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Chapter Text

Three Solar months is hardly a sufficient time frame to select a compatible bondmate, and Spock suspects his meddlesome parents knew as much when they issued their ultimatum. His mother and father intend to choose one on his behalf should he find himself unwilling or unable to do so. While an n of one is not a statistically adequate sample size for generalizing results, Spock predicts it is unlikely they will choose a compatible mate on the second attempt. He does not wish to be bonded with another who’s betrothed chose to terminate their link; such acts are rarely initiated without due cause. It is a most hypocritical thought given his own circumstances, but Spock cannot help but reason he is the exception not the rule. He has always been the exception, and it is logical to presume the trend can be extrapolated to his current predicament. It is unlikely they will find a Vulcan who would be willing to suffer his long absences from his home planet while enlisted in Starfleet or his unique genetics–both for Vulcan’s quiet xenophobia surrounding their human allies and that his hybrid nature precludes him from fathering children naturally. 

It is logical therefore to presume selecting a mate among the ranks of Starfleet would prove more fruitful, or if nothing else, Spock reasons any potential partners would at the very least be more open minded. He would rather not be forced to choose at all, but the reality of his approaching pon farr leaves him with little choice in the matter. Spock checks over his shoulder to ensure the door to his quarters is set to ‘do not disturb’ before opening the intranet portal on his viewscreen. 

Welcome to SIPAA: The Starfleet Intraservice Partnership Arbitration Agency and the Starcrossed 2.3 Beta Program

The splash page is styled in a soft medical sciences teal, a shade found soothing to most humanoid species within the Federation. For Vulcans, the particular hue is anxiogenic due to its similarity to oxidized blood. 

As part of our commitment to the the comprehensive health of all civilian, active duty, and veteran service members within Starfleet, the Medical Health Services Branch pursues groundbreaking innovations exploring how beings, medicine, and technology come together to shape high-quality holistic care to improve the health of our members and the communities we serve. Here at Starfleet, we believe spiritual and mental health are equally important to physical health. Our world-class research team is reaching higher, delving deeper into the mind-body connection that lies at the heart of who we are as sentient beings. 

Modern research in psychology and psionics has demonstrated with an overwhelming body of evidence that long-term companionship and sexual health are as integral to mental health as early childhood development, stable working conditions, and balanced neurochemical signaling. At SIPAA, we recognize there is infinite diversity in infinite combinations for what such relationships might look like, whether that be platonic, romantic, or sexual in nature. For many within Starfleet, partnership is a biological imperative. We endeavor to provide inclusive accommodations for all lifestyles within our service branches and remove the stigma regarding fulfilling those needs. Here in Starfleet, we do not seek to live, but to thrive.

There are many benefits to finding companionship within Starfleet. Observational studies show intrafleet relationships have a 62% higher longevity margin over relationships involving one or more partners who are not in Starfleet. Our unique methodology boasts an 85% success rate at achieving good clinical outcomes for our patients. Using a cutting-edge data-driven approach, our expert psychologist, psionicist, and sexologist care team is committed to providing personalized, professional guidance toward forging life-long partnerships between our service members.

Log in now using your Starfleet credentials to register for a consultation or to explore a range of tips, tools, and resources to assist you on your new journey.

Spock considers the page for longer than necessary. He clicks the citation links footnoted with the statistics and reads all five journal articles attesting to the validity of the numbers. He can find no fault in the experimental design, though they are purely observational and correlation does not necessarily imply causation. He concedes that controlled study would be unethical and in violation of good clinical practice given the nature of the field, and so this data is sufficient given the premise. He finds no flaw in the researchers’ logic, and presses the button to initiate the consultation paperwork. 

The questionnaire opens and immediately populates with basic data from his file: height, weight, age, rank, service record, current commission. The form prompts for a photograph, but it has been automatically populated with Spock’s ID photo from when he took his posting on the Enterprise which is perfectly adequate and so he does not bother to change it. He is immediately struck by how long the document is–forty pages–and takes comfort in the knowledge that the researchers will be doing their due diligence regarding the intimate matter of selecting his mate. Nevertheless, Spock is doubtful they will find success despite the logical reassurances of the statistics. He has, as ever, been an anomaly and given this conditional premise scaling the probability space, he suspects he will likely find himself among the fifteen percent, not the eighty-five. 

He is prompted to fill out a brief personal biography section in which he is invited to share facts about himself not covered by his personnel file that will showcase his personality for any potential partners. He dutifully and mechanically fills out 294 words of the 300 word allotment, not certain what purpose this will serve. He places a pragmatic trust in the experts better versed in the field of mate-selection, an area of study which Spock confesses to being almost entirely bereft of both knowledge and wisdom. 

The opening questions are largely straight forward and predictable in nature. Spock is asked some rather in depth queries regarding his sexual orientation and preferences. Does he or his species identify as monoecious, hermaphroditic, or intersexual? Spock selects no and it prompts him with further questions regarding his sex, gender identity, expression, and presentation–all separate fields–including several dozen options from a number of species and cultures within Federation member worlds and a free field for good measure. He selects male for all of them. 

What is his sexual and/or romantic orientation? Spock considers this, more a Terran concept than a Vulcan one, and analyzes the extensive list of options. He at first chooses polysexual, as would best fit the classical Vulcan tradition, but the page proceeds to once again prompt him with the inexhaustible array of choices from which he is meant to choose which gender identities and expressions he would find acceptable in a potential mate, most of which he is unfamiliar with. Spock resolves to select homo/hetero-bisexual instead as it produces fewer confounding subfields. He selects suboption four, predominantly homosexual but more than incidentally heterosexual, asserting that his recent bias towards female partners is perhaps more a consequence of happenstance than personal preference. Then the further sub-sub-option for demisexuality as the alternative text supplies one who typically only feels sexual attraction toward a person with whom they have already established a strong emotional bond which, while imperfect as is often the case with Standard, is the most synergistic choice at hand to express the inexorable intertwining of both mind and body in a Vulcan bond.

By the time Spock reaches the bottom of the first page, it is clear he has not meditated sufficiently on such quandaries of self-identity to provide well-founded answers. Given the urgency of the time frame, however, they will need be adequate. Spock checks the chrono and realizes he has already spent nearly forty minutes pondering his choices. He will need to increase his efficiency by 127% if he is to finish the application tonight. Further delay would risk jeopardizing the timeline required to obtain a suitable match prior to his arranged meeting with his parents. 

Spock resolves to approach the process with the same objective detachment with which he might observe a bacterial sample expanding on the agar. This proves effective for pages two through twenty-nine, largely detailing personality, religious beliefs, moral and ethical principles, lifestyle, and ambitions. 

When the prompts on page thirty include questions about previous sexual history and experience as well as a detailed questionnaire regarding kinks, fetishes, and other invasive questions regarding sexual preferences and fantasy, Spock senses himself flushing green down to his fingertips and sinking shamefully into the seat of his desk chair. He starts with the most benign.

In your own words, describe your ideal partner. There are two fields, one for physical attributes and one for personality. If he were to do so in front of his parents or anyone from Vulcan, they’d be aghast. This however… The responses will be locked in his sealed Starfleet medical records. No one will see this but the researchers. Lying not only decreases his already slim chances of finding a suitable match, but would also poison their data set. This is, naturally, an unacceptable consequence of his dishonesty and so Spock steels himself to construct a truthful answer. 

I am attracted to expressive facial features, particularly light colored eyes in species which exhibit pupillary dilation accompanying emotional response. Androgyny if not in appearance then in mannerism is pleasing. There is an endearing quality in predisposition to the reflexive human behavior known as ‘fidgeting.’ It is integral that any potential partners possess the necessary athleticism and bone density to endure the strenuous nature of Vulcan mating. While not essential that my partner be of a telepathic species, if psi-null it is necessary they present a sufficient ESPER rating to support a Vulcan bond. Previous experience with interspecies sexual relations is preferred. 

I desire a partner who is emotionally complex and intellectually stimulating. I respect those with notable academic achievements who are further inclined towards intellectual pursuits in their free time. Social status in one's native culture is immaterial, however I value the drive and ambition required to achieve a decorated service record within Starfleet as a mark of commitment to duty. I do not intend to allow my personal affairs to interfere with my career progression and devotion to my work, and it is important my potential partner be similarly professional and goal-oriented. My ideal partner is one who is decisive in action and high of self esteem, one who does not place merit in the judgment others pass on our nontraditional relationship. I am conscientious of my personal faults and seek a foil who is charismatic with an exceptional emotional quotient; an individual of marked character and a good judge of it as well. I am frequently drawn to persons of restless temperament despite the evident disharmony with my own disposition. As bonding is a central fixture of Vulcan mating, it is of utmost importance that my partner be one with whom I am comfortable sharing my mind as well as my body.

Spock fights the urge to delete the humiliating confession and forgo the process completely, but his fear of returning to Vulcan without a mate ultimately outweighs the heavy shadow of shame taking shape as a stone in the pit of his stomach. He does not have the wherewithal to review the passage for grammatical errors. Kaiidth.

The next section brings him to the thorough and rigorous accounting of sexual history, preferences, and exploration. Spock opens a second anonymous window to search the terms he is unfamiliar with and promises himself that all suffering is transient and can be endured with proper meditative techniques.

Nothing good ever happens when Sweet Caroline comes on in a bar. 

Maybe if he’d been focused on actually playing the hand instead of screaming his lungs out with the chorus over another round of shots with the boys from engineering, he wouldn’t have lost it all on his last five chips. 

“Hands… Touching hands…” Jim howls like a dog at the moon, one arm each slung over two different shoulders. “Reaching out, touching me…”

Half the ship’s down here getting shitty after a cargo drop on the Sagittaron colonies which marks the end of a long week of pulling doubles. It’s hardly something worth celebrating to this degree, but deep space is boring and it helps to take the little holidays when they come. 

“Touching you!”

Sulu calls to match his bluff and Jim’s not even looking when the table flips their cards over.

“SWEET CAROLINE!” 

The bar erupts with a bah bah bah so thunderous it shakes the decks three floors down and browns out the lights. A pint glass slides off the bar and smashes when the ship rocks and everyone roars again. Jim is laughing with everyone at the table until he realizes they’re laughing at him.

“You’re out!” Gaila howls with laughter, pouring something blue and sweet smelling down her throat in that way she has of reminding the table she doesn’t know what a gag reflex is. “This is too perfect, I can’t think of anyone better for the bet.”

Jim looks down at his hand, two pair against Sulu’s straight, and groans into his hands. The table erupts into another fit of drunken laughter.

“Don’t worry, Jim, I’m sure your Starfleet-issue mail-order bride will still be better than the cow I found,” Bones snickers too. So much for loyalty. Jim wonders if you can mutiny against a man when he’s not even a captain yet. 

They can’t bet credits, it’s against Starfleet regulations, but the crew of the Farragut’s never been short on creativity when it comes to taxes for losing cards. That’s how Jim ends up back in his quarters with his friends over a bottle of cheap Sagittar scotch, blinking dizzy at the viewscreen and willing it to come into focus enough to be legible. 

Welcome to SIPAA: The Starfleet Intraservice Partnership Arbitration Agency and the Starcrossed 2.3 Beta Program

“How much of a loser do you have to be to need Starfleet’s help getting laid?” Gaila is laughing openly as Sulu does the dubious honors of reading out the short introductory blurb on the splash page. “Just walk into the first port bar you find and take your shirt off.” 

Jim chugs a cup of coffee from the replicators, willing himself to enough sobriety to be able to type with some semblance of coherency. The only thing worse than having to endure this charade for the bit would be getting set up on a bunch of blind dates with the kind of slack-jawed NPCs stationed as radio frequency monitors on the outworlds because they assessed his intelligence subpar for typing like a drunk toddler. He slaps blood back into his cheeks and shakes some sense into his rattling head.

“That might be a good strategy for you, but some of us have to put in a little more work for our dinner.” Sulu pours himself another finger of the scotch and leans over to top off the doctor where he’s pushed a pile of clothes to the side on Jim’s couch to make room for a body. 

“And some of us aren’t keen on violating public indecency laws on unknown planets.” Bones gripes, taking another sip. 

He’s the only one who was opposed to this consequence for the loser, said it’s going on file in their medical record and he couldn’t sanction wasting another physician's time just to feed their antics. Jim is wishing, belatedly, that he had sided with Bones from the outset, but if he backs out now it’ll make him a sore loser. He figured it was gonna fall to Gaila or Bones. That would have been a riot.

Jim lets the form auto populate the basic info and decides to leave the bio section for the end when he’s sobered up enough to form complete, intelligent sentences.

“Forty pages? You’ve gotta be kidding me…” He scrubs his hands down his face while Gaila and Sulu chatter over his head about replacing the default Starfleet ID photo with one from their shore leave at the hanging gardens on Babylon V where he dressed in the customary local beach attire resembling a loincloth. Jim reckons this exercise will prove humiliating enough without ensuring his first impression with the all-knowing matchmakers calls to mind holovids of Orion pornstars, regardless of Gaila’s opinion on the matter.

Fine. On to the questionnaire. Let’s get this over with…

There’s more questions about gender and sexuality on page one than Jim remembers from his rigorous exam covering the crosscultural sexual sensitivity module in Xenodiplomacy 405 back at the Academy. Just trying to parse the options is making his head swim right now. He surrenders and clicks ‘male’ for all the options about himself and ‘pansexual’ cause he’s too stupid right now to decide what the other options mean and frankly he’s never been picky so long as whatever his partner’s working with is functional and their bodily fluids aren’t known to be toxic to his delicate human anatomy. As an afterthought, he does have the wisdom to select ‘humanoid partner preferred.’ He means no disrespect to the recently admitted Federation race of canid quadrupeds from Sirius IV, who he’s heard are nothing but delightful, but he’s not sure that’s really his speed. Gaila balks and accuses him of lacking a sense of adventure. 

Sulu reads the personality score section aloud and marks off the answers for him as Jim responds, feet propped up on the desk and spinning idly in the chair. Jim tries to answer instinctively. It seems like the proper thing if he’s going for accurate results. It reminds him a lot of the psych evals they issue for the Academy admissions application.

It is important to me to achieve great things. Strongly agree. 
I have a sense that other people will never truly understand me. Strongly agree.
It is important to me to avoid pain and suffering at all times. Strongly disagree.

“Oooo, Jimmy, are we gonna revisit that statement when we get to the sexy part?” Gaila makes a suggestive face and Sulu elbows Jim in the ribs when he flushes and fumbles to come up with a good quip to clap back with.

I seek out relationships that offer me emotional security. Disagree.

“Wrong. Change that to strongly agree,” Bones says, giving him a pointed look.

“Oh, come on, don’t psychoanalyze me. That’s not even your clinical specialty.” Jim gets the impression this is going to get more personal than is comfortable for mixed company and they’re only on the first few pages. He’s just glad it was too loud down in the ship’s bar to do this there. 

“It’s not psychoanalysis, sometimes your friends know you better than you know yourself.” Bones kicks his drink back and points at Sulu. “Change the answer.” 

He does. Jim rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. 

I am an important member of my social groups.

“Strongly agree!” Everyone but Jim answers in unison and clinks glasses behind his back before taking a pull. The night is deteriorating fast. 

“Remind me what I’m doing here? It sounds like the three of you can fill this out without me just fine.” Jim turns in the chair to hide the hint of a smile creeping onto his lips without his permission.

The next pages manage to pose some rather deep philosophical quandaries Jim’s not sure he’s capable of pondering when he’s not operating on all cylinders. Some of the prompts call to mind deeply personal memories he’s barely comfortable sharing with Bones, let alone the others. He could lie, but Bones warned him not to do that. If not because he’ll get some wingnut for a match then because his responses are going on his official medical record. Jim’s got a hard enough time skirting his way around mandatory therapy as it stands. Gaila spares him, or perhaps damns him, when Sulu starts reading out the first prompts about childhood upbringing.

“This is boring, when does it get to the juicy part?” She snatches the PADD out of his hand and flips through the pages until she reaches what she was after. “This is the important stuff. I don’t know why they didn’t lead with this in the first place.”

She flips her finger and the display pops up on Jim’s desktop viewscreen so everyone can see the bold text asking whether he would prefer a monogamous or polyamorous partnership and to describe his ideal partner, with separate fields for physical and personality attributes. Jim groans, but it’s better than the questions further down the page that ask him to describe a detailed sexual fantasy. He might be able to stomach writing that in front of Gaila, loose lipped and lowered inhibitions as he is, but in front of Bones? He’d rather throw himself out the airlock in the nude. 

“This is supposed to be for a marriage, right? At least in theory, if it works out?” Jim chews his lip and sighs. “Put me down as monogamous.”

There’s no shot this is going to work out. They’re going to match him with… what, exactly? Some demure little Bajoran ensign too shy to approach her crush in the rec room? Who’s content to chase him across the stars because she lacks ambition of her own? Jim’s stomach turns over at the thought. He sincerely doubts anyone who could be considered his ‘type’ by even his most liberal definition would voluntarily sign up for this sham service. Besides, Jim isn’t going to get married if the Carol Marcus Fiasco serves as any indication. Starfleet captains don’t have time for a spouse. 

“Gisjacheh!” Gaila spits her distaste. “You can’t be serious! Radical fundamentalism… I’d sooner starve.”

“Well, I reckon it’s a good thing it ain’t your marriage application then.” Bones gives her a warning look. “It’s a human thing. Pretty big deal in the American midwest.”

Jim resents the implication he’s brought any cultural mores with him from the cornfields back in Iowa. The occasional ope and yeah-no-yeah that slips out of his mouth before he can catch it is betrayal enough of a childhood he’d rather forget.

“Look, it’s not–” Jim scrubs his brow with his hand in exasperation. “It’s not a Terran thing, it’s a Starship captains barely have enough time for one partner let alone six thing, alright? Bones is right, this is my application. You’re biasing my responses.”

Gaila reigns it in a notch after that and Jim takes the keyboard to start filling out the part about describing his ideal partner. He finds he has rather little to say about physical appearance. He knows what he likes when he sees it, which isn’t exactly helpful, but he doesn’t mean to imply he isn’t selective in his choices either. He wracks his brain for words but he’s already beginning to feel hungover.

