pity, though. There is understanding there; a softness that he can’t fathom how he had never noticed before all of this.

After a shared meal, Jim takes up Spock’s desk to catch up on his mountain of missed communications– much to the Vulcan’s protest. Knowing he hardly has the capacity for sustained focus through remnants of fog anyways, he promises to limit his perusal to half an hour, which seems to appease him for the time being.

It’s only a matter of minutes, though, before he’s pinged with the latest communication from Command.

U.S.S. Enterprise to proceed to Starbase 6 for debrief and refuel… next mission will be assigned at the time of…

Kirk reads the entire message over several times, convinced that the lingering slowness of his thoughts is warping the words on the screen, but the message comes up the same every time. After the third attempt, he passes his PADD over to Spock with a baffled, “They’re ordering us out of the system?”

The Vulcan does not react, save for a slightly lifted brow. He merely affirms, “It would appear so.”

“That’s–,” Jim splutters, standing from the desk quickly enough to trigger a wave of vertigo, “–that can’t– I mean, what the hell are they thinking? We still haven’t caught–”

“The development is illogical, but unsurprising,” Spock interjects. “I received information from Lieutenant Uhura that the Farragut was redirected to a higher priority mission.”

“Higher priority?” Kirk echoes, incredulous. “What could be higher priority than an organized trafficking operation that forces its victims to kill each other for entertainment?”

“I am not aware of the parameters of the Farragut’s mission,” the Vulcan notes. “However, considering the Enterprise is also being redirected, I do find the decision questionable.”

“Questionable,” the captain scoffs. “That’s one way to put it.” Jim quiets for a long beat, his mouth thinned. At length, he states, “If they don’t follow through on this, the colony that runs that fucking game will get exactly what they wanted from returning us.”

“It may have been negotiated directly with Command,” Spock points out.

“Starfleet doesn’t negotiate for hostages,” Jim counters. “You know that.”

“That is the official position of the organization,” the Vulcan acknowledges.

Kirk shakes his head absently, stepping towards his quarters. He tries to repress a wince at the flare of pain through his skull. “I have to call Chris–”

“Jim,” Spock catches him by his arm, his grasp gentle, but firm. “You require rest. I would advise that you wait to contact him until we are docked and have further information.”

The captain exhales a disbelieving breath. “There are still people trapped–”

“You have educated me on the Human idiom of an oxygen mask,” the Vulcan states, his voice lowered. “I believe the sentiment also applies here.”

Jim’s mouth opens, closes. There’s no frustration or judgment on Spock’s features; only a genuine care that cuts straight through the captain’s core, effortlessly stripping any pretext of rank, and of responsibility. Beneath his gaze, the weight of the Enterprise isn’t his to shoulder– at least, not alone.

Spock moves to close the gap between them, and Jim lets him. Though the captain isn’t quite steady on his feet, the arms that encircle him are grounding enough to keep him upright. He presses his cheek to the Vulcan’s chest, careful to avoid Spock’s healing injuries as he wraps his arms around his back. His first officer is warm against him– warmer than Jim had thought he’d ever be again only a day ago.

And at the memory, the sensors stuck to his temples, and the abandoned PADD on the desk, and the weight of that starship feel suddenly, profoundly small.

“Tomorrow,” he exhales in resignation. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

Spock’s lips ghost a kiss over his scalp, his forehead. Jim tilts his face into the contact with a soft sigh, his eyes briefly fluttering closed. A kiss brushes his cheekbone, then the corner of his mouth, before meeting his lips once, twice. The words pass through skin, We will talk to him tomorrow.

Jim lingers for a long minute, his forehead pressed against the Vulcan’s. Then, he pulls back just enough to voice, the admission hardly above a murmur, “I really don’t know what I’d do without you.”

If he was in his right mind, he’d probably run from that. Sprint, actually.

There’s something about Vulcans, though– or, perhaps, simply his own– that inspires a particularly persuasive form of insanity. Hell, he’d thought Old Spock had been fully off his rocker, going on about some precious bond he would purportedly have with his first officer some day.

He supposes one more infuriating told you so is owed to the old man.