Chapter Text
Kirk eyes the computer terminal in his quarters with a mix of hope, trepidation, and pre-emptive annoyance. Two damn weeks of repairs. Seven, seven times he's been assured the problem is fixed...
“Computer,” he orders, folding his hands. Nothing to do but try. “Bring up... a listing of biographies on Zefram Cochrane.”
It's a completely random choice, albeit one that takes the computer a moment; Cochrane was an, ah, interesting figure. And apparently quite scandalous.
“Working,” comes the computer's clipped, mechanical voice. Kirk eyes it hopefully as quiet whirs indicate the search running. “Currently one-million, seventeen thousand, eighty-three biographical works as of this morning. Further parameters recommended.”
“Narrow down to... biographies written by Vulcan authors, exceeding eighty-thousand words, published in the past decade.”
“Processing... fourteen options remaining.”
“Recommend me one for a reader with no prior knowledge.”
“Recommended: “Flight to Fate: Zefram Cochrane and the Logic of his Passion.” Suddenly, the voice of the computer changes. It's sultry, suggestive. “You'll love this one, dear. Especially chapter seven. Two reviews on Vulcan declared it 'speculative and obscene' for an intriguing theory about his relationship with the diplomat Solkar...”
“Computer, end search,” Kirk snaps. He's already shoving himself to his feet, blood pounding. Two damn weeks! And now this. “Send notice to Mr. Scott – repairs ongoing.”
“Of course, dear,” the machine coos. “Are you sure you wouldn't like a preview of chapter seven? Vulcan biology is so interesting -
Kirk smacks the terminal off on the way out.
Prior to this overhaul the Enterprise last put in at Cygnet Fourteen for general maintenance. Their female engineers evidently felt the ship's computer lacked... personality.
Starfleet has already complained about this subsequent, 'unnecessary' delay; they're not going to tolerate the Enterprise's absence much longer. And Kirk refuses to ship back out with a sulky computer that harasses the men and criticizes everyone's sense of fashion – Yeoman Rand might be tempted to 'spill' some coffee in the central processors if it makes one more snide remark about her hairstyles.
So James Kirk beams back down to Starbase 16 to seek out a target for his ire. Scotty is ill and on leave, or this whole blasted mess wouldn't be Kirk's to oversee. His first-officer, Lt. Commander Thelin, used their proximity to Andoria as an excuse to spend the unexpected leave at home. Kirk doesn't begrudge him that; the station engineers might. Thelin has a much better hold on his temper.
And it certainly doesn't help Kirk's mood that the station's chief of engineering has made himself scarce – he became abruptly difficult to locate after the fourth failed repair.
After being shiftily denied access to the station's engineering section three times over, Kirk gives up on terrorizing someone who deserves it and stalks the station for any face he recognizes.
He finds a victim in the officer's mess hall, bearing down on a lieutenant he vaguely recalls from the local team. At the sight of Kirk the lieutenant blanches, twisting around as though to search for aid.
Kirk doesn't give him the chance. “Lieutenant Hall. Has Chief Engineer Ionescu died? Been kidnapped by Klingons?”
Hall gains the wide-eyed, hunted look of someone forced to be polite to an insane person. “Er. No, Sir. Not – not to my knowledge.”
“Really!” Kirk leans down to brace against the man's dinner-table; Hall leans away from his smile. “Maybe there's a communications blackout?”
“Er - “
“Because, Mr. Hall, I can't imagine why he's ignored my last. Nine. Messages,” Kirk grits. “Especially after assuring me, again...”
“Sir, it's really a very complicated problem, and artificial intelligence isn't the specialty of anyone on this station...”
“Are you doubting my intelligence, Lieutenant?”
“I – no, Sir, but - “
“Because if my memory serves, the Enterprise was directed here because your chief said he could fix this problem. Now, either my memory is failing me, or your chief is an incompetent liar. Which is it?”
The surrounding tables have, by this point, fallen silent to listen. While Hall stammers, Kirk adds, “Perhaps you would like to explain to Starfleet Admiralty why a Constitution-class starship has spent two weeks wasting away in dock - “
Kirk cuts off.