“Sulu, can you replicate me another one of those shitty aperol spritz knock-offs?” He’s going to pass out in his desk chair before too long if he doesn’t keep the buzz going.

Prefer someone taller than me. Partial to dark hair and dark eyes. An interesting face, striking features but not in a strict conventionally attractive sense. Strong. Someone who can keep up with me in the gym and the bedroom. Excessively low body weight is a deal breaker for personal reasons. 

“Nice hands. You totally have a thing for hands, put that down.” Gaila taps the screen, leaving a sticky smudge when she pulls her finger back.

“Gaila–” Jim starts, pleading for her to quit being a pest.

“Don’t be such a prude. We agreed you have to at least meet up with your match before calling it off. Do you want to have missionary sex with the lights off, or do you want to have fun?” 

“Maybe I like good old fashioned heteronormative missionary sex for the express purpose of procreation, you ever think of that?” Jim says, just cause he knows it’ll get a rise out of his audience.  

“Oh Jimmy…” Gaila looks at him the way one might a very adorable and miserable puppy when she runs a sensual finger under the cut of his jaw. “That’s not what we were doing that night on Risa–”

Bones almost chokes on his drink. “I’m not listening, I’m not listening!”

Jim pushes her hand away and turns back to the screen, but he does add sexy hands to the list on her astute advice. Might as well lean into it. Better make it count. If he’s gonna come home with a veteran war story about his Starfleet-sanctioned hook-up it can at least be an interesting one. 

The personality part is easier and Jim finds he has significantly more meaningful opinions to contribute.

Someone intellectual who likes chess and won’t mind me ranting about Federation history and ship schematics for hours. Smart enough to knock me down a peg. Quick wit and a dry sense of humor. A little bitchy. Someone who can stand my teasing and banter and won’t take it personally. Has the backbone to say no, I can’t stand someone who agrees just to avoid an argument. Ambitious, independent, and opinionated. I respect someone who has their own goals and interests. Self-secure enough to handle time apart if we’re busy with work without questioning our relationship. Committed to duty above all else, and will understand if I place duty before them too. Loyal to a fault. Not a gossip. Pragmatic and level-headed, calls me out when I’m not. Stable enough to handle my emotional baggage. Is as much a friend and confidant as a lover. 

“That sounds a lot like McCoy…” Sulu flashes a smug grin where he’s reading over his shoulder. 

Jim tries to scroll the page away to spare himself further humiliation, but the damage is already done. It’s not even that Bones is terminally straight or that Jim couldn’t see him as anything other than a friend, it’s just… It’s different. Bones riles him up something fierce. It’s a good thing, he doesn’t mean to make it come off as an insult. But Jim doesn’t know how to explain what he really wants when he’s at his most disgusting and hopelessly romantic is an anchor between ports. He’s already bled his hand enough tonight. The emotional security comment hit too close to home.

“Don’t mind me, I think I just threw up in my mouth a little,” Bones drawls sarcastically.

The next section is akin to a grotesque and invasive never-have-i-ever ostensibly in the name of good medical science. Jim’s met with a thorough list of colorful offerings ranging from bottoming and rim jobs to exotic breeding practices and some things he’s never even heard of that Gaila’s all too happy to educate the group on in more thorough detail than is strictly speaking necessary. Jim thinks she and Sulu just get a kick out of watching Bones squirm.

Jim slogs his way dutifully through the list one graphic expletive at a time, sorting them into their respective buckets. Tried and enjoyed. Tried and did not enjoy. Open to experimentation with a partner. Neutral interest. Hard limit. When he reaches the end he finds himself surprisingly sobered by the act of revelation and better informed on the subtle nuance in various forms of oviposition than he hopes will ever apply to his personal sex life. 

“Wow,” is all Sulu has to offer. He gives him a stiff and less than reassuring clap on the shoulder for good measure.

When it’s through and it’s time to return to the hard-hitting soul-searching philosophical conundrums about moral principle and child rearing from the beginning, Jim’s already been stripped so bear he hardly flinches. Or it could be the liquor. That helps too. He sips idly of the Sagittar scotch as he types, vision going fuzzy. He already knows he will forget most of this by morning. It’s a blessing in its own way. Eventually, Bones nods off on the sofa. Gaila and Sulu follow suit not long after, bored of the whole affair once the questions shifted from sexual humiliation to practical partnership material. 

By the time he finishes, it’s almost three in the morning ship’s time. Jim lacks the strength and motivation to get up and brush his teeth in the sonic. Passing out on Bones’ shoulder is becoming a more attractive enticement by the minute.

Jim’s hand hovers over the submit button on the completed consultation form. He takes a deep breath in and lets the arrow fly.

Chapter Text

Congratulations on completing Phase I of the SIPAA Starcrossed 2.3 Beta Program! As with any rewarding journey, stepping out of your comfort zone is the hardest part. Our expert panel of medical consultants is hard at work analyzing the data gathered from your questionnaire to carefully select a pool of applicants best suited to your unique interpersonal needs, ensuring a fruitful partnership of ideal compatibility. As you enter Phase II of the program, you will be invited to join other participants in a number of monitored video calls to further assess your compatibility criteria. Please be advised that not all participants you will attend calls with are members of your uniquely cataloged Partnership Pool, nor is it guaranteed that your highest compatibility match will be among those included during the Compatibility Conference stage. To ensure an optimal long-term companionship that will grow and mature as you do, it is essential to perform equal analysis on dissonant personality profiles as well as your resonant matches. 

You may find that many of the conversational prompts supplied during this stage feel deeply intimate–this is by design. To promote a safe environment where participants are comfortable engaging in vulnerability, Compatibility Conferences are designed with anonymity in mind. We kindly ask that you refrain from sharing personally identifying information during the call and refrain from sharing with others, both inside and outside the program, any information that has been shared with you in confidence. We encourage you to stay on topic and answer all questions honestly for optimal results. If you find a particular question too uncomfortable, you may request your conference be provided with a substitute prompt. Please remember to treat all participants with respect per Starfleet guidelines on interpersonal conduct. Failure to comply may result in your expulsion from the program.

As many of our participants are deployed to distant quadrants of the galaxy, our research and development team has devised a comprehensive system for collecting biometric data on your physiological and neurological response to each of your Compatibility Conference partners. Please carefully review and sign the attached informed consent waiver detailing the purpose and use of your biometric data before proceeding. Once confirmed, you will receive replication schematics and assembly instructions for the SIPAA headset and harness modules. Please ensure the headset and harness are properly secured during the duration of the call for accurate data collection.

Spock looks at the replicated equipment, then in the mirror, then back at the equipment. The action is illogical. Procrastinating attaching the sensors will not serve to alter their intended purpose. The harness module is designed to be fitted between the legs and over the hips, with straps to be tightened around the torso. The sensors are positioned to measure subtle fluctuations in autonomic responses to external stimuli: heart rate, blood pressure, temperature, breathing, perspiration. It is scientifically sound that the genital area is a critical site to make such measurements given the ultimate purpose of the data collected. The logic does not serve to ease his discomfort with the idea. 

His first call is set to begin in 9.34 standard minutes. If he does not dress immediately, there will be insufficient time to troubleshoot technical difficulties with the transmission feed quality over subspace relay. Already he will need to forgo additional meditation. Spock refuses to reflect on the fact this time would have been better served calming his anxieties regarding the call itself than pondering the immutable nature of the equipment. He resigns himself to defeat and steps into the harness, pulling on his meditation robes overtop as his regulation uniform will not fit properly over the bulky device. He settles the headset, attaching the thin, clear wires to his psipoints. They’re designed not to hide his face, but when he looks in the mirror, he still looks comical with the way the tips of his ears fold over the edge of the bar wrapping over his forehead. His bangs stick out at odd angles, rendering him more disheveled than he’d like.

Spock seats himself before the viewscreen and adjusts the camera to avoid keystoning his profile and skewing his appearance. He adjusts twice for glare and applies a noise filter to the microphone. He triple checks that his comm is set to ‘do not disturb’ and dials into the first call. 

The first thing Spock notices about his partner is that they have assembled the headset incorrectly. The second thing he notices is she’s a woman. 

“The induction diode assembly on the left lateral side of your neurosignaling receiver is not wired properly. This will impede collection of your biometric data,” he supplies helpfully.

“I’m sorry… what?” She furrows her brow, evidently offended, though Spock cannot imagine what he has said to elicit such an emotionally charged response. 

The first prompt populates at the top of the screen: Tell your partner something that you like about them already. Spock opts to ignore the prompt, as it is first necessary to correct the data collection process before proceeding with the experiment.

“If you would find it helpful, I can guide you through the steps necessary to wire the headset correctly so that we may proceed with the call as intended,” Spock presses, the timer already ticking down on their call.

“Are you seriously trying to imply I don’t know how to follow simple directions? What, is it because I’m a girl?” The woman scoffs, looking somewhere off screen.

Spock tilts his head to one side, perplexed. Perhaps her predisposition towards argument is due to Tellarite heritage. She appears human, though the supratip break of her nasal cartilage is slightly recessed. He’s not one to ordinarily pass judgment based on speciesism, but he is otherwise at a loss for a logical explanation. 

“It was not my intention to imply your gender affected your ability to adequately follow the instruction manual. It holds no bearing on the fact your headset is obviously assembled incorrectly.” Spock’s patience is beginning to flag in the face of such irrational stubbornness. 

“I’m in engineering, you know. You don’t have to condescend to me like I’m some kind of idiot.” She crosses her arms in a ubiquitous Terran posture that universally signals warning and aggression. 

“Then you are aware that failure to correctly wire the induction assembly will impede the amplification functionality in the analog to digital relay, rendering your alpha wave patterns too weak to decompose with fourier analysis, and can repair the fault accordingly. I would encourage you to do so, as the time for our call has only two point five standard minutes remaining.” Spock furrows his eyebrows minutely before forcing them to once again relax into neutrality. There is a singular beep from the blood pressure monitor on his harness module. 

You can repair the fault accordingly, she mocks Spock's tone under her breath. “Fine. Whatever. Let’s get this over with…” She huffs again, irritation readily apparent, and reads the prompt on the screen with what his mother would diplomatically refer to as ‘an attitude.’ “Tell your partner something you like about them already. Well, I don’t think you’re intentionally chauvinistic, so there’s still hope for you yet.” 

Spock is beginning to suspect he should have selected option five: predominantly homosexual, only incidentally heterosexual. He sets his teeth behind his cheek and endeavors to fulfill the prompt with a suitably backhanded remark in kind. 

“I am certain your engineering talents lie at the top of the normal distribution,” Spock offers, clipped and neutral. The way her eyebrows lift in pleased surprise suggests the implication is lost on her. Neither says anything further before the call drops.

Spock endeavors to maintain an optimistic perspective on the situation. There are only six scheduled calls remaining. 

The subsequent Compatibility Conferences largely follow the same degenerate trajectory. 

If you were able to live to old age and retain either the mind or body of your youth for the remaining years of your life, which would you want?

The call ends in the midst of a heated debate with an amateur bodybuilder and petty officer second class from Jemh'dar who insists that the body is a temple and would willingly sacrifice his capacity for speech if offered cybernetic enhancements to muscular definition. Spock is unsure where precisely such a choice was posed in the provided prompt. 

Take four minutes and tell your partner your life story in as much detail as possible.

A soft-spoken Andorian who’s barely more than a boy fresh out of the Academy monopolizes the full duration of the call recounting in excruciating detail a long list of break-ups, which Spock estimates implies a regular partner turnover on average once every three point four standard months over the last decade. Spock endeavors to interject with the logical conclusion that the repeated pattern implies fault with his behavior rather than his partners, which only seems to inspire a catatonic bout of weeping. Spock lacks the emotional competency to course-correct. He is selfishly pleased he is not obligated to answer the prompt himself. 

If you were to die this evening with no opportunity to communicate with anyone, what would you most regret not having told someone? Why haven't you told them yet?

The fourth call is, if nothing else, a neutral engagement not requiring a retreat to reform rank. Spock admits, with great difficulty, that he would regret not reconciling with his father. He has not managed to approach this conversation as they are yet unable to see eye to eye on a number of matters, not the least of which is his enlistment with Starfleet. He hopes if his participation in the SIPAA program proves fruitful, it may serve as an olive branch to pave the way for a tacit detente. His partner responds sympathetically, admitting she has not spoken to her mother since departing the Terran colony on Picon II. Spock does not know how to delicately probe the circumstances of her relationship further, nor does she press him to provide further insight into his own family matters. The call peters out eventually in easy, if awkward, silence. 

By the fifth call, Spock finds the emotional labor required for continued conversation with antagonistic strangers is deteriorating his mental shields. He wonders idly if the spike in psionic activity will adversely affect the assessment of his biometric data as his wave patterns stray further from baseline. A human male is answering the prompt do you feel your childhood was happier than most other people's? with a series of anecdotes he finds neither novel nor stimulating, and Spock nods at appropriately timed intervals while allowing his mind to wander. He is developing a hypothesis that there is a reason the majority of participants have resigned their fate to this program over seeking a mate out organically. He considers if perhaps they hold the same opinion of him. 

Three point four two minutes into the call, Spock observes a glitch in the graphical user interface of the video conferencing program. He observes the same phenomenon twenty-six seconds later. There is screen tearing in the lower third of the call before it stutters and pixelates, ultimately going black. Spock opens the ship’s scanner channels on his second screen to check for ion storm interference with the call. His keyboard quits responding to inputs and a terminal window opens in the corner of his screen. Someone is running an exploit on his machine via an open port interfacing with the ship-to-ship emergency subspace frequency reserved for disaster relief communications. Spock tries to parse the log outputs as they fly past, but the window closes too quickly to catch. 

Spock flinches when the video call reopens and a human male, different than the one he was speaking with previously, repopulates the screen in high-resolution wearing the SIPAA-issue headgear. His self-satisfied smirk breaks over his face from ear to ear.

“Hey, hot stuff.”

“Yeah. No, yeah. I hear what you’re saying. Sounds like a real jerk.” Jim nods along with the story, allowing his eyes to flick back to the camera with just enough frequency to act like he’s listening while a Cardassian girl with a truly unfortunate bone structure and a real face for subspace radio tells him all about her daddy issues. His eyes flick back to the terminal, the metasploit check still scanning the network for a suitable rabbit hole. He drums his fingers impatiently on the desk.

These calls are worse than he imagined they were going to be, which is saying something. The bar was on the floor to begin with but the other participants are keen to play limbo. This bird’s not even the worst. Jim was chagrined to discover on call three that there was no voluntary disconnect button when some Tellarite guy, clearly suffering from deep space cabin fever, started screaming at him over the line. Hell is empty–all the devils are in SIPAA Starcrossed 2.3 Beta, apparently. 

Jim kills the current script and tries another approach. He runs smb-vuln-sf17-010.sh --security_methods on a hunch that maybe the host isn’t using signing and he can run the psexec module to get an elevated meterpreter session on the server. He chews his lip and sets verbose to true so he can entertain himself by watching the output instead of his latest disappointment of a partner.

“Jackpot.” He whispers under his breath. He gets a shell and pulls up all the inbound and outbound call traffic from the server, but the FTP handling the biometric data is heavily encrypted. A shame, really. He was hoping to gain insight as to whether anyone else’s calls were showing more promise than his. He hashdumps the temporary access credentials of the other subjects to a text file and starts trolling the call queue for a good party to crash.

“Are you even listening to me?” The Cardassian girl pulls her necklace out of her mouth where she’s been chewing on the tarnished thing and gives him an exasperated look.

“Of course I am. You were just telling me… uhh…” Jim’s too focused on the task at hand to think of a good lie.

“You’re a real pig, you know that–”

Jim kills the call through the command line so he can think in peace before they catch on to his tricks and he’s booted out of the system. Deal was he had to stick this out til he got a match. No one ever said he couldn’t fudge the odds in his favor. He scans the queue for someone even marginally interesting to talk to. There’s not much to go on. All the patient identifying information’s been scrubbed from the metadata save for subject ID, age, sex, and species. Most of them look like a total yawn except… 

Vulcan Male, Age 29. Well. Don’t get too many of them in Starfleet. Points for novelty at least.

He pulls his IP and rolls the dice on a vulnerability with the Federation Emergency Management frequency that hasn’t been patched yet on most of the deep space vessels that haven’t docked for maintenance in a while. He should probably report that to cybersecurity. Oh well. Jim remotes in and disables keyboard inputs on the Vulcan’s desktop til he has a chance to patch the call through from his end. 

The video goes live and–oh, he’s pretty cute. He blinks owlishly into the camera, caught off guard, but recovers that classic Vulcan composure in a moment. 

“Hey, hot stuff.” Jim smiles, all teeth, and lets himself feel a little smug over his cunning for a moment until the Vulcan’s eyes narrow in suspicion. 

“Hacking into a Starfleet officer’s desktop is a direct violation of Code of Conduct section 4621.11 subsection–”

“Look, I wasn’t digging through your porn collection so you can quit standing on regulation unless you’re a JAG or something.” Jim hadn’t thought of that, actually. He swallows the cotton in his mouth. “...You’re not a JAG, are you?”

“I am not.” He quirks an eyebrow. Jim might almost say he looks amused if he didn’t know High Golic lacked a word for ‘fun.’ His mouth holds firm in its stiff line. “However, I would advise you return to your intended call. This protocol deviation will introduce bias in the dataset.” 

“I’m not introducing bias, I’m just…” Jim gestures in meaningless circles as if it will serve to better illustrate his point and almost knocks the wires off his psi points. Real smooth. “Modifying my call queue to make it more interesting. Don’t worry, the biometric scanners are still transmitting. I’m not stealing your deepest secrets, either. I couldn’t figure out how to break the encryption on that protocol.” 

The Vulcan considers this for a couple seconds–he’s probably got the precise number for you–and Jim watches his shoulders relax a touch. Probably wouldn’t have noticed except now he can see the edge of some weird alien vase on his shelf. It’s totally a tell. Doesn’t want anyone stealing a peek at his biometrics. Interesting…

“The call rotation was pre-selected based on nuanced criteria determined appropriate by the research team,” he says, no affect.

There’s something about his wry, even tone that rubs Jim the right way. Maybe his standards are just lowered after all the bad apples.

“Oh yeah? Cause from the backend the queues look like double-blind randomization.” 

Jim smirks. Vulcans place a faith in science that’s nigh religious. It’s almost cruel to spoil the illusion. Feels like telling a kid there’s no Santa Clause. 

“What was the schematic?” He quips back almost immediately and Jim reads it for the test it is. 

“Participants were partitioned into subgroups by subject ID number mod 11. Call queues fixed pairwise combinatorially, shuffled with a random number generator.” He shrugs. 

The Vulcan considers him again, as if he’s really looking at him this time, and Jim takes it as a compliment. He cocks his head to the side, thoughtful, and his dorky bangs sway with the motion. They work for him though, Jim hates to admit it. He’s got one of those interesting faces that makes you wanna look til you can pick out what made you look in the first place. So he lets himself look.

“Why did you select me from the call queue?” 

“I picked the Vulcan cause I was in the mood for chess. Figured you’d have the highest ELO.” The real answer wasn’t interesting so he thinks up a better one. He’s fixing for a good distraction. “Sorry, is that xenophobic?”

The Vulcan doesn’t look offended. Reckon they figure nothing’s offensive so long as it’s objectively factual. 

“We have not been given a prompt or a timer.” 

So he’s not gonna kick him off the call or get him thrown out of the study. A rebel without a cause by Vulcan standards. Jim decides he likes him. 

“I took the liberty of disabling that particular functionality. I don’t know about you, but if I had to answer another one of those bullshit questions I was gonna need a long walk off the Golden Gate Bridge.” Jim laughs at his own lame joke and doesn’t take it to heart when the Vulcan doesn’t break character. “I’m picking my own prompt. Play chess with me.”

“I do not believe chess will serve as an adequate substitute for a discussion prompt.” His brows stitch together in almost imperceptible concern. “It is a significant protocol deviation that could interfere with the validity of our results.”

Oh. Sounds like he’s taking this whole thing pretty seriously. Jim almost pities him if he’s genuinely hoping this is gonna play out in his favor. Then again, that’s probably just Vulcanese for ‘don’t violate the sanctity of the experiment.’ They did write the prime directive, afterall. Jim thinks this guy’s a little above needing to stoop this low to pull a lay. Good looks can do a lot for a dry personality. 

“It’s a great prompt, you can tell a lot about a guy from his chess strategy.” It’s true, really. Jim would wager his style’s pure Golic Hegemony, painfully positional and technical to a fault, but it might prove an interesting foil to his own dynamic, tactical approach. “Besides, if you’re no good at chess this arranged marriage is doomed. How are we gonna keep busy in the old folks home when the ‘fleet sends us out to pasture if you can’t play chess? I’m thinking about our relationship here. Just being logical.” 

He can flirt a little, right? That was ostensibly the point of these ‘Compatibility Conferences.’ It’s all in good fun.

“As the median Vulcan life expectancy exceeds that of humans despite modern medical advancements, it is highly probable I will survive you in our old age.” 

There goes the eyebrow again. Always one, never both. It’s his thing, like he’s approaching the absurdity of the premise with a healthy dose of skepticism. There’s a subtle, tasteful humor in it that Jim doubts he’d acknowledge. A smile creeps up on him and Jim licks his lips to hide it.

“If we’re getting morbid, it’s ‘highly probable’ I’m gonna bite it on the bridge of a Starship before we make it that far.” Jim moves to rake a hand through his hair before remembering he’s still wearing the goofy headset. “So how are we gonna keep busy in deep space then? Not that I get bored of sex, but sometimes I’m too tired for all that after a hard shift. I’m not arrogant enough to think I’ll age like a fine wine, either. I’m liable to spoil to vinegar.”

Jim opens an anonymous match on the Starfleet intranet servers, just the classic 2D variant. It’s quicker. Chess in three dimensions never translates well on a flat screen and he’s not trying to monopolize this guy’s whole afternoon. He forwards the link through the chat. 

“Your aesthetic appeal is unlikely to be diminished should you develop canities due to oxidative stress.” His complexion’s looking a little spring, but it might be wishful thinking and the light in his cabin.

“Guess I should have put ‘smoking hot silver fox’ on my personal strengths section of that questionnaire.” Jim flashes a wink for good measure and offers his partner choice of color. He forfeits white to take black. Arrogant prick. 

Jim opens on d4. His opponent responds knight f6.
Silence falls easy and natural over the line once they settle into their paces.

Jim pulls one leg up on the chair and rests his chin on his knee. He’s been stewing on his strategy from the outset of the call. He knows the Vulcan’s got the opening on lockdown, no doubt about that. He's probably got every position memorized forwards, backwards, drunk and sideways. It’s all about the long con, the middle game. 

Jim at first considers committing to some dubious, illogical gambit. A suboptimal maneuver to catch him outside his opening book. It’s an effective tactic against your typical Vulcan, but Jim’s got a hunch there’s nothing typical about this one.

He looks up from the game and back to the video call to get a read on his opponent. The Vulcan’s already looking his way with a weirdly intense gaze, his spine ramrod straight. His eyes snap back to the game, lips taut and expression guarded. A diode dances yellow on his headset before blinking out again. 

Jim catches himself fidgeting. He’s got a bad habit of chewing on the skin around his thumb when he’s lost in thought. Vulcans are so particular about hands, though, and now this guy probably thinks Jim’s a freak. He sheepishly tucks them under his thighs. 

He enters the London System. It locks them into a narrow body of opening theory, but that’s not why he picks it. It was the opening used in the last victory of a human against an AI in the early twenty-first century. Top priority is not going down material early. He’s not gonna be able to out compute him in the endgame. Once there’s eight pieces or less on the board, his opponent will have solved the game out to completion, and Jim will be left at an extreme disadvantage. The more pieces on the board, the higher the computational complexity, and Jim maintains a foothold on his intuitive advantage. So: no careless sacrifice. 

The Vulcan’s reserved, but he’s no pacifistic pushover.

Typical Vulcans don’t join Starfleet. They don’t date outworlders. They don’t break experimental protocol to play chess over video chat. And they absolutely, beyond a shadow of a doubt, do not flirt.

They exchange dark square bishops, and it’s the first real turnover of the match.
He was totally flirting with the grey hair comment. 

Jim brings his queen out just to develop a piece and the Vulcan responds with a king side castle. It’s still a pretty closed game, but all he needs is to consolidate his position for now. It’s pointless to wait out an error–this guy’s not gonna make any fuck ups. He’s gonna have to roll a six the hard way. 

Jim finds he’s no longer playing for fun. He wants to impress. 

He breaks form and tries to attack his back line, but the Vulcan turns it around on him with a slick activation of the light square bishop and Jim’s caught burning a few moves to cover his own ass. He kisses his teeth. He’s running down the timer more than is comfortable for this early in the match, and this guy’s not even sweating yet. He wanted a challenge. Be careful what you wish for. Jim castles queenside and looks for a good countergambit on the other side of the board. He’s chewing on his nails again, too focused to care what it looks like.

Turns pass. No one commits. They’re evenly matched, just maneuvering material and looking for better ways to position some key pieces. Jim can tell his opponent’s consistently unhappy with his own position by the way his lips turn down at the edges, a minute departure from his placid neutrality. Every now and then the diode winks amber on his headset. At least he’s keeping him on his toes. 

The Vulcan catches him off guard when he’s the one to go on the attack and break their closed position first. Bishop d3. Jim looks up from the board to get a good read on him, not that he expects to find anything written on his face. His black meditation robe’s shook loose and slipped down one shoulder, revealing the languid curve of his collarbone and the long plain of his throat. It’s hardly revealing. He’s seen Gaila in worse up on the bridge, but never on a Vulcan, not with their careful attention to loose fits and high collars. It’s only erotic for the obvious lacking intention of it. Jim’s harness beeps and he turns back to the game. 

Jim attacks his queen, pawn to g4, and knows it’s a blunder the moment he plays it. 

“Shit!”

The Vulcan captures the piece en passant with his pawn on h4, brown eyes sparkling with a hint of mirth. En passant. What an amateur mistake. The light flickers green on the sensor over his temple, whatever that means for the biometrics. It reads like a taunt. 

The position blows wide open and they collapse into the middle game with several rapid exchanges. Jim trades two pawns to capture a knight and chases his queen to the far right file with his own. Jim loses another pawn and a rook to capture a rook. He’s bleeding material fast, completely fumbling any position he might have had. He’s dead in the water if he can’t get clever quick, the Vulcan’s merciless. He’ll capitalize and have him in check in a few moves. It’ll be over not long after. 

Jim splits the skin around his cuticle where he’s gone and cut it open with his teeth. He sucks his thumb into his mouth to tongue off the blood before it gets on his keyboard. There’s a long electronic drone on the other end of the line that calls to mind a biobed flatlining. The Vulcan stares hollow and vacant at the screen like there’s a process hung up in his RAM and almost runs out his turn timer completely. 

He plays bishop c2, a total misevaluation of the position. Jim wracks his brain trying to assess his strategy and comes up empty. Sure, he has two pieces attacking his rook now, but he’s just gonna give Jim that passed pawn on the queen side? Jim takes the bait and they exchange queens.

Jim goes on the offensive and catches the Vulcan in a nasty pin with his rook. Another exchange–Jim captures his last rook and loses his knight, but it hardly matters. There’s nothing stopping his passed pawn on the queen side now from getting promoted, and it’s mate in three from there. 

The Vulcan resigns. He stares at their final position for a long time, and Jim gets the distinct impression he’s having difficulty reconciling what just happened with his logical view of reality. His brow furrows slightly in frustration and his lips take the shape of something approximating a pout. It’s adorable. 

“You won,” he says finally. 

“Guess you should have picked white.” Jim’s not trying to gloat, but he can’t help it if he’s smiling. He’s only human. “You know… I’m not that busy tonight. If you want, we could–”

Jim’s in the middle of offering a rematch when the call stutters and disconnects. Damn, he didn’t even get his name. 

He knew they were gonna get caught eventually. At least the research team was polite enough to let them play it out to the end. He’d reckon it’s their most interesting biometric data of the day. Jim chuckles to himself and scrubs his hands down his face while he’s rerouted to the original call queue. When the video picks up again, there’s a mousey little Bajoran girl waiting on the other end of the line.

Chapter Text

Thank you for your continued participation in the SIPAA Starcrossed 2.3 Beta Program! As the Compatibility Conference stage comes to a close, our dedicated team of statistical analysts is excited to begin the process of narrowing the field of prospective partners to your highest Resonant Matches based on the results of your biometric scans during Phase II. While we hope that you enjoyed conversing with your fellow participants in the previous stage, do not be discouraged if the sparks didn’t fly with any of your Compatibility Conference partners. The SIPAA team would once again reiterate the importance of the nuance in what makes a partner an incompatible match as well as a compatible one. During initial interactions with a potential partner, we often overlook aspects of personality that would inhibit long-term intimacy, attraction, and commitment in favor of emphasizing those superficial traits we find alluring. Perhaps the most important role of the SIPAA team is to approach your unique needs and expectations with both care and objectivity. Trust the process!

Sexual and romantic attraction is highly complex and influenced by a wide range of factors including our environment, sociocultural norms, and of course our biology. Our studies on the psychological theory of self disclosure suggest that deep attraction extends beyond physical attributes alone; synergy of mindset and lifestyle are the foundational building blocks of a partnership that will stand the test of time. Nevertheless, our analyses would be remiss to overlook that undeniable quality we colloquially term ‘chemistry’ that draws us together from a simple glance. It’s not magic: it’s biology! The biological factor with the most evidence supporting its role in attraction is the major histocompatibility complex, otherwise known as leukocyte antigens. In double-blind randomized studies, 93 out of 100 Federation species reported a higher attraction to potential partners displaying dissimilar immunological profiles to those of high inner product genetic similarity matrices, even when accounting for phylogenetic stratification in interspecies pairs. 

In Phase III of the program, our team of experts will select your top three Resonant Matches that best fit your unique Partnership Profile and it will be up to you to pick your perfect match. However, there is a slight twist–we will be relying on the subtleties of biological attraction to be the final determining factor. In the coming weeks, you will be sent three articles of clothing by transporter, one worn by each of your potential partners, and will be asked which you find scents most appealing to you. This will allow for an unbiased assessment of pheromone attraction even while your future partner is light years away! 

To facilitate this process, we will also be sending three articles of your clothing to your potential matches as well. Please select an article of clothing other than undergarments for this phase of the study. We recommend using replicated Starfleet uniform pieces instead of personal items, as the garments will not be returned. To ensure optimal results, the selected garment should be worn in contact with the skin for two consecutive days. We kindly ask that you refrain from showering, wearing scented perfumes/colognes, or consuming odoriferous food stuffs to avoid skewing your results. While not required, you are encouraged to engage in light exercise and sexual self-stimulation during this phase to encourage natural hormone production. 

Thank you for your attention. We look forward to the honor of introducing many happy partners in Phase IV!

Spock closes the message and stares evenly at the three identical starched black undershirts laid out across his duvet. He has one week to accomplish this task and box up the garments for transport. On Tuesday, they will be performing a geological survey planetside on the moons of a gas giant, each one nearly the size of Terra, as potential colonization sites. He hopes that the transporter decontamination protocol does not disturb the process of his biomolecular signature imprinting on the fabric, and resolves to return that shirt along with a note to the researchers to be certain they are aware. 

He selects the first shirt and dresses in the sonics before heading to the ship’s gym to engage in his regular fitness regimen, as the instructions suggested this would be beneficial to the outcome of his pairing. They also suggested that he masturbate, and Spock’s ears flush green at the absurdity of the thought. He does not think he would be able to achieve orgasm, knowing that is likely to be spectroscopically determined by the research team from the GCMS data gathered from the textiles. 

He is not filled with optimism regarding this phase of the study. By his estimation, it would be imprudent to leave a decision of such magnitude to something amounting to chance, however he has read the recent literature and did not find it wanting for rigor and so must concede to the superior logic of the research team. He has meditated on his anxiety with the situation and suspects it is his lack of control over the outcome that has set him uneasy. Spock had initially presumed the Starfleet service would produce a more adequate mate than his parents’ selection as they would not be biased towards arranging him a disharmonious marriage to appease their well-meaning appeals to social status and Vulcan tradition. He is less certain this will prove true given what he observed during the Compatibility Conferences. 

Spock starts the treadmill and programs its functionality to mimic the heavier gravity, higher temperatures, and thinner atmosphere of Vulcan. He selects the topography program for one of his favorite climbs through the steep escarpments of Mount Seleya, her watchful vigil ever-present in the skyline behind his childhood home in Shi’Khar. It’s three in the morning ship’s time, and the predominantly Terran crew is either on gamma shift or sleeping. The silence in the gym is meditative, and Spock endeavors to clear his mind as his heart rate increases with the effort of the simulated altitude gain. 

His efforts to achieve mental clarity are ineffectual. Mind left to wander, Spock is drawn again to the chess match he lost during the compatibility calls. He was, at first, perhaps not irritated as such an emotion would be wholly unVulcan but certainly perplexed by the nature of the outcome. Not simply the game, but in truth he has been troubled by the whole affair. As it stands, Spock has heard nothing from the researchers regarding his exclusion from the program due to an issue with his biometric data, nor has he received any word of chastisement for neglecting to report either the protocol deviation or the ethical violation. Now that he has received the letter for his inclusion in Phase III of the study, it is safe to assume he is progressing through the program largely as intended and is on track to receive his selected mate well in advance of the ship’s scheduled layover in the Vulcan system. 

Concern now abated and alone where no one is watching, he allows himself to feel about the edges of something different–curiosity. Spock wants to say that the Terran’s disregard for protocol and Starfleet regulation was grating, his confident air simply egoistic. As it seems his actions will ultimately prove to be of little consequence, Spock can admit to finding him… fascinating. He replays the memory of his mannerisms in clear detail, all bright laughter in his command golds, chewing lewdly on his fingers between moves, apparently oblivious to the implications of such a gesture on Vulcan. Spock flushes green at the thought. The conversation was surprisingly easy, and Spock isn’t sure how he allowed himself to be drawn into it. Perhaps he was blindsided in precisely the same manner that cost him the game. Spock’s heart rate spikes and a warning issues on the treadmill. He disables it. 

The Terran had an expressive face, one Spock recognizes is objectively appealing in its cuts and symmetry. He was sharp witted and intelligent, the only marginally tolerable company he encountered on any of the calls. Spock furrows his brow and contemplates why someone who by all indications would likely prove a desirable mate by Terran standards would be motivated to register for the SIPAA program. He lacks the data necessary to draw any meaningful conclusions. He recalls the background of his quarters from the call and places it as a recent make of single cabin in the officers’ wing of several mid-class light cruisers. He might cross reference the database for rosters on ships of that class on active deployment, but that could be several hundred. It would also be in violation of medical confidentiality, as the identities of registered participants are protected information.

And what would he do with this information, should he acquire it? Would he reach out? On what grounds would he be justified in doing so? Spock is often at a loss when it comes to Terran social propriety, but even he understands that would be unsettling. He recalls Ortegas once lamenting a woman whom she had met in a bar later issuing her friend requests on every available social platform. She had admonished the behavior as ‘stalkerish.’ 

It hardly matters. Soon enough, the experiment will come to its conclusion, and Spock will be issued his prospective partner. He should focus on them instead. If all goes according to plan, in a few months time he will be bonded and the sordid business of the SIPAA program and rising to meet his parents’ invasive expectations will be behind him. He will once again be free to devote his attention to his work. 