Someone has stepped up to the table – a Vulcan, apparently off-duty judging by his soft black robes. Curling silver script trails down the edges of his clothes, and he regards Kirk with mild curiosity.
He wears light fuchsia eyeshadow – Kirk's never seen a Vulcan in anything like that, but it makes his face startlingly memorable.
“Captain Kirk, I believe?”
“Yes. You are?” Kirk snaps.
“I am Spock. And I am an expert in computer sciences – including artificial intelligences, if you require assistance.”
Kirk throws up his hands. “Thank you! And you couldn't have brought him in sooner?” Kirk demands of poor Mr. Hall.
“But,” Hall stutters. “But, he's not...”
Hall looks from Kirk to Spock. His mouth snaps shut.
Incompetent. Kirk turns back to the Vulcan. “If you're available now, Mr. Spock, I can request a beam-up. Next time we're out near Cygnet Fourteen I'm just going to keep on moving...”
It takes Mr. Spock approximately twenty minutes to repair the machines.
Kirk is resentfully disbelieving when Spock announces it. He tests the computers once, then again while Spock stands waiting with him in the conference room, hands clasped behind his back. Kirk quizzes the computer on increasingly complex topics.
Spock quirks an eyebrow when Kirk starts demanding information on the romantic rituals of various species. “The AI liked flirting,” Kirk explains, exasperated.
“I see,” says Mr. Spock without changing expression.
Kirk learns that Vulcans prioritize telepathy in a marriage, and sometimes marry rapidly with compatible individuals. The computer next enters a long tangent about four, six, and seven-way Andorian marriages.
Tension eases from him as the computer remains briskly informative and, well, like a computer. “I could kiss you,” says Kirk at last, mood lightening. At least he can get Admiral Nogura off his back. “Why didn't Ionescu bring you in sooner?”
“I do not work with Chief Ionescu, Captain.”
“What, you're with another team?”
The Vulcan's expression doesn't shift; Kirk still gets the impression he's being laughed at. “I am not a member of Starfleet, Captain Kirk.”
“You're – not – but you're an expert,” says Kirk dumbly.
“Yes, Sir.”
“And you repaired the ship.”
“I am a researcher. Previously affiliated with the Vulcan Science Academy.”
“...a researcher.”
“There was a conference,” says Spock, helpfully.
“Yes. No. I – why did you come with me?”
“You seemed to need assistance.”
Kirk briefly closes his eyes, a new headache forming. “...I just dragged a random civilian onto my ship and bullied them into repairing classified computers.”
“No, Sir.”
“No?”
“A Vulcan cannot be 'bullied.'”
“Ah.”
Spock takes pity on him. “Additionally, I am the son of an ambassador. My security clearance is high enough for this work – indeed, I was already familiar with the basic coding.”
Oh, thank god. Kirk can find a way to work with that in the reports, at least. Maybe even flatter the Vulcan government if he phrases it right; they always love to be assured no one else can beat them in the sciences.
“In that case, I – apologize, for my, ah, abrupt behavior, Mr. Spock. Allow me to make it up to you.” Spock quirks an eyebrow. “Would you care to join me for dinner?”
For a moment Kirk thinks he's going to refuse. But Spock agrees.
Spock. From the VSA.
“I feel like I've heard your name before,” Kirk mentions as they take their seats.
Like many starbases along popular trade routes, much of the station is practical. But there's a commercial sector, too, and many people live here full-time. This means, inevitably, at least a few finer shops for the wealthy and powerful.
Jim had noted this restaurant – with its unpronounceable Caitian name – back when he'd naively expected to be twiddling his thumbs throughout repairs. He'd soon given up hope of taking any shore leave for himself, much less finding suitable company for a night.
“It is a common name. And I've published a few papers,” Spock demurs.
“Oh, maybe that's it,” Kirk agrees. He's no scientist, but he tries to keep abreast of general new knowledge, and he makes good use of his old engineering specialty. “You said you were here for a conference?”
Spock is perfectly content to talk about his latest research as they await their orders. Kirk can't claim to follow all of it, but he's at least interested in the subject; stimulating vitamin-enhanced food production. Specifically in colonies for aquatic species, which is a funny thing for a Vulcan to focus on. Kirk admittedly spends part of the conversation trying to imagine his Vulcan dinner-mate swimming; he can only conjure a picture much like a bedraggled cat.