Spock reaches the top of Mount Seleya, but it’s rather anticlimactic without the sweeping vistas of the lowlands laid out before the summit. The program ends unceremoniously, prompting him with a cool down walk to slowly reduce his heart rate. He wants to clean up in the sonics, but was instructed not to. His face tightens when he slips his science blues on over the sullied shirt and is grateful that his Vulcan physiology did not adapt perspiration as a cooling mechanism given the dry desert climate. It does not leave him feeling any less disgusting for it. He should have had the foresight to leave exercise until after his shift, but he is a slave to his wonted routine. He locks thoughts of his disgust and his impending pairing away in the recesses of his mind to pick apart in meditation and scrubs the remnants of emotion from his face. Alpha shift starts in less than an hour.

The week proceeds passively, as expected. Spock receives minimal odd looks from the bridge crew regarding his lingering odor, presumably because the protocol did not specify if showering between changing the shirts was forbidden, and so he took the liberty where he could find it for the sake of his dignity. The second shirt is boxed up for shipping with the dirt of some strange new world still on the collar, and he notes for the research team that although there were no microbes on the planets’ surface, he recommends they check to be sure there are no foreign allergens that may prove toxic to its recipient. 

Spock stares long and hard at the plastic box in his hands, ready to be taken down to the transporters where it will be relayed between starbases via the Federation mail service and tightens his fingers around the edges. He’s struck suddenly with a twinge of doubt once again. What will become of him, if this doesn’t work out? Will he be forced to leave Starfleet to take a bondmate on Vulcan? The thought creeps up his spine with the cold chill of fear, until the warm smile of the Terran chess player, laughing on the other end of the line, comes to mind unbidden.

Spock drops the box in the transport mailer and doesn’t look back.

“One of them started screaming at me before I’d even said anything.” Jim shrugs and picks at the remains of his replicated cornbread. Tastes more like pound cake than grain. Whoever programmed it into the ship’s menu spent too much time in the wrong part of the states. 

“Were any of them, like, even remotely attractive?” Gaila presses. His three usual suspects have been tearing into him over dinner fishing for details about his new forced and acerbic love life. Jim wishes they’d sound the yellow alert and get called out to intervene in some petty planetary dispute so they’d quit giving him the third degree and find something else to gossip about. But deep space is dull at warp, and Jim’s miserable exploits with SIPAA have been the only entertainment all week.

“I told you, it’s practically the all star roster for involuntary celibacy. Who else signs up for an arranged marriage service through their job?” He’s being mean. They’re probably all complex and respectable individuals… in the right lighting and admired from their best angles. They’ll be perfect for each other, just not perfect for Jim. The comment gets a laugh from the peanut gallery, except for Bones who’s trying and failing to pretend he isn’t interested.

“What about the Vulcan, I thought you said he was alright?” Bones gives him a look and Jim kicks him with his foot under the table.

“Okay, there was this Vulcan guy but he doesn’t count. They didn’t put him in my call queue, it was just…” Jim gestures in circles while he looks for the right words to skirt around self-incrimination. “A serendipitous turn of events.” 

“A Vulcan?” Gaila blinks in genuine surprise. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I know what a Vulcan, the species that made first contact with humanity, looks like. Just because I slept through Federation History 101 doesn’t mean I failed it.” Jim rolls his eyes at the implication.

“Oh, Jimmy…” Gaila gives him one of those pitiful kicked puppy looks she loves to favor him with when she’s trying to call him stupid without saying it out loud. “You don’t know?”

“No, but I’m sure you’re gonna tell me.” Jim digs into his bowl of replicated chili–covered spaghetti and Sulu eyes the dish from across the table like its existence constitutes a war-crime. 

“Don’t be a smartass…” Bones grumbles under his breath.

“Vulcans don’t mate with outsiders. They take a mate as children, and they mate for life.” Judging from the scrunched up grimace of her nose, Gaila obviously finds the idea grotesque but doesn’t offer her personal commentary. “I’ve never heard of Vulcans splitting up. If I had to guess, his mate… I think his mate might have died, Jim.”

“Oh...” Jim stares down into his chili and suddenly finds its bland shade of replicator grey unappetizing. He wipes his sour expression off on the napkin and carefully returns his face to neutral when he pulls the paper away.

“How would you even know that? Vulcans aren’t exactly open about their bonding practices,” Sulu says. Apparently, Jim’s food and the topic of conversation has caused him to lose his appetite as well. His soup’s untouched. “There’s plenty of people in Starfleet who avoid long-term relationships while on deployment. You shouldn’t jump to any conclusions about other people’s sex lives.”

“I make it my business to be familiar with the sexual practices of all the species in the Federation, it’s what makes me a good communications officer. I’m telling you on good authority they have some sort of biologically ingrained mating drive, but I don’t know much more than that. I’ve never had a chance to sleep with one or known anyone who has. I’m simply dying of curiosity. You should put in a good word for me if you talk to him again.” Gaila winks in Jim’s direction. 

Jim looks to Bones for his medical commentary on her speculation, but he’s been suspiciously silent for most of the conversation. He’s dutifully striving to be a southern gentleman about not making eye contact with the low cut of her shirt. Jim hopes he’s assigned to the Farragut long enough to see how that one plays out. 

“I doubt it.” Jim shrugs and starts to stack his trash on the tray for the recyclers. The whistle will sound for the shift change any minute. “We’re supposed to get assigned our ‘perfect match’ after this latest torment.” 

“What are they making you do this week?” Sulu asks. He grabs all their trays for them as he stands. 

“...sniffing sweaty t-shirts for some kind of pheromone analysis. I’m supposed to pick which one smells the best.” Jim sighs dramatically and hides his expression behind his hand when he answers.

His friends howl with laughter at his expense but Jim’s spared further humiliation when the boatswain’s whistle sounds on deck and the mess begins scrambling for stations. He can’t be done with SIPAA fast enough.

The clothes come in the mail later that week, vacuum sealed with a biological handling notice via intraservice express transport delivery. It’s a massive resource expenditure for something so trivial, but apparently Jim’s the only one who’s not taking this science fair side project seriously. 

He doesn’t tell Gaila and the others that the box has arrived. They’re well-meaning, but he’d like to make up his mind unbiased before they have a chance to sway his opinions. Even if this is a joke, Jim’s the one who’s going to have to burn medical leave to meet up with whoever he gets matched with. He can’t shake the hope that maybe, if he does his due diligence and plays along, he might end up with someone he can hold a conversation with and will take being let down easy with grace. The odds aren’t exactly in his favor.

Still, there’s about a one in a thousand blind chance shot they’ll give him the Vulcan. It’s probably wishful thinking, but he imagines they might meet up for a few drinks and a couple rounds of 3D chess before making the logical decision to go their separate ways. It could be nice. They might even be friends, if Vulcans have those. It would constitute one of the better dates Jim’s been on in a long time. It’s depressing to consider. Maybe he’s being too elitist with his digs at the other participants. Not like he’s the shining example of a sparkling, happy love life. 

He pulls the vacuum-sealed packages out of the box and lays them out on the duvet, thoughtfully considering which to open first as if it matters. Unsurprisingly, there’s no information about who or where any of them came from and if he was hoping to glean any secrets from the clothing itself, all three look to be the sort of replicated uniform pieces lacking even departmental insignia. The bags are simply cataloged with an ID number like they belong in an evidence locker down in security. Jim hopes his data dump during the call phase will finally prove useful, only to find that the numbering schemata isn’t the same format. He gives up and rips the perforated seal open on the first package.

The first is the type of slip worn under a uniform dress that Jim’s familiar with, usually after bad drinks and worse decisions, from a number of ill-advised Starbase liaisons. It’s not standard issue field attire, though. The material grade isn’t bioadaptive or cleared as nonflammable and inert enough for emergency reentry protocol. Whoever she is, Jim assumes she’s stationed somewhere permanent, maybe assigned to a logistics or humanitarian posting on the core worlds. Petite, too, by the looks of it. It immediately calls to mind the Bajoran girl from the last call, and though he knows it's a bad idea to draw conclusions when the applicant pool is so enormous, he can’t help it when his lips stitch up in a slight frown. He holds the polyester blend to his face and inhales the sweet, subtly floral scent and tosses it dismissively back on the sheets. Jim’s always taken his whiskey neat.

The next package has a white tank top that’s been sweat on so bad the fabric’s gone starched-stiff. The material is well-worn and stretched out, like whoever wore it chose one size too small on purpose. Jim holds it up to his face, careful not to let the fabric make contact with his skin and, predictably, it reeks of gym locker. He tries not to be judgmental. They told them not to shower, and maybe this… whoever is in security and has a rigorous training regime. It’s not their fault. He tries to summon the fortitude to give it a second try, to come up with something good to say about the item, and decides he’d simply rather not.

He’s ready to surrender to a miserable fate and tears open the final package. It’s one of those plain black syncotton tees with the high collar worn under field officer uniforms. The men’s cut, tall and one size bigger than Jim wears. Doesn’t mean all that much, really. Could be any track, from sciences to engineering or command. Even the ensigns wear them, though it’s a dead giveaway he’s not enlisted personnel. Well, they Jim corrects. The shirt might not even belong to a guy. Plenty of folks wear the gender neutral uniform cut and there’s plenty of species in the Federation where the median woman is bigger than Jim. 

He raises the collar to his nose, hesitant, and inhales. The scent bites, not so strong to be cloying but rich and complex. ‘Exotic’ isn’t exactly the culturally sensitive word, but whoever this belongs to is definitely not Terran. It scents resinous and it takes him to a memory thought long forgotten. The Christmas service at the small parish in Riverside on the rare occasion his parents were home for the holidays and forced him and Sam to attend. It was magical, then, as a boy. Not because he was interested in organized religion, but because it meant his father was home. Myrrh. He finds the word at last, and knows that’s not it. Incense, though. There’s a hint of something else, dry wood and spice. Jim never paid enough attention to the perfumes the women in his life have worn to name it properly and regrets his inability to place it now.

On closer inspection, there’s a hint of dirt at the hem. Jim brushes his finger over it and it flakes off on the pad of his thumb. He places it for the classic burnt-sienna clay dust common on planets and moons marked as potential colonization worlds. The natural iron content of the soil is imperative for terraforming the land for agricultural development. Whoever wore this was recently part of a landing party, which makes it likely they’re deployed to an exploratory vessel. Interesting.

He wrings the fabric in his hand and turns to check the chrono. 2200 hours. Thelin will be in the lab, still up burning the candle at both ends.

Jim makes it down to the middle decks and finds the labs blessedly empty save the fidgeting of two cool blue antennae poking out over the guts of a broken UPLC. He can hear him cussing under his breath from the other side of the glass and Jim lets a smile slip on his face as he pushes through the double doors. 

“Come here often? I don’t think I’ve seen you before.” Jim leans over the bench and carefully plucks a bottle of deuterated benzene out of elbow range and puts it back in the hood.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to come in here without goggles on?” Thelin doesn’t look up from his work for long enough to grace Jim with a hello. He breaks his own honorable safety protocols to tear off a neoprene glove with his teeth so he can pick at a solvent injector with his fingernails. 

“It’s sweet of you to worry about me like that, but I might like going blind. Wouldn’t have to look at your ugly mug anymore.” Jim teases. He takes a certain pleasure in ribbing their chief science officer, and he suspects Thelin appreciates someone who doesn’t kiss his ass even if he won’t say it out loud. 

“It’s not you I’m worried about, it’s the paperwork.” Thelin fumbles the tubes out of the way and finally rips the small tube he was after free. “Some simpleton flooded the chiral column, it’s gonna take me all night to clean.” He heaves a long suffering sigh and tosses the plastic capsule on the bench as though it's caused him personal offense. “Out with it. I know damn well you’re not down here for a social call.” 

“I need a favor,” Jim says. He pulls the black t-shirt out from under his arm. 

“Well I need a transorbital lobotomy and I needed it yesterday.” Thelin takes one look at what he’s holding and apparently doesn’t find it interesting enough to warrant further attention. He turns back to the bowels of his instruments.

“Come on. Just this one time. I’ll flush the column for you.” Jim picks the tube up off the bench and a blue hand snatches it from his palm before he can have a look inside.

“No you won’t. I’ve had enough problems for one day.” Thelin gives him another look and relents. Jim suspects he’s another cranky old bastard who’s taken a shine to him, and that’s why he didn’t take this to one of the techs. “Fine. What’s the favor?”

“I need this analyzed.” Jim holds out the shirt for his appraisal. 

“It’s a syncotton shirt. You’re welcome.” His antenna twitch and he shoots Jim an exasperated look.

“It’s what’s on it that I’m interested in. On the collar.” Jim presses. 

“I do xenorganic total synthesis. Analysis is for idiots.” 

“Alright, well, idiots who are still smarter than me and you’re the best. So.” Jim holds the bridge of his nose pressed between his fingers. Praise doesn’t get you anywhere with Thelin, but maybe an appeal to nepotism might. “Please? For me? It’s important.”

He relents after a pause. For auld lang syne. He snatches the shirt from Jim’s hands and slips his bifocals on over his other pair of glasses and holds it at arms length to inspect the ruched neckline. 

“It’s nothing special. Where’d you get it?”  

“That’s not important.” Jim runs his fingers through his hair and Thelin looks at him between the two pairs of glasses and it warps his blue-eyed glare in odd disproportions. 

“Do you appreciate how difficult it is to match fragmentation patterns when you don’t know what you’re looking at?” His antennae twitch, a tell that more than his scientific curiosity’s been piqued now. Jim throws him a bone through gritted teeth.

“It belongs to someone. A guy. Who I might…” Jim sighs. “Look. There’s incense on the collar or something. I just wanna know where it came from, alright? Can you do that for me?” 

Thelin doesn’t say anything, just licks his lips with a slight knowing smirk and pulls a beaker and some solvent bottles down from his esoteric potion collection. He soaks the collar in the solution for a minute before handing him the jar.

“Prep this for the vacuum manifold.”

The data doesn’t come off the gas chromatograph until midnight, and by then Jim’s half asleep, head lazed out on his arms on the bench. It’s soothing in a way, down here in the lab. If you can get over the ether smell. The hum of the hotplates and stirbars coupled with Thelin’s soft shuffling of glassware is a pleasant white noise. He should come down here more, when he’s feeling strung out. Jim’s probably just got a screw loose.

“Don’t go falling asleep on me now, early hours are the best time for instrumentation. No ensigns around to fuck with the shimming on my magnets.” Thelin whacks him upside the head as he goes past and Jim scrubs the sand out of his eyes and drags himself over to the console. 

Thelin pulls up the mass spectra and doesn’t bother to interpret the signals he’s flagging for Jim’s benefit as he teases out the fragmentation patterns. Finally, he’s got a few compounds drawn out on the second screen. 

“They’re all… Terpenes? I don’t know what that means.” Jim couldn’t tell you much about them, except they’re organic, but he didn’t need a trip to the lab to figure that out.

“Sesquiterpenes. They’re all found in oud, the wood of an Arabian shrub. It’s used in incense and little string instruments like lutes and harps. Used to be priceless once upon a time, but now it's a cash crop on half the desert planets in the Federation.” He hands Jim what’s left of the sample vial, the smallest droplets of a pale yellow oil at the bottom of the glass. 

“Desert planet…” Jim fiddles absently with the vial in his palm and his eyebrows furrow. No, it couldn’t… “Can you get any more specific than that?”

Thelin gives him an expression like he takes Jim’s lack of faith in his abilities as an insult. He zooms in on the spectra in a few places and Jim’s not sure what he’s looking for but he’s scratching something down in his lab notebook before he pulls up an isotope frequency table.

“Sample’s got an unusually high ratio of sulfur 34. The plant could have been grown in the Great Kirchier basin, but seeing as it’s so cold there my best guess would be… Vulcana Regar.” Thelin shrugs.

“Vulcan? You’re sure?” Jim’s face splits into a wide, toothy smile. Every now and then the sun shines on a dog’s ass. “Nevermind, don’t answer that. Thelin, have I ever told you that you’re my favorite science officer?”

Jim claps him on the arms before he manages to weasel his way out of this grip with faux disgust.

“Yeah, you remember that when you make Captain, huh?” Thelin shoos him out of the lab.

Chapter Text

This is it. The moment of truth. 

Port Galley on the Farragut is blessedly desolate tonight. The days tend to blur together on a starship, but Mondays before shift change are reliably slow in the bar. Jim’s grateful it’s only Bones, Gaila, and Sulu present to bear witness to his grand humiliation. They’ve been chomping at the bit all night waiting for the message to come in over subspace. Gaila refreshes his inbox again as if that will make it come faster.

“They said 2100 hours and it’s only…” Jim leans over to check the time on his PADD. “2057. A watched pot never boils and all that…” 

Maybe if he never takes his eyes off the PADD the message will never arrive at all. Jim could only be so lucky. He takes another pull of his drink and swallows the knot in his throat. He looks at Bones out the corner of his eye from where they’ve got him cornered in the booth and doesn’t get a lick of sympathy for his plight. 

Well. If there’s one thing he’s learned from all the hard knocks it’s that the sooner it happens the sooner it’s over. Gaila refreshes the PADD one more time the second the chrono tips over and lets out a squeal of unbridled delight. 

“Hit me,” Jim sighs, long suffering, and shoots his drink before holding out his hand to view his sentencing paperwork. The email from SIPAA is at the top of his inbox with a large file attachment labeled SUBID_CCN1071_MATCHPROFILE. The gang crowds him so tight into the corner so they can all see the screen that Jim can hardly breathe when he opens the message:

We are delighted to have the honor of welcoming you to Phase IV of the SIPAA Starcrossed 2.3 Beta program! Our research team appreciates your enduring patience through the early phases of the study. Our analysts have been hard at work assessing the outcomes of your Phase III data and without further ado, we are excited to finally share your uniquely selected Resonant Match!

SUBID CCN1071 Estimated Compatibility Quotient: 98.7% [95% CI: 95.3-99.9%]

You will find an introductory profile for your Resonant Match attached to this message, which includes basic information regarding your selected partner including: photograph, current commission information, and a brief biographical written by your partner. While we are confident in our selection, we know that our science remains far from perfect. If you wish to decline to move forward with your selected match, you may do so at this time. You may re-enroll in our program or ask that your profile be removed from our applicant database. However, we encourage you to approach your selected match with an open mind–some of our most fulfilling relationships are often those most unexpected!