More than that, though, Kirk is content to watch Mr. Spock gradually gain enthusiasm. He hasn't spent time with many Vulcans, but he's worked with a few. Yet there's something uniquely charming in this one's quiet, reserved enthusiasm. Passion, Jim thinks; a Vulcan full of passion.
When Spock pauses in his description, Jim smiles. “You sound like you enjoyed it. Why did you let me drag you off, anyway? I know you said you wanted to help, but you could have at least told me you were a civilian.”
The food arrives – Jim cheerfully receives a heaping platter of some beef-like roast, real buttered Terran potatoes, and a few native greens. McCoy won't be too mad if he has spies around.
“I wanted to speak with you,” Spock replies.
Kirk is at this point examining the Vulcan's platter – a rather dazzlingly bright bowl of completely foreign foods – so it takes a moment for this to process. “Sorry?”
”I was intrigued when you entered the room; I felt your mind,” Spock clarifies, like this is a normal thing to say.
Well, that's interesting. Kirk abandons thoughts of eating, leaning forward. “And what did my mind feel like?”
“Like a shoreline. Surging, and receding. Pleasantly cool; yet only rising to the ankles before it shifts away.” Dark eyes consider Kirk. “ - It is tempting, to be submerged in that feeling.”
Well. Maybe this won't be such a bad shore-leave after all. It doesn't take a sociologist to realize it might be significant for a desert-dwelling telepath to compare his mind to water. “Mr. Spock, are you flirting with me?”
“You did say, earlier, that you wanted to kiss me.”
Kirk laughs aloud – more surprised by the sheer boldness than anything. “I did,” he agrees, now in a much better mood.
Charitable, he even thinks he might spare Chief Ionescu that scathing report on his computer; it was worth the delay for this.
After an entirely indulgent dinner filled with even more indulgent conversation, the pair take a stroll down through the arboretum. Starbase 16 is well-known for its garden – and with good reason.
Many of the plants, the paths, are beautiful but would be nothing unique. But years ago some creative architect decided to go the extra mile designing this room; every wall, and indeed even the mostly soil-covered floors, are made with the clearest grade of transparent aluminum.
Some people find it hideously disorienting; McCoy would certainly never step foot in here. But right now, with the lights half-dimmed for the station's night-cycle as they pick through rows of glimmering flowers, the stars are beautiful to Kirk.
The lighting flatters his companion, too. Spock is a slightly-glowing figure by his side, and Kirk feels a sudden, desperate surge of affection for this man he barely knows.
“I've heard that it's significant for Vulcans to touch hands,” Kirk suggests, reaching out to twine theirs together.
Spock halts. For a moment Kirk thinks he's offended him.
“It is,” Spock agrees. “ - it is about as intimate as this, for humans.”
And Spock kisses him.
Surging and receding, Kirk remembers, and smiles against those lips.
He feels giddy – drunk like a school-boy with his first crush. He's not sure why. Kirk has had many partners through his life, but this one...
“I have also heard,” Kirk confides, half-murmuring against Spock's cheek, “that Vulcans are very picky about their bed-partners. That they never take any, outside marriage.”
They're standing close, breath mingling. Kirk can feel – something. Telepathy, maybe. Or maybe it's just the moment.
It is tempting to be submerged.
“Some are – selective,” Spock says, just as low. “But certain, impressive individuals may merit exception.”
And like a movie-reel, Kirk can see the future unfolding. This is a clear invitation. Kirk will ask if he qualifies; Mr. Spock will say many charming, flattering things; they will go to Spock's rooms on the station, or maybe even beam up to the Enterprise again. They will share fantastic sex.
In the morning, they will part. They will never meet again.
That would be the normal, expected path to take. But James T. Kirk has not gained his reputation by doing the 'normal,' expected thing.
After Kirk's casual announcement, the bridge falls silent. On-screen, Starbase 16 rapidly recedes against a background of blurring stars.
By the door McCoy makes an outraged sound. It's somewhere between the gasp of a dying man and the bellow of a bull.
“What do you mean, you got married?!”