Phase IV of the Starcrossed 2.3 Beta program will consist of an in-person meeting and Trial Partnership Period. Our studies have shown that an initial intimacy period is most successful when participants are allowed cohabitation in circumstances that best approximate their normal routine. An extended period is necessary to acclimate partners to a shared lifestyle, with ample time to assess the synergy of a long-term relationship. In other words, an extended trial partnership ensures matches have time to assess their mutual compatibility after the colloquial ‘honeymoon phase’ has passed. We apologize for any inconvenience this may cause, however we encourage you to participate in the program as directed for optimal results. Should you be unable to request leave from your posting at this time, or if you would be averse to cohabitating with your selected partner, please reach out to your SIPAA representative directly for further assistance regarding unique accommodations. 

Should you choose to continue your participation, one partner will receive temporary orders to join the other at the location of their current posting for a four week period under the Starfleet medical leave program. As you will be assigned temporary duties at the new posting, the leave will not be subtracted from your accrued service total. Further information regarding temporary orders is available on page three of the attached Match Profile. If you wish to proceed to the next phase, leave authorization requires preapproval from your commanding officer before transport will be arranged. 

Should you wish to move forward to Phase IV with your selected partner, please confirm your ongoing participation via the SIPAA online portal link provided below. Congratulations once again on your selection, we look forward to many happy and successful partnerships at the conclusion of Phase IV!

“...They’re gonna send you away to live with a stranger for a whole month?” Sulu kisses his teeth and rests a hand on Jim’s shoulder. “Look, I know the terms of the bet were that you had to meet up with your match and all, but I think this goes above and beyond the call of duty. You don’t have to do this.” 

Bones leans over his shoulder to squint at the screen.

“Does that say what I think it says? 98.7%...” He highlights the number with his finger as if checking to see if it’s really there. “Well I’ll be damned. You know, I was reading their papers just to see if this whole thing was a load of cock and bull, and they said anything in the high eighties was stellar. This is practically unheard of. If you’re buying what they’re selling, I mean.”

“You don’t sound so convinced,” Jim says. He’s both itching and dreading opening the attachment, and definitely not procrastinating. 

“Call me old fashioned, but I reckon matters of the heart are best left to the natural order of things…” Bones mumbles under his breath, clearly embarrassed, and Jim doesn’t have an opportunity to press the subject before Gaila’s nearly vibrating out of her skin with curiosity about the profile.

“Well, go on, Jim! Let us see it!” She’s chewed her lip so hard it’s almost split open. She shoots her drink and tosses the glass aside, laser focused on the PADD screen.

Jim opens the attachment. 

It’s him, the Vulcan from the call. Jim catches his dark, beady-eyed stare gazing back, all stiff shoulders and hard lines from his stoic commissioning photo and breathes a sigh of relief he didn’t know he was holding. 

Lt. Cmdr. Sch’n T’Gai Spock: Chief Science Officer, USS Enterprise

Wait… That can’t be right. There’s no way–

“James T. Kirk and a Vulcan? Your Starfleet soulmate?!” Bones howls with laughter so hard tears stream down his face and he chokes on his beer. “You’d go together about as well as a sinner and a baptist church!”

Jim rapidly scrolls past the service record and the biography, down to the end of the document where it mentions temporary orders.

“He’s not… hideous?” Sulu offers, trying to be a gentleman, but he surrenders to Bones infectious fit of laughter. “God, I’m sorry, he looks like he’s got a stick shoved so far up his ass he can’t sit down.”

There. The fine print. Jim would get to leave the Farragut and receive temporary orders on the Enterprise, not the other way around. Four weeks–a whole month!–aboard the flagship. His dream commission. It’s not the way he thought he’d end up there, sure, but he’d have to be a fool to pass up an opportunity like that offered on a silver platter. The Enterprise… What are the odds?

“Aww I think he’s cute! He’s got that ‘corruptible innocence’ look to him, don’t you think?” Gaila nudges his shoulder salaciously and gives him one of those scheming looks of hers, but Jim’s attention is glued to the page.

Bones claps him on the back, all good humor, and catches his breath.

“Alright, that’s the best joke I’ve heard all week. Sulu’s right–we had our fun. You don’t have to live with the hobgoblin for a whole month. That’s cruel and unusual punishment, even for you.” He flags the bartender for another round.

“You’re all so boring, I’ve always wanted to know what Vulcan sex is like…” Gaila says, wistfully. “I hear they use telepathy, you know. You’ve never had an orgasm until you’ve felt two at once. I think you should say yes. It's a once in a lifetime experience!”

Once in a lifetime… 
Jim looks up just quick enough to watch Bones face pass through the stages of grief and turn ripe as a summer tomato. 

“I think…” Jim swallows and looks back at the picture again. It wouldn’t be so bad, would it? The Vulcan–Spock–he was…sufferable. A little stiff, but they can make it work. For a month. You can stand anything for a month. He’s endured worse living conditions for far less amenable prizes. “I think I’m gonna do it.”

“What?” Sulu looks at him like he’s grown a second head.
“Yes!” Gaila cheers. At least someone knows how to be supportive.

“Now, come on–” Bones stops short and narrows his eyes, giving him a long thoughtful look. “Wait just a damn minute…”

Jim jumps to his own defense, holding up his hands and pleading innocence.

“You said it yourself, 98.7% that’s remarkable. Gaila’s right, he’s pretty cute, too. And he’s an officer on–” Jim cuts himself off so he doesn’t give himself away. He lies through his teeth. “He’s clearly climbing the ranks. He’s good at chess. I’m just saying, we have a lot in common. What if they’re right and I really am passing up my one true love?” 

“You haven’t even read his biography,” Bones says. Jim’s a good liar, but he’s never been able to pull the wool over the good doctor’s eyes. 

“Ever heard of love at first sight?” Jim tries, chuckling uncomfortably under his breath. Bones snatches the PADD out of his hands and scrolls down to the bottom before his eyes nearly bug out of his skull.

“Oh for Christ's sake, Jim!”
“Hold on, I–”
“That’s low, even for you!”

“Why? What’s wrong?” Sulu says, confused when Bones tosses the PADD back on the table and gives Jim that look that says he’s in the dog house til further notice. He shrinks sheepishly back against the booth and runs a hand through his hair.

“He’s only saying yes because they’re giving him temporary orders on the Enterprise.” Bones doesn’t even look angry, just disappointed, and somehow that’s worse. “You’re an ass, you know that, kid?” 

“Come on, Bones…” Jim sighs, pleading with his eyes. “You can’t honestly expect me to turn down a chance to get my foot in the door? I’ve wanted this, more than anything, since the Academy. You know that. This is my chance to make an impression.”

“Oh, my mistake. I’m sure lying and sleeping with one of their senior officers is exactly the kind of good impression that gets you permanent orders on the flagship and not kicked out of Starfleet for ethical violations.” Bones can’t look at him. He just shakes his head and takes a stiff sip of his drink. 

Jim looks to the others for moral support.

“I hear what he’s saying but… If it were me…” Sulu hums, contemplative. “I don’t think I could say no either. It’s a tough call…” 

“Maybe it’ll be a two-for-one deal, huh?” Gaila winks. “You can go looking for a good time, doesn’t have to be so serious. The job prospect’s just a bonus! Sweetens the pot, hmm?”

Jim stares long and hard at the photograph and not for the first time, wonders what a guy like Spock is doing signing up for a program like SIPAA in the first place. He’s a decorated officer aboard the most prestigious ship in the fleet, and not bad looking to boot. He can’t imagine there’s no one in the galaxy who’d want to proposition him. Something doesn’t add up…

“And what if he likes you? What if you trample all over his heart for a promotion?” Bones says in that guilt-trip voice he uses to talk Jim out of doing something particularly stupid. “Would it have been worth it?”

That does tug at Jim’s heart strings. That’s not… That’s not who he is, as a person. He doesn’t use people. He’s not using Spock… is he? It’s like he said before. They could be friends. It doesn’t have to be love. It doesn’t have to be serious. It doesn’t have to end like that.

“I’ll sleep on it.” Jim swallows the rest of his drink and shuts off the PADD before stuffing it into his bag. “It’s not the kind of decision I should make drunk anyway.” 

“You do that. But remember what I said,” Bones wags a finger in his face and Jim endeavors not to look too much like a dog with his tail between his legs. Bones breaks a little at that. He sighs. “Look, kid. I know it’s not an easy choice but just… Don’t do something you’re gonna regret.”

“Yeah… I know.” Jim nods to himself and wishes everyone a goodnight before heading back to his quarters.

Jim’s lucky to have climbed the ranks enough to have his own private room now, a shoebox though it is with a shared hall bath. He doesn’t bother to call up the lights. Instead, he fumbles in the dark to unlace his boots and stumble out of his uniform and into some sweats. He doesn’t bother with a shirt. He’s not really drunk, only tipsy, but he replicates a glass of water to chug all the same. He flops down on his stomach over the duvet with a grunt of satisfaction and a crack of his neck. He reaches a hand over the edge of the bed to flounder blindly in his bag for his PADD. When he unlocks it, Spock’s profile is still pulled up on the screen, his photograph in full science dress with a whole colorful fruit salad pinned to his chest. Jim stares at the picture for a long, thoughtful moment. Blue really is his color.

He scrolls to the biography section that he didn’t have the opportunity to read down in the bar. It can’t hurt. He’s only going to look. No one’s around to catch him doing it. 

As an alumnus of Starfleet Officers Academy, San Francisco Campus, I have served Starfleet in the Sciences Division for 10.24 standard years, the last 5.2 years of which I have served as Chief Science Officer aboard the USS Enterprise under the command of Captain Christopher Pike. In my formal studies, I have completed several theses in applied, antimatter, and astrophysics, as well as evolutionary exobiology and xenorganic chemistry. My personal interests include hobbyist study of anthropological xenolinguistics, formal logic, and recently, horticulture of exobotanical specimens collected during the Enterprise’s exploration of the Gamma Quadrant. In my free time, I am partial to practicing the Vulcan Lyre and playing three-dimensional chess. 

Jim slouches his face into his palm, cheek rucked up against his eye, and frowns. It’s all so dull and perfunctory. Pretty textbook stuff for a Vulcan. Jim’s not sure what he was expecting. Yeah, he’s good at chess and yeah, Jim had asked for ‘smarter than me’ and it looks like this guy fits the bill on that count. He managed to graduate the academy just shy of his eighteenth birthday if he’s doing the math right. But Jim’s looking for… Well, he’s not sure what, exactly, since he wasn’t particularly looking for anything at all when he was thrust into this venture in the first place. His second impression of Spock simply leaves him disappointed in a way he can’t quite place. The flat, no affect Vulcan stereotype is not the man he thought he met on the call. 

He’s not meant to be judging him for honest relationship material, anyway, Jim reminds himself. All that matters is if they can handle being roommates for a month. That’s all, nothing more. He can’t fathom he’s anywhere near the hot mess Gary was, not that their short-lived affair helped matters in the slightest. Jim learned the hard way never to shit where you eat. He sighs, and shakes off the memory. He keeps reading.

As son to a human mother and a Vulcan father, I spent the majority of my youth on Vulcan prior to my enlistment in Starfleet, but I did not find my true vocation until I was among the stars. I have always experienced the inexorable draw of the unknown, and unraveling those great mysteries of our time yet awaiting revelation remains my most profound personal motivation. Should I find companionship through the SIPAA program, it is my hope that I might share with them that purest wonder and fascination when we open our eyes eternal, and sphere them round upon all space: space starred, and lorn of light, space regioned with life-air, and barren void, spaces of fire and all the yawn of hell, and find ourselves looking back.

Oh. Jim blinks to himself, caught off guard. He rereads the final lines of his personal bio passage. It’s familiar, it's… Jim wracks his brain hard, frustrated with himself, until he finally places the piece. He’s quoting Keats’ Hyperion. Jim didn’t know Vulcans were partial to human poetry, least of all the Romantics. Maybe he’s been too quick to judge after all.

Ultimately, the personal bio leaves him with more questions than answers. A half-Vulcan Starfleet officer who’s fond of plants and poetry serving aboard the Enterprise, ostensibly looking for love in all the wrong places. Jim will admit to himself if he had his curiosity before, now he’s got his attention.

“What’s your secret, Mr. Spock?” Jim mumbles to himself, wracking his brain for answers he’s never going to find on the sparse and impersonal SIPAA documentation. His finger lingers indecisively over the confirmation button on the online portal, weighing all his rational, sensible reasons for declining against the magnetic pull of his burning curiosity. He wrings his fingers with indecision.

Finally, Jim lets out his breath and clicks the button. He snaps the PADD locked and tosses it aside on the bed as though he’s been burned. The die is cast. 

Jim scrubs his hands down his face and swallows the stone of anxiety that wells up in his throat. For the Enterprise, he reminds himself. It’s only to get on the Enterprise.

“Another day in paradise…”

“Is there a problem, Captain?”

Spock stands at parade rest at the foot of the table in the ready room as Pike slouches into the chair, scrubbing his brow with one hand in evident exasperation.

“No, not at all, Spock…” Pike sing-songs and Spock suspects he catches a hint of Terran sarcasm in the intonation. He tosses the PADD with the SIPAA paperwork aside on the table. “It’s just if you’d told me this was how Jim Kirk was going to end up on my starship, I couldn’t have been more surprised if I woke up with my head sewn to the carpet.”

“Carpeted flooring is against starship fire code regulations.” 

“Certainly adds to the spirit of the euphemism,” he chuffs at some private amusement.

“I do not understand your meaning… You suspected that Lt. Kirk would be stationed on the Enterprise under different circumstances? Is he pending transfer off the Farragut?” Spock cocks his head in confusion.

“No, not a transfer. Don’t worry about that.” Pike waves him off with too-casual flippance, but Spock elects not to press the issue. “How did you two become… involved in the first place?”

The Captain is carefully sidestepping use of the word ‘betrothed,’ to what end Spock can’t comprehend.

“As stipulated in the provided paperwork, the Starfleet Intraservice Partnership Arbitration Agency has selected Lt. Kirk to be my betrothed via a series of nuanced compatibility criteria. Should you approve his temporary orders post-haste, he shall arrive on the Enterprise before our layover in the Vulcan system. At which time, we may participate in the traditional bonding ceremonies,” Spock repeats for the third time in the span of a single conversation. He is beginning to suspect he may need to recommend the Captain report to sickbay. 

“Spock…” Pike says gently, his attempts to dampen the smile quirking at the edge of his lips is failing spectacularly. “This paperwork doesn’t say anything about marriage, just a trial partnership. Does Jim know that you’re planning a shotgun wedding on Vulcan?”

“I assure you that your concerns are unfounded as there are no potassium nitrate propelled firearms invoked in traditional Vulcan bonding rituals.” 

“You know that’s not what I was talking about.” Pike levels him with an expectant look and Spock shifts uneasily under his gaze. He looks at a point over his shoulder instead of his eyes.

“Lt. Kirk and myself have not been in communication following the disclosure of our matched status, as was stipulated in the provided SIPAA documentation. First contact should be made face-to-face per the directed study protocol.” Spock fights the urge to wring his hands where they sit behind his back as the Captain stares him down from across the ready room. He did not anticipate that Pike himself would be the primary roadblock to the successful implementation of his plan to secure a bondmate prior to his rendezvous with his parents. 

“I see…” Pike nods to himself like some new understanding of the situation has dawned on him. 

“However, I do not anticipate any foreseeable issues regarding our betrothal. As Lt. Kirk is in the command track while I am in the sciences, a conflict of interest in our orders would prove unlikely at this time. Additionally, as we are both stationed aboard deep space exploratory vessels, our bonding would not necessitate a joint station incongruent with our respective career trajectories. Lt. Kirk graduated valedictorian at the Academy and has a decorated service record within Starfleet, both notable achievements that will be recognized as such in Vulcan circles. The match is only logical.” Spock isn’t sure why he feels the need to defend himself to the Captain. His choice of bondmate is outside the purview of his station. Nonetheless, he does not wish for Pike to be disappointed in his choice. That would perhaps be more dissatisfactory than the inevitable disapproval of his parents.

“I hear what you’re saying, and I know you’re under a lot of pressure from your parents right now to… Well, after what happened with T’Pring…” He sighs and offers an apologetic smile. “I want you in the ‘fleet. Here, on the Enterprise, as my science officer, as much as you do. Maybe even more. But right now you haven’t told me a single thing you actually like about Jim… Do you see what I’m getting at here?”

“I am not sure I understand the source of your apprehension. As I have already demonstrated, Lt. Kirk is a logical–”

Pike chuckles to himself and shakes his head, and Spock can’t shake the impression he knows something he doesn’t that he’s yet unwilling to disclose. He looks truly sorry, really he does.

“Spock. Humans are… emotional. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that. The way they approach choosing a partner isn’t always logical. I’m going to warn you–not as your commanding officer, but as your friend–that I’m not sure Jim is going to exactly see eye to eye with you on what you’re proposing.” He picks up the paperwork again and eyes the dotted line before looking back at Spock. “I don’t mind having Jim on the ship. Really. I just need to know that you aren’t using him to get your parents off your back. It’s not fair to him.” 

Spock can’t help but flush a bit with embarrassment at what Pike is suggesting. Perhaps it isn’t so far from the truth. It is not his intention to take advantage of the lieutenant, but perhaps he has been less than forthright with himself in regards to how Kirk would view the nature of their arrangement, or what his expectations might be following their departure from Vulcan. It is unlike him to be so uncharacteristically shortsighted. Spock swallows and tightens his hands behind his back, staring out the viewport.

“Lt. Kirk is an elegant chess player…” He offers quietly, heat rising to his cheeks.

Pike nods to himself, evidently satisfied, and signs off on the PADD before offering it back. He holds it out of reach just long enough to cause Spock to look up, one eyebrow quirked in question.

“For what it’s worth, I think they’re right on the money with this one.” Pike gives him a knowing smirk.

“Thank you, Captain…” Spock mumbles, and scurries off back to his station on the bridge.

“Spock, If I didn’t know any better I’d say you’re looking a little… antsy.” 

It’s been quiet on the bridge for the duration of alpha shift. Or perhaps it was, at least until the Captain relieved himself of the conn to contact the admiralty regarding their upcoming assignment as diplomatic envoy to Khione Prime. Khione is a Class M planetary system seeking protection under the Federation as their cultural aversion to militaristic armament leaves them vulnerable to the escalating Romulan threat given their proximity to the neutral zone. The Enterprise is not set to make contact for another few weeks, however their unique matriarchal sociopolitical dynamics demand careful preparations on the part of the crew’s landing party if negotiations are to proceed favorably for the Federation. The situation remains a delicate one, and Spock agrees with Captain Pike’s assessment that his attention is better served attending to matters of diplomacy rather than on the bridge while they’re plotting a course to a refueling station at a lazy warp 3.

He wishes this were not the case, as Ortegas believes having the conn grants her authority to interrogate the prisoners of her company. 

“It is nothing that warrants your concern.” Spock shrinks over the science console, pretending to be enraptured by the signals but no one is fooled. They have been receiving the same steady readouts for the last several hours.

“The same ‘nothing’ you had to cancel our music rehearsal for last week?” Uhura turns around from the comms station with a smug expression. “This doesn’t have anything to do with the fact we’re headed back to Vulcan again next month, does it?”

“In a manner of speaking…” It does, in fact, have everything to do with their unavoidable return to the Vulcan system. Spock had hoped that the Enterprise would receive orders in another quadrant and he might delay the inevitable confrontation with his parents for at least a year while on deployment to deep space. It would seem the Federation’s ongoing campaign of deterrence along the Romulan border precludes that possibility.

“Oh, come on. You know if you don’t tell us we’re still going to find out anyway.” Ortegas fidgets with a switch on the arm of the conn repeatedly and the slight ticking sound is grating. “No secrets on a starship.”

She is correct, though not in the manner she likely suspects. The lieutenant is due to arrive on the Enterprise within the week, at which point the ‘cat will be out of that bag’ as he has heard the sentiment expressed among the Terran crew members. It might ease the social tensions associated with formal introductions should some of the crew members in his close association be made aware prior to his arrival. 

“Captain Pike has signed his approval for my newly betrothed to join us aboard the Enterprise prior to our layover on Vulcan.” Spock says, no affect. He turns back to the dials. There. Now they are informed.

“Oh? I’m, uh, happy you were able to move on from T’Pring so fast…” Uhura smiles uncomfortably. Spock counts himself grateful that she declines to mention his brief and ill advised affair with Nurse Chapel. There are some embarrassments he would prefer to forget. “But if she’s already on Vulcan, wouldn’t it make more sense for us to just meet up with her when we get there?” 

“He.” Spock corrects. “Lt. James Kirk is currently serving aboard the USS Farragut. We will be receiving him on temporary orders when we arrive at Starbase 8 for refueling in 2.46 standard days.” Spock says. He leans up to check the operational status on the auxiliary solar array on standby for impulse power. He does not expect to receive such a shocked and variegated response from the bridge crew.

“You’re bisexual?! Why didn’t I know that?” Ortegas balks, offended.
“Your parents arranged your bonding with a human?” Uhura blinks and furrows her brow as if struggling to rationalize the situation.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa–” La’an, who had been previously disengaged from their conversation on account of her distaste for ‘gossip’ whips around from the security console. “You’re engaged to Jim?”

Spock turns around from the science station to meet the bridge crew staring at him, wide eyed and slack jawed in surprise. Even those members on rotating shifts whom he does not know personally are trying and failing to pretend they aren’t eavesdropping from their stations. Spock has never understood the human compulsion to be so concerned with the business of others, particularly when it holds no bearing on their own affairs. Vulcans are by nature a private people, and when he forgets himself on the bridge he often has cause to regret it. He resists the urge to sigh openly.

“In answer to your queries,” Spock turns to Ortegas first. “I am predominantly homosexual, only incidentally heterosexual. And I would not expect you to know, as it was never a relevant topic of conversation and holds no bearing on my ability to perform my duties as science officer.”

“Geez, you think you know a guy…” Ortegas whistles through her teeth and sinks down into the conn, arms crossed and stewing. He catches her mumbling well that explains a lot under her breath.

He turns to Uhura, who is still looking at him with a mix of something like trepidation and confusion. She tries valiantly to perk up, perhaps to show a little moral support for his sake. He does not require it, but appreciates the sentiment. Nyota is a good friend.

“My betrothal was not arranged by my parents, but through Starfleet Medical. I have been assured that Lt. Kirk and myself share a compatibility quotient of 98.7% and that he will prove a suitable mate despite our biological and cultural differences.”

“Oh, uh. Congratulations. I didn’t know that was a thing you could do?” Uhura pulls out her communicator and starts furiously typing something in. Searching for information regarding the SIPAA program he can only assume.

La’an has an expression he hasn’t seen her wear before, one he’s unable to place. It is markedly more vulnerable than her habitual stone faced security officer’s persona.

“Yes, I can confirm that my betrothed is Lt. James T. Kirk,” Spock repeats for her benefit. “I was unaware you were acquainted.”

“It’s… We’re not. Nevermind,” La’an says stiffly. She turns back to her console to monitor security footage on the lower decks. 

Spock raises a single eyebrow in the direction of the other women to ask if they’re finished with their interrogation of his personal life. He recalls his mother’s ‘sewing circle’ during their brief station on a Terran colony for his father’s diplomatic work in his youth. However, the bridge crew’s taste for gossip exceeds even theirs.

“Have you told Sam?” Uhura asks.

“Terran social custom dictates news of change in relationship status should be conveyed by the relevant party directly. I do not wish to offend my betrothed by informing his brother on his behalf,” Spock says, but Nyota meets him with a skeptical look.

“Jim Fucking Kirk…” Ortegas shakes her head and laughs to herself where she’s seated at the conn. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“Is there something I should be aware of, lieutenant?” Spock cocks his head in her direction.

“Noooope.” She smiles, entirely too smug and self-satisfied. She exchanges a meaningful look with a blonde yeoman from across the bridge. The yeoman blushes, red hot, and she slaps Ortegas on the arm on her way to the turbolift. “Nothing at all.”

Spock ignores her jest and turns back to minding the controls at his station. Lt. Kirk will arrive soon enough.

Chapter Text

Congratulations on your progression to Phase IV of the SIPAA Starcrossed 2.3 Beta program! As you are receiving this message, you are on more than a journey across the stars; you are embarking on a personal journey as well. We hope you embrace the twists and turns along the way as it is the spirit of the journey as much as the destination that we at SIPAA strive to shape in the Starcrossed program.

Right now, we estimate that you are enroute to the site of your temporary orders to meet your new partner. As much as we hope it will be the case, not all successful partnerships in the program begin with love at first sight. Do not be discouraged if this is the case. In the coming days and weeks, we emphasize the importance of compromise, open-mindedness, and a willingness to meet your partner where they are. Trust, respect, and mutual understanding are the foundation of any life-long committed partnership, and that is the final step that we at SIPAA cannot provide to you: it is something you must create for yourselves. 

Throughout the duration of your trial partnership, we ask that you log in to the SIPAA online portal to complete the daily reflection in the provided personal log. While this information will be used to assist our research team in further optimizing our matching algorithm, a period of reflection and self-assessment will also aid you in settling into your temporary lifestyle and giving thought to the success and challenges of adapting to your new partnership. You may be candid regarding your personal feelings and impressions regarding your match, as these logs will be encrypted as part of your Starfleet medical records and will not be shared with your partner, regardless of your outcome in our fifth and final phase of the program. 

Congratulations once again! We here at SIPAA are wishing you the best of luck in your journey towards happiness.

transporter - thirteen hour layover - Boradan II - drinks in the spaceport - transporter - standby on a cargo freighter - Centauri Prime - ion storm delays - another drink - transporter - runs to catch a shuttle transfer - records check at the Cardassian border -  transporter - transporter -

Jim curls up in the plastic chair in the transport station on Starbase 8, head lulled forward against his duffle bag in his lap. He’s exhausted. His molecular anatomy has been deconstructed and reconstructed so many times in the last 48 hours alone he’s ready to puke. He prefers to stick to the big ships. 

It’s been nearly four days in transit, getting shuffled around Starfleet stand-by. It’s not like SIPAA bought him first-class tickets on a starcruise. He should count himself lucky, but it doesn’t feel like it. The Enterprise could have been in another quadrant entirely, it just so happens the Federation is keeping eyes on the situation at the Romulan border and the Farragut happened to be on assignment in the same sector. 

Ding-dong!
The bell chimes over the intercom and a cheerful, automated woman’s voice comes over the loudspeaker, first in Standard, then Vulcan, Andorian, and Tellaran. NCC-1701 Arriving at dock. The voice repeats the call sign two more times and the green light starts flashing on the transport deck. Guess that’s his ride. Jim yawns and scrubs the sand from his eyes and tries to summon the fortitude to look bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. He hasn’t showered since the layover on Boradan, he’s about to make a great first impression. Maybe this is what the shirt-sniffing schtick was all about. Maybe the almighty match-makers are wiser than he thought. 

He checks his comm. There’s a few messages in the chat: Sulu wishing him luck, Bones cursing him ill, and Gaila’s well-meaning suggestions for several brands of silicone-based lubricant available for purchase in most starbase pharmacies. Jim snorts and stuffs it in his pocket without replying before scanning his badge at the transport terminal. The tech waves him through. He holds his breath when they energize, and hopes his lunch doesn’t come up on the other side.

He rematerializes on the lower decks and his vision spins round til it settles on three shirts, two blue one gold. Jim raises a hand to his mouth and pretends to cough when he swallows a bit of his own vomit. He pastes a plastic smile on his face and gives a perfunctory little wave to his brother, Captain Pike, and the guy he’s about to share a bed and possibly swap spit with in the line of duty for the next month. He looks good, better than Jim right now. Sam’s so white hot it looks like he’s got steam coming out his ears. Jim prefers looking at Spock.

“Welcome aboard, Jim, it’s good to have you.” The Captain skips up on the transport deck to shake his hand, and Jim shifts his heavy bag up on his shoulder, swaying on his buckling knees. Pike tosses a nod over his shoulder. “I’ve heard all about you from these two, nothing but good things of course.”

Jim can only hope. He and Sam have never had the closest relationship, but at least he knows he can count on him never to talk shit behind his back. Not in a professional context, at least.

“Thank you, Captain, it’s good to be here. I wasn't expecting a personal reception. I’m flattered.” Jim makes sure his shake is stiff and he makes good eye contact, willing his smile to look genuine despite his exhaustion and his delicious lingering aroma.

“It isn’t every day my chief science officer invites his boyfriend over for dinner.” Pike laughs and reaches back to clap a hand on Spock’s shoulder in a fatherly gesture. Spock startles and stiffens at the contact, eyes going a millimeter wider for the briefest moment. The points of his ears sting a touch green. Jim cringes at the way he says boyfriend like they’re a couple of teenagers he’s caught making out in the driveway. So much for good first impressions. 

“Right…” Jim licks his lips awkwardly and readjusts the weight of his duffel again.

“Spock, be a gentleman and take his bag for god’s sake.” Pike gestures expectantly with a wry smile on his face, and Spock only turns greener when he mumbles out a stiff sir and offers his hand to assist. Jim can tell the Captain is having far too much fun making a deal of this event at his officer’s expense. At least he has a sense of humor about the whole thing.

“Well, I’m sure you’re itching to get to more important things…” The warning look he flashes in Jim’s direction makes him feel like a prey animal hunted for sport. Between Pike’s implied shovel talk, Sam’s wrath, and Spock’s inability to mask his crippling anxiety, his fight or flight reflex is engaging. “Be sure to make some time to visit your brother while you’re here, that’s an order.”

Pike throws them a casual Starfleet salute and dips out to head back to the bridge. Jim steps out of the transport bay between Sam whose eyes are practically burning a hole in his skull, and Spock, who can’t even manage to look him in the eye. He weighs the war on two fronts and tries to find some tactical advantage. He caves eventually, and dives in for an awkward hug with Sam. The devil you know…

“Hey, Jim.” Sam reaches around to clap him on the back. 

“Hey…” Jim tightens his arm over his shoulder for a calculated moment. In a way it is good to have him here, maybe not an ally exactly but a neutral party. Things have been rocky the last few years, but when shit hits the fan he knows deep down that Sam will always have his back.

They take a step back from the simple pleasantries, and the tension in the room’s so thick you could cut it with a knife.

“I can show you to our shared quarters as you are unfamiliar with the ship’s layout.” Spock interjects, flaunting subzero natural ability to read social cues. Jim is actually so familiar with the ship’s layout from looking at the schematics he’d wager he could find the officer’s wing drunk and blindfolded, but Spock doesn’t need to know that. Jim could plant one on him right now just for giving him an easy out.

“Yeah, that’d be great actually. I’m pretty beat.” He tries to look at Sam without really looking. “We can ah… get dinner later?”

“Sure,” He says, tight and clipped. 

Jim’s not sure what he’s done to piss him off this bad. Maybe he’s just getting territorial. He gives him a curt nod and a forced smile, and follows Spock when he makes an about-face for the door. 

Jim thanks the stars that Spock is Vulcan, and as expected he doesn’t attempt to pry about the awkward exchange with his brother. He makes a beeline for the turbolift at the end of the corridor, all business. In fact, he doesn’t say anything at all. Jim can’t get a good read on him, but that’s not atypical. He’s worked with a couple Vulcans over the years, not closely, but close enough to know they never give anything away for free. When the doors to the lift shut, the silence is deafening and uncomfortable.

“Thanks for grabbing that.” Jim clears his throat and gestures to the duffel bag in Spock’s arms. “I can take it back now. If you want.”

“As Vulcans possess a higher bone mineral density and median strength coefficient compared to humans, I am quite capable of carrying your luggage to our quarters.” Spock says flatly. If Jim didn't know better he'd almost call it sardonic.

Is he flirting? Is that how Vulcans flirt, rattling off statistics about their muscle definition and torque capacity? Is he trying to imply it’d be a trivial exercise to pin Jim up against the wall? He’s definitely reading too much into this, it’s just the context talking. His face is an unreadable stone wall.

The lift chimes before Jim has a chance to make up his mind.

Spock’s quarters are a bit larger than his own, courtesy of the extra stripe, but still nothing to write home about. The cabin is smaller than his dorm back at the academy and definitely not designed with two people in mind, but it’s private and shares a sonic with his neighbor–a significant upgrade from the hall bath that always smells a little ripe. He doesn’t look around much more than that because his eyes stick to the bed and maybe it’s the temperature of the lighting in here but it’s lit up in rose hues the way it calls to him right now. Jim wasn’t lying when he said he was beat. He’s managed a couple hours sleep here and there on the journey, but after Tarsus, sleeping around strangers always leaves him on edge. 

“That’s the best sight I’ve seen in days. Other than you, of course.” Jim turns over his shoulder to look at Spock with a sly smile. Playing at flirtation isn’t all bad, he’s done it before. Less than his reputation would lead you to believe, but he can be a charmer when the mission calls for it. Spock stiffens minutely and looks away. Alright then. Jim turns back to the bed and casually runs a hand through his hair. “Do you have a side you prefer?”

It’s a full bed. A tight squeeze for two men, but it’s better than the nights he spent suffocating between the wall and a second body in his Academy twin. He’s outgrown that now. 

“You may have the bed, lieutenant.” Spock shifts uncomfortably, and even if his face doesn’t betray anything the long pause before he speaks does.

“Just ‘Jim’ is fine,” he chuckles. 

Jim never really had the fetish for being addressed by his rank in bed; maybe if he were captain that would awaken something in him but not as it stands. Coming from Spock, it just adds to the icy chill of detachment lingering in the air between them. He gets it. They only met twenty minutes ago and the whole thing is a little forced. Maybe Jim’s hopeless romanticism truly was starting to fall for the SIPAA snakeoil, but disappointingly this is going about as well as he’d originally expected.

“Jim…” Spock parrots back, like the word is foreign on the tongue and requires effort to be shaped correctly. Maybe it does. Vulcan lacks the same ‘J’ phoneme as Standard–theirs sounds more like the smudge at the start of ‘during.’ He talks with a flawless and clearly trained subspace radio neutral accent otherwise, though. 

“Then where are you going to sleep?” Jim looks around the small space. There isn’t even a sofa, only something approximating a tatami mat that he suspects is intended for meditation. It’s not large enough to lie down on, and looks miserably stiff if you tried.

“Vulcans do not require sleep with the same frequency and duration as humans.” It’s not an answer. Spock continues to expertly avoid making direct eye contact. “If you will excuse me, there is an experiment in the astrophysics lab requiring my attention.”

Spock punches the button beside the door and whips out into the hall before Jim gets a chance to argue. He can’t possibly go without sleep for the whole month, but that’s a conversation that can wait for another time. It’s mid-shift ship’s time. Spock won’t be due back for another couple hours.

Jim sighs and forces himself to strip out of his uniform, tossing it in the recyclers before stepping into the sonics. It feels like a chore, even on the shortest cycle, but it’s a little rude to stink up someone’s sheets. He slips into an old pair of flannel pants he bought back on Earth that are in desperate need of replacement, but even future captains can indulge in a small taste of home out this far. The bed is done up, all starched to perfection with perfect hospital corners like Spock’s ready for a surprise Academy inspection even now. Jim chuffs and turns down the sheets. His last thought before sleep claims him is that it smells nice, like the incense on his collar.

Jim jolts awake in a panic, drenched in sweat and gasping for air, eyes darting around the room trying to place where he is before he remembers–the Enterprise. Spock’s bed. He lets out a sigh of relief and lets his head flop back against the pillows. He’s managed to kick off all the sheets and blankets during the night. He turns to check the chrono. 5:37 AM ship’s time. He must have really been light-lagged. He can’t remember the last time he slept so well, deep and dreamless, for nearly fourteen straight hours. Must have only woken up when the simulated sunrise started and for the heat.

Damn, it’s hot in here. Dry, too, practically a sauna. Jim draws himself out of bed and programs in a glass of water at the mini-replicator. He checks the environmental panel while he’s at it–30 degrees, 13% relative humidity. That’s probably a balmy spring day on Vulcan, but Jim’s throat thinks he woke up in the middle of the Sahara. He doesn’t mess with the settings, that’d be rude, but this is definitely something he and Spock will need to talk about. 

Speaking of Spock, Jim doesn’t remember him crawling into bed last night. In fact, there’s no evidence that he’s been back at all. Jim opens the recycler to see if he at least returned to swap uniforms and finds it empty. He can’t be that busy, not with the ship still at dock for minor upgrades until tomorrow. It couldn’t be more obvious that he’s avoiding Jim. He sighs, and takes the opportunity to poke around the room a little before he’s due to hear orders at the start of Alpha. 

Spock’s quarters catch him off guard with how homey they are. Jim’s no expert in Vulcan interior design, but he’s watched enough holos to know they generally favor a kind of wabi sabi minimalism, all utilitarian functionality fused with organic lines carved symbiotically out of the red rock native to their homeworld. This isn’t that.

Spock has replicated deep red drapery to hide the inoffensive beige ubiquitous to ship’s cabins. The flair is a little dramatic, almost vampiric, but Jim reckons for a Vulcan it’s probably a soothing reminder of home, not blood. He’s got an unexpected taste for what can only be described as tchotchkes, and Jim can’t help but find it adorable. There’s pre-industrial weaponry and folk fiber crafts hanging on the walls, a bronze cast of a cat-like creature and a self-propelled water fountain beside the log console. All souvenirs from away missions most likely. The pièce de résistance is definitely the snowglobe. Jim has a laugh when he tips it over, observing the ‘highly illogical’ phenomena of snowfall around the Golden Gate Bridge. 

He gently replaces it back where he found it, beside what must be a family portrait. A human woman, soft eyes and graying hair, dressed in sandy-toned robes standing a calculated distance from a stoic Vulcan man. His expression calls to mind old Terran daguerreotypes that necessitated stern faces to get a clear print. Before them are three small children, dressed in matching red students' robes. The youngest is obviously Spock, Jim’s surprised to find his face hasn’t changed much at all. There’s another boy, a little older, with pointed ears poking out from a mop of decidedly unVulcan long, curly hair. The last is a–Girl? Boy? Hard to say–with dark skin and rounded human ears. Adopted? Spock’s tiny hand is curled around the sleeve of their robes, almost out of view but you’d catch it if you’re looking. 

Reveille sounds over the comms, and Jim scrambles to dress and make it to the mess before roll call. 

Jim leaves the replicators with a tray piled high with eggs and bacon. He indulges the small pleasures while Bones isn’t around to give him hell about how he’s at the age where he needs to start worrying about sodium and cholesterol. He finds a seat at a booth in the corner and scarfs it down without hardly chewing in that way he’s got–still a boy, terrified that at any moment someone’s gonna yank the tray out from under him. He lathers hot sauce all over the scramble and the burn forces him to slow down enough to stave off indigestion. He eyes the staff flowing in and out of the mess like fish schooling in a river delta.

It’s not the first time he’s eaten alone in a crowded place, not even close. It’s just that usually Jim’s reputation dictates that even when he’s alone he still somehow manages to be the center of attention. On the Enterprise, he’s a nobody. He might as well be a part of the decor. Everyone aboard comes highly recommended, top of the class, equipped with a laundry list of medals and honors and political patronage. They’ve had years to get to know each other, and the departmental cliquiness is readily apparent in the way tables are sorted chromatically according to shirt. They’re all busy and important, and they carry themselves like they know it, too. No one here’s got the time to cater to hitchhikers. No one spares him a glance when they pass his empty table.

Jim scrapes the plate clean with his fork and dumps the tray in the recyclers before heading for the bridge.

He’s hardly important enough for Pike to meet him personally, and he gets the XO instead. Commander Chin-Riley’s got a reputation for being tough as nails and running a tight ship from bow to stern. Jim’s not so arrogant to presume there’s nothing he can learn from a woman like that and so he buttons up and stands at attention when she talks.

He’s pretty thrilled to learn he’s been assigned to shadow her on duty for the next four weeks. That is, until he realizes the assignment’s nothing more than a manufactured political quid-pro-quo between Pike and Garrovick and he’s essentially going to be little more than an in-the-way paper-pushing coffee-fetching yeoman. They’ll pat him on the head like a good little dog and ship him back to the Farragut, probably forgetting he ever existed by the start of the next mission.

Jim feigns being grateful for the opportunity without coming off as a total ass-kisser and gets passed off to Lt Cdr. Noonien-Singh, head of security, almost immediately. She gives him a look like his presence personally offends her before he can even salute. 

God, what did Sam tell them? He thinks. You’d have thought he pissed in the lounge coffee pot the way everyone he meets turns their nose up at him sight-unseen. Jim tries not to take it personally. He can’t imagine making up bullshit busywork to entertain the temp hire is at the top of her to-do list. 

She gives him some bean-counting job even an idiot couldn’t fuck up, and he feels like a child being punished when he doesn’t know what he did wrong. It’s fine. Jim’s swallowed his fair share of hazing before, it’s no different now. The service weapons aren’t going to reindex themselves and maybe if he proves himself possessed of more than two brain cells they’ll throw him a bone in a few days. 

By the end of his first shift, Jim is exhausted from light-lag and feeling mightily humbled by the experience. He’s not sure what he was expecting, really. Some childish fantasy that he’d beam aboard and everyone in their mother was going to act like the sun shone out his asshole and they’d all clap and crown him captain on the spot as if his destiny were written in the stars? Stupid.

He’s ready to call it a day and head back to bed. Maybe a drink first to help nurse the wound a little and then bed. But he’s picturing his own quarters back on the Farragut and no, he still has an awkward discussion waiting for him with his stiff Vulcan proto-husband when he gets back. Jim sighs, utterly defeated. At least there won’t be any expectation to make mindless, ‘illogical’ small talk. If anyone had the gall to greet him with ‘hi honey how was your day?’ right now Jim would have half a mind to clock them in the jaw with his best right cross. He finishes up his report in the armory inventory catalog and clocks out on the console. 

And like clockwork, he turns the door out of the armory and there’s Sam staking him out in the corridor.

“What do you want?” If there were ever a case of poor timing. Jim’s got a cage that’s tough to rattle, but Sam’s always had a knack for jerking his chain. That’s the thing about growing up with someone–they always know how to bite you where it hurts.

“I could ask you the same question, but I think I already know the answer.” Sam peels himself off the wall and blocks off the flight path between Jim and the turbolift. He’s picked a good spot for a real screamer, he’ll give him that. Reinforced bulkheads over the main battery are practically soundproof. Mom would be proud.

“I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I’m here to be with Spock. That’s all.” Jim does a valiant job of keeping a lid on his temper. Reaching the point of fisticuffs with his brother when he’s been on the ship for barely a day isn’t going to do him any favors.

“That’s right, how could I forget. You’ve had a miraculous change of heart and fallen madly in love with a Vulcan, and you’re going to get married and live happily ever after here on the Enterprise, isn’t that right?” Sam crowds him up against the bulkhead and Jim rolls his shoulders. He doesn’t mean to let Sam make him feel small anymore.

“That’s none of your business.” He sets his teeth behind his cheek before he snaps and says something worse, something about Aurelan. He doesn’t need to drag her into this. He can be the bigger person.

“None of my business? Is that why I heard all about your little scam from the ship’s gossip instead of from my own damn brother?” Sam reminds him of Winona at her worst when he gets like this. It isn’t a memory that takes him anyplace nice. 

“Like I said, it’s none of your business. What do you care if I’m fucking your boss, anyway?” Ah, and there it is. It’s out before he can think better of it.

“Oh cut the crap, Jim! You might have everybody else snowed, but you and I both know that’s not why you’re here.” Sam’s face is so close he’s getting spit on his cheek. “Do you have any idea what’s going to happen to him when we get to Vulcan because of you?”

That genuinely catches him off guard. Jim’s tension shifts from fight to anxiety in an instant. On Vulcan? No one said anything about going to Vulcan. His brow stitches up in confusion.

“Sam, what are you talking about–”

“Why don’t you ask him, since all you seem to care about’s yourself and the stripes on your sleeve.” Sam takes a finger and flicks at the gold rings around the cuff of his shirt. “You know what? Forget it. Dig yourself out of your own grave, it’s not my job anymore.”

Sam gives him one last disgusted look and turns on his heel to stalk off the way he came.

“Guess that’s a no on dinner, huh?” Jim spits back after him. He rubs his wrist, covering his stripes with his palm.

Sam flips him the bird without turning around and disappears into the turbolift a moment later. Jim smacks his head back against the bulkhead with a sigh. 

By the time Jim finishes up another silent meal in the mess and crawls his way back to the officer’s wing with his tail between his legs, he is, depressingly, almost looking forward to running into Spock. He takes back what he said before–it’d be nice if someone, anyone, on this tin can were happy to see him. He reaches the door and swipes his badge and lets the relief settle in his shoulders when it slides open. Spock’s already had his temporary access credentials approved because of course he has. A guy like that doesn’t let anything slip through the cracks.

Spock is folded origami style on his meditation mat, dressed in the athletic blacks that cling to the frame and hair rucked up like he’s been to the gym and hasn’t been to the sonics yet. The incense is lit and the cabin lights are low and warm, like a Vulcan sunset. Jim even finds himself grateful for the blistering heat after his joints started going stiff in the chill of the lower decks. It’s not a half bad sight to come home to, if he lets himself entertain the idea. Maybe it’s just been a bad day.

“Hey.” Jim smiles in his direction and Spock blinks his eyes open, all glassy. He must break his meditation and come back to his senses because there’s a nearly invisible shift from the soft, dreamy expression back to the familiar Vulcan mask. 

Jim crosses the room, into his orbit, and he bolts up from the mat. If he didn’t know any better he’d say he’s shocked to see him, but they’ve been deliberately scheduled to the same shift rotation to allow for copious ‘bonding time’ so he’s not sure what he was expecting. Spock stares at him like a deer in the headlights, brown eyes blown wide in the low light and back stiff as a board. It’s like he’s not even breathing. Jim will have to do all the work here. That’s fine. 

“Uh…” He looks at Spock again and his memory banks are wiped clean. “How was your day?”

Shit, that was lame. Spock’s brow pinches together, probably caught off guard by the illogic in such a pointless question.

“Adequate.” He doesn’t move at all, just stands there watching him, posture at attention. It reminds Jim of a chess match, and he supposes his turn timer has started ticking. He takes a step closer, and Spock’s shoulders stiffen. God, he’s like a skittish cat ready to hide under the bed. He was the picture of confidence in his commissioning photo.

“Good. That’s good.” 

Jim reaches out to brush his knuckles feather-light down the back of Spock’s hand, and he snatches it back as if he’s been burned. Right. Vulcans and touch. He backs off.

“Sorry.” Jim swallows and runs a hand through his hair. He looks at the carpet. “I should have asked.”

Fantastic. It’s like they’ve been married twenty years already. Jim takes the sting of rejection on the chin. What does he care, anyway? It’s not like that’s what he really signed up for. It’s just a capstone to an already perfect day. Spock puts some space between them, crowding back against the bulkhead.

“There is something I must tell you, lieutenant.” Spock takes a deep breath, uneven, and looks out the porthole as if the light of Ixion has a particularly fascinating tint of blue-shift to it tonight. “It is not in a Vulcan’s nature to be dishonest, and I fear I have not been entirely forthright with you regarding my intentions.” 

Jim remembers what Sam said in the corridor, something about Vulcan. This is probably about that. He leans back against the desk, hands shamefully tucked under his arms, and looks the other way. Spock doesn’t seem to handle direct eye contact too well. He gives him the floor to speak his piece. It takes him a long minute, either considering his words or finding the nerve to say it.

“I have been previously betrothed to another, a Vulcan woman, who did not find me to be a suitable mate due to my hybrid status. I am, however, running short of time to make my choice of replacement. If I should not select a bondmate prior to our return to Vulcan in 3.56 standard weeks, I will be forced to take a mate chosen by my parents, and I will be obligated to resign my commission with Starfleet to remain on Vulcan.” Spock stares out into the perpetual night of deep space, face unchanged. It’s as if the emotion in the admission can’t reach him, but Jim can put the pieces together. Doesn’t matter if he’s Vulcan, that’s gotta sting. Worse to confess it out loud to a perfect stranger.

“Spock… I’m so sorry.” Jim’s face falls. He supposes Gaila’s theory was right after all, in a way. Though, it would be less depressing somehow if she had passed away instead of rejecting him out of some backwards sense of bigotry. He can’t help feeling angry on his behalf. “It’s ridiculous. It’s unethical, they can’t make you–”

“It is not my intention to coerce you into a bonding, as was done to me.” He continues, never looking at Jim. “If you would prefer to disembark while we are still in transporter range of the station, I would not take offense.”

Jim lets out a long breath through his teeth and scrubs his hands down his face, taking it all in. He resigns himself to the truth as the best course of action.

“If we’re putting our cards on the table, I haven’t been entirely honest with you either. I only signed up for this thing as a joke, I never intended to actually go through with it. But when I saw you were stationed aboard the Enterprise…” He chews his lip and fixes his eyes on the shelf packed with all the sparkling little chintz. There’s still snow on the Golden Gate Bridge. “Well, I would have had a hard time saying no if you had four legs and a tail and barked. It’s been my dream to be here since I was a kid.”

Bones is right, Jim is a real piece of shit. Maybe if he’d never signed up at all there might have been a non-zero chance that the SIPAA team would have matched Spock with someone he’d at least have a fighting chance at finding companionship with. Thanks to Jim’s blundering stupidity and selfishness, one of Starfleet’s best officers is going to be forced to leave the service. He can’t stand by and let it happen that way. He has to set things right.

“I… I understand.” Spock bows his head, and despite that prim Vulcan stoicism Jim can read the lines of defeat written in his expression. He takes a deep breath and sets his shoulders proud before speaking again. “If you would like to begin collecting your belongings, I will inform the Captain–”

“Hey, hold on, who said anything about leaving?” Jim sits up and Spock finally turns away from the porthole. “Look, you still need an alibi to get out of your forced marriage or whatever and I’m not about to pass up a golden opportunity to get in Pike’s good graces. I think there’s a way we can help each other out here.”

“What are you proposing?” Spock indulges that little quirk of his, the one skeptical eyebrow. Jim agrees with his original assessment that it’s cute–in a very logical way, of course. He doesn’t mean any disrespect. 

“A compromise. A mutual understanding, if you will. That’s what this whole charade was supposed to be about, right?” Nothing about this situation is working out the way it was supposed to. Ah, but Jim isn’t the chief tactical officer back on the Farragut for nothing. There’s always another move to be played. 

“I would not be disinterested in hearing your suggestion, as given the encroaching timeline I am at a loss for logical alternatives.” He sounds apprehensive, but Jim could peddle sand in the desert. 

“We can fake it. I’ll stick around long enough for the trip to Vulcan and we can put on a good act for the crew and your parents. I’d love the chance to bum around the silver lady for a while, anyway.” He lets his eyes shine with that twinkle of reassurance that gets the red shirts beaming down into certain danger for the love of ship and crew. “Then we’ll just… Give it a week or two after I head back to the Farragut. We can say it didn’t work out long distance. That’ll buy you some time to find someone who isn’t a total bigot and isn’t going to force you to give up your career, and maybe Pike will put in a good word for my transfer. Deal?”

Jim watches him rotate the idea on a spit in that beautiful Vulcan brain of his for a long moment. He’s actually considering it. Jim thought it would be a harder sell, honestly, but under the circumstances he supposes it’s walking a fine line between exchange and extortion. 

“Vulcans do not lie,” he says eventually. It isn’t a no.

“I was hoping your human half would be open to bending the rules a little if it meant staying in Starfleet.” Jim presses. He’s made a perfectly logical argument in his favor. A different angle, then. He chews his lip and softens his voice. “I read your bio, Spock. I liked it.”

Spock doesn’t answer right away. He eyes the tiny water fountain on his desk, filling and tipping, filling and tipping. When it gets stuck, he reaches a finger down, careful not to get himself wet, and frees the gearing with a gentle touch. Jim realizes it’s a heat engine with the mechanism abstractly carved to mimic the silhouette of a bird. He replaces his hands in parade rest behind his back.

“If we were to engage in such a deception…” Spock’s voice is low when he finally speaks, nearly a murmur. “I am uncertain I would be capable of a convincing performance. I have limited experience with Terran courtship customs.”

Oh. Jim can read between the lines. If his arranged marriage was fixed as a child like Gaila said, then he probably doesn’t have much experience with relationships at all, human or otherwise. No wonder he’s tripping over his own wires every time Jim gets close.

“It’s alright, you can follow my lead.” Jim offers, gingerly sidestepping the elephant in the room. Everybody starts somewhere. “Besides, I can’t imagine it’s very Vulcan to be seen sucking face down in the rec room like two cadets fresh out of the Academy. If we’re friendly with each other that’s probably enough. We can be friends, right?”

Jim hopes they can be friends when all this is over. He’s already taking a shine to Spock. He’s got a sense of character. Sure, he’s a bit quirky, but that’s only endearing on a Vulcan when they’re typically so stuffy and prim. 

“Friendship… is not customary among Vulcans,” Spock says. There might be an undercurrent of apology in the way he frames it, but Jim’s not mastered all his tells quite yet. 

“I’m not so sure I believe that.” He doesn’t. Pike’s a man who’s known for running his ship on loyalty, and he certainly seems charmed with Spock’s idiosyncrasies. You don’t make the cut for deep space deployment if everyone in the complement hates your guts. Jim doesn’t push it. It’s not something you can force. “You still haven’t given me an answer. Do we have an agreement?”

“Affirmative.” 

Hook, line, and sinker. He doesn’t sound too thrilled about it, but then again Vulcans never sound too happy about anything.

“I’m glad to hear it, Mr. Spock,” Jim flashes him a rueful smile. “I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship.”

He gets another suspect look in return, but Spock doesn’t challenge him on it. Jim yawns, suddenly aware of his exhaustion, and remembers there is still another situation they need to parlay over before the night’s out. Jim looks at the bed and Spock catches him looking. His ears flush a touch green, and he looks at the carpet.

“I will excuse myself if you are in need of–”

“No, Spock, I’m not kicking you out of your own quarters again. I get that Vulcans don’t need as much sleep as us humans, but it’s been almost 48 hours.” Jim resists the urge to scrub his eyes. “You need to rest.”

“And yourself?” Spock looks at him skeptically, ready to pounce on him with flawless logic and martyrdom.

“I’m a big boy, I can entertain myself. I’ll go count shuttlecraft down on the observation deck while we’re still docked.” Jim pulls himself off the desk and walks backwards towards the door before Spock can stop him. “We can switch off in a couple hours if that works for you.”

“I would be amenable to that.”

See? Compromise. Jim’s better at this than Sam gives him credit for. He allows himself another yawn when Spock isn’t looking. He punches the button for the door.

“Jim?” Spock’s voice is quiet with trepidation when the door slides open. Jim pauses in the frame to look back, but Spock is facing the other way. “I hope your first day on the Enterprise was… good.”

It is now, he thinks. It is now.

Chapter Text

Spock has not been obligated to share quarters since he was a child and his mother bunked him with Michael and Sybok during their brief visits with her Terran family in the tight-packed space of their London flat. He managed to avoid such a precarious arrangement at the Academy as his grades qualified him to serve as resident administrator in the dormitories. His tenure as an ensign was comparatively brief, and by his first commissioning to a starship, he was already of rank to demand a private–if nigh intolerably small–cabin.

So it is novel to say the least when Spock returns from his morning workout to make use of the sonics only to find a nearly-naked human body writhing about on his sheets. Kirk groans as if beset on all sides by unconscionable suffering as his hand snakes out to silence the alarm. Presumably for the third time, judging by the chrono. 

“Computer, set lights to artificial solar, intensity 100%.” Spock says, clipped and neutral, striding over to the wardrobe to select a new uniform from the rows of perfectly starched science blues. He trains his gaze on the task at hand and does not allow his thoughts to wander off course. 

Kirk makes a horse and wanton sound of protest, like a small child who has tripped and skinned their knees, and draws the pillow over his face to shield his unadjusted eyes from the force of the light. Spock is not unfamiliar with the human tendency to struggle with awakening from sleep if disrupted during the N3 phase of the brain wave cycle, though he counts himself grateful the Vulcan half of his anatomy spares him this ritual each morning. The issue of Kirk’s reluctance to rise has only worsened these past three days, no doubt exacerbated by their abbreviated sleeping schedules. The ship operates on the ‘Panama Style’ shift rotation, and with Kirk and himself deliberately scheduled to share alpha, they have scarcely managed three hours of sleep a night with their current arrangement. It is unsustainable, yet Spock is at a loss for a suitable alternative. 

The alarm sounds again and Kirk’s hand slaps the chrono so hard Spock worries he will need to procure a replacement.

“Alpha shift will begin in forty two minutes.” Spock dithers momentarily between the door to the sonics and the replicators, eyes skirting about the edges of Kirk’s tan, sweat mottled skin in his periphery.

“I’ve got time…” Kirk’s face scrunches with displeasure and his words are muffled against the faux-down of the pillow when he buries his nose in it. The cover is damp with drool. 

“We do not have time if you wish for us to ‘make an appearance’ as you say in the mess. Additionally, it is highly inadvisable that you continue to fast through the first six hours of your shift,” Spock reminds him. Jim is insistent that their simultaneous arrival each morning in the officer’s mess is instrumental in establishing a credible facade of romantic and sexual involvement. 

Kirk’s only response is another whine of complaint, and Spock’s patience is waning as the time ticks closer to the top of the hour.

Fine. The replicator then. Spock programs a cup of coffee as an olive branch and places it on the table at the bedside. He was forced to move his vase of petrified Edosian orchids for fear they would fall victim to the lieutenant’s indiscriminate somnolent rampaging. Kirk stirs and turns over at the smell and Spock catches his bleary, swollen eyes. His hair is damp in the dry heat of the room and his cowlick is slicked against his brow. Spock looks away. 

“Thanks,” Kirk mumbles. He blows out a soft exhale over the liquid’s surface before wrapping his lips around the rim. 

Spurned to action once sufficiently caffeinated, Kirk brushes his teeth in the basin while Spock washes up in the sonic. They are sure to miss the whistle were they to take turns. It is becoming a routine, and Spock does not allow himself to experience frustration at the lieutenant’s penchant for skirting dangerously close to the deadline for their departure each morning. 

Simultaneous use of the sonics is far from unusual on a starship. Even the lieutenants share a communal bath in the interest of maximizing the utility of the limited square footage aboard the ship, and it is not unusual to find at least a dozen officers respectfully cohabitating the facilities in the hour prior to shift change. 

“Hurry up in there, we’re gonna be late!” Kirk raps his knuckles on the glass and Spock starts in surprise, rushing to turn and face the opposite wall despite knowing that, logically, he cannot see inside. The glass is frosted while in use. Even if it weren’t it would be illogical to feel shame about the exposure of one’s body under circumstances that are strictly utilitarian. Spock cannot pinpoint why, exactly, making use of the sonics with Kirk feels… intimate.

“If you are open to constructive criticism, I suspect this would not prove a recurring pattern if you were to wake up the first time the alarm sounded rather than the third.” Spock offers neutrally. Kirk only chuckles, lighthearted, taking his less than subtle dig in stride. Spock has often been accused of lacking a sense of humor, but Kirk has laughed often in his presence since his arrival.

“This is why we agreed I would be in charge of the romantics.” Kirk spits toothpaste in the basin and rinses it down the drain. “If we roll in late fresh out of the sonics looking like we’ve barely slept, everyone will figure we spent all night and most the morning in bed together. It’s all about optics.”

“I am not entirely comfortable with the prospect that Captain Pike will be privy to the alleged sexual nature of our relationship.” Spock turns off the sonics and wraps himself in a towel, despite the fact he is perfectly dry and the display of modesty is entirely illogical under the circumstances. As he and the lieutenant are not engaging in sexual congress in actuality, it should be no different than dressing in the gym’s lockers or in the airlock decontamination unit. Furthermore, if they were engaged in a relationship of such a nature, it would also be illogical to hide his figure from his partner. He does so anyway, and does not try to put a name to his discomfort.

“I think it’s too little too late for that. He had to sign-off on the SIPAA paperwork that basically said we’re obligated to bone for medical purposes.” Kirk, in contrast, is entirely shameless in putting his own body on display. He strips out of his sleep clothes and tosses them idly in the recyclers, standing completely nude in front of the vanity. Spock catches the line in his tan just above his tailbone where the skin pales to a faded tone over the curve of his ass before forcing himself to look away. “Besides, he wasn’t born yesterday. I think he knows his way around a starbase if you know what I mean. Actually, my money’s on him and the XO. They’ve totally got something going on.”

“Captain Pike and Commander Chin-Riley share an entirely professional rapport,” Spock says defensively. Kirk follows him out of the sonics and into the bedroom, apparently oblivious to Spock’s attempts to dress himself while flashing as little skin as possible.

“Oh come on! Have you looked at her lately?” Kirk flashes a suggestive smile that Spock can only meet with pointed confusion. Understanding dawns on his features, and he chuckles under his breath. “No, I… Suppose you wouldn’t.”

“What are you implying?” Spock busies himself with programming the bed to make itself and disposing of Kirk’s coffee cup instead of watching him shimmy the black uniform pants over the V of his hip bones.

“I’m implying that Captain Bartel has been deployed to a starship on the other end of the delta quadrant for the last four years and Pike has a thing for bay fillys.” Kirk looks at his own reflection and does his best to rake his ruddy hair into place with his fingers. 

“Captain Pike would never betray her confidence in such a manner.” Spock’s breath hitches in his throat when he licks a finger before using the dampness to wind his cowlick into place over his brow. 

“You’re so cute,” Kirk says and it sounds patronizing. He scuffs his boots against the door jamb as if checking they’re seated right on his feet before buzzing the door to their quarters open. “Come on, we’re gonna be late to breakfast.”

Kirk, as it turns out, is a markedly charismatic individual. This comes as no surprise as Spock had listed this as one of his primary traits of interest in his SIPAA application knowing that he himself is not. Despite the best efforts of his well-tempered mother and politician father, Spock has never found the process of assimilation into a new social environment to be a trivial exercise. 

Since his arrival, the other members of the bridge crew haven’t shied away from making their curiosity regarding his alleged betrothed known. It was Kirk’s idea that they make an effort to be seen together in public, but what Spock had neglected to factor in as a variable was their inevitable interactions with the crew. Ortegas and Uhura, the bravest among them or perhaps the most nosy, offered their company on the first morning he and Kirk appeared in the mess. Kirk had encouraged them to have a seat at their table before Spock had the opportunity to reject the idea. It is ultimately of little consequence as Spock is rarely called upon to contribute, which suits his mood well enough. He has found he is partial to letting Kirk fill the air on their behalf and listening idly to the colorful drone of his chatter.

Kirk is a chameleon, ever shifting to match the patterns of his conversationalist. He engages Uhura on her xenolinguistics studies at the academy and her decision to forgo a posting planetside in favor of a commission aboard a deep space vessel. He and Ortegas animatedly debate her placement on a top-ten list of the best Federation pilots of mid-class starships in the last decade. The women laugh and needle him in the ribs with their elbows, and Kirk matches their smiles and light-hearted energy with ease.

It is only after they leave and Spock silently observes him cleaning his plate with his fork that he realizes Kirk has not revealed anything about himself all morning. The boatswain’s whistle sounds, and Kirk scrambles to eat the last few unfinished bites of porridge out of Spock’s bowl before dumping it on his own tray.

“See you tonight.” He claps him once on the shoulder, over the fabric, and Spock stiffens instinctually at the touch. He watches Kirk disappear into the turbolift before making his way to the bridge.

☿   ♀   🜨   ♂   ♃   ♄   ⛢   ♆

Their current work is uneventful. Monitoring the evolving situation at the Romulan border naturally requires more observation than action. While Spock might normally relish the opportunity to spend such idle hours in the labs working on his personal research, he finds the lack of a suitably urgent distraction leaves his mind open to his concerns about their upcoming arrival on Vulcan. He has meditated on his anxieties, and has found he is unable to quell the feelings entirely. In fact, he has experienced a notable decrease in his efficiency at tempering his emotionalism in the days since the lieutenant's arrival, the most logical explanation for which is his 33% reduction in sleep. That is another problem Spock is reluctant to confront at this juncture.

Lieutenant Kirk has been nothing short of magnanimous in his understanding of Spock’s dilemma. He has no obligation to engage in this charade, to treat a stranger so kindly. Of course, he adamantly maintains that this is a mutually beneficial arrangement on account of his personal interest in the Enterprise, but it is immediately apparent from his sterling service record that had he requested a rotation aboard the ship, it is unlikely centraL command would have denied him. Kirk did not need Spock nor SIPAA to end up here–to be frank, it was an inevitability spurned forward only by happenstance. 

When pressed regarding his motives, Kirk had simply offered We’re in cahoots, Mr. Spock. I reckon that’s the most intimate relationship two people can share. Coupled with his small wink, Spock can only presume their circumstances are a source of amusement for the lieutenant in the midst of a deployment that remains otherwise markedly uneventful for the time being.

It is for this reason Spock cannot help but to feel a lingering undercurrent of guilty concern. His parent’s motivations for insisting on his immediate betrothal are not without merit. His most recent Starfleet physical brought concerning news–an upregulation of sarsasapogenin in the blood–which can only mean one thing. Spock has long been of age, and his Time will soon be upon him. Kirk’s solution, however well-meaning, remains only a temporary one. His hybrid biology renders the onset of his condition highly unpredictable, but should it arrive at an inauspicious time, it will likely prove terminal. 

Grappling with the realities of one’s mortality is a poor subject of thought for the midafternoon, and so Spock settles on aiding Uhura with their preparations for the diplomatic envoy to Khione as a suitable alternative. 

“I think it’s kind of nice we’ll be visiting an ice planet right before the Terran winter holidays.” Uhura passes him a dossier concerning the geological surveys of the planet’s surface for anything that might be of interest or concern to the Federation for his perusal. “Helps to get everyone in the mood before our shore leave at the end of the month. Well, for the others, I guess. Snow never did much for my holiday spirit. Not like it ever snows in Kenya! I guess it’s the same for you, too. Did you ever celebrate any Terran holidays with your mother growing up?”

“My mother is of Jewish heritage, but she did not observe any of the associated cultural or religious traditions during her time on Vulcan, at least to my knowledge.” Spock flips through the meteorological data pertaining to the season they will be visiting in. 

It is summer in the southern hemisphere, where the planetary capitol is located and the away team is slated to rendezvous with the delegation. Due to the planet’s boreal climate, the summer months will offer the most hospitable temperatures to their predominantly human crew. However, the seasonal influx of ionic storms could pose potential special considerations for their transporter capabilities. The comparatively warm summer air holds more moisture, resulting in blizzards akin to Terran tropical depressions in the coastal regions. Spock makes a note to bring it up with the engineering team prior to the mission. 

“That’s okay, you can get a taste of everything you missed at Pike’s holiday party. I wasn’t around last year, but I’m looking forward to seeing what he cooks up.” Uhura’s efforts are instead focused on studying the cultural norms and traditions of the Khionians. 

She has a picture of Taygete, a Sister of the Seven, open on her PADD. Their people have historically placed great cultural significance on predicting the movements of their seven moons as well as the heliacal rising of the open star cluster Messier 45, known to ancient Terrans as ‘The Pleiades.’ As such, their high council is composed of seven matriarchal figures, a tradition not dissimilar to Vulcan’s Council of Elders. “Can I expect a repeat of last year’s hot chocolate fiasco?”

Uhura lifts an eyebrow in his direction in an obvious tease. 

“I believe it is said that some mistakes are only made once.” Spock would prefer not to recall the incident in question when Number One and Ortegas convinced him a cup of the substance ‘wouldn’t hurt.’ However, they neglected to consider, Spock included, that Vulcan metabolism of theobromine does not directly correlate to human metabolism of ethanol and thus a single beverage resulted in his excessive inebriation. Chapel had tried to assure him afterwards that everyone else had been too drunk themselves to remember anything he said, but he could not overcome the embarrassment of the ordeal.

“Awww, don’t say that! You should try to lighten up some while Jim’s around.” Uhura offers him a small smile, and he senses her attention veering towards gossip instead of her work. “I’ll be honest, I was a little suspect about the whole Starfleet matchmaking thing, especially after everything Sam said about him. But Jim seems like a really great guy, and I’m glad you two are getting along so well already. I’m happy for you.”

Uhura is earnest in her assessment of their relationship, and Spock fights the compulsion to amend his lie by omission. It is perhaps a good sign that she is so easily convinced by their display of amicability. Perhaps it bodes well for his meeting with his parents, too. Instead, he allows his curiosity to get the better of him.

“What has Sam said about… Jim?” It is still awkward to call him by his first name, but there are now two Kirk’s aboard, and Spock supposes it would be suspicious if he were not on a first name basis with his betrothed. 

“Oh Spock, don’t pay it any mind…” Uhura’s face falls sympathetically. “It’s just gossip. Usual sibling stuff, you know how some people love to give their family a hard time.”

Spock would not know about that. His experiences with Michael and Sybok were non-traditional, even by Vulcan standards. He hardly got to know them when he was mature enough to understand them as individuals. 

“If the other crew members are sharing their thoughts regarding my relationship without my knowledge, I believe I have a right to know what they have to say.” Spock's hope that preying on Uhura’s sense of justice will get her to fold, and it proves successful. She sighs.

“He just said Jim’s been in a lot of relationships and they never seem to last. I think he was trying to imply he’s a flake, but if you want my opinion it just sounds to me like it never worked out because of his commitment to the fleet,” Uhura says. “It’s hardly news that Sam’s put in for transfer to a permanent posting to be with his wife. Their father was a Starfleet captain, you know? I don’t think he was home much. I think there’s some bad blood there about that more than anything Jim’s done. Like I said, sibling stuff. People talk. I wouldn’t let it get to you.”

It is more than he has learned of Kirk than he has offered up to Spock of his own volition in the three days they have been sharing quarters. He realizes, suddenly, that Pike was correct in his earlier assessment. Aside from the merits and accolades in his official record Spock doesn’t know anything about Kirk at all. 

“Thank you, lieutenant.” Spock often gets the impression that he is excluded from the goings on among the other crew members, and while it does not usually bother him, it does occasionally remind him that despite earning the respect of his colleagues he will always be othered.

“Hey, anytime. You can always talk to me. I promise I’m not going to run my mouth or anything.” Uhura gives him a light touch on the arm. “Now Ortegas on the other hand…”

She has a laugh at her expense, though it is common knowledge that she is known for being a gossip. Spock lets the corner of his mouth curl up for just a moment before tamping it back down again. He truly needs to get a better handle on his controls.

Uhura is immediately distracted from their topic of conversation when she reads that the Khionians will be hosting their solstice festivities while they’re visiting.

“It’s like the stars are aligned!” She gushes, evidently excited to gain greater insight into their cultural practices. Spock can only hope that she is right.

☿   ♀   🜨   ♂   ♃   ♄   ⛢   ♆

Nightfall on the ship is heralded by the redshift in the deck lights designed to mimic the passing of light through the lower atmosphere on most M-Class planets with a gaseous composition consisting primarily of oxygen and nitrogen. Ostensibly, this serves the function of preserving the natural circadian rhythm of the crew integral to mental health during long-haul flights without experiencing natural stellar radiation.

Sunsets on Vulcan are blue.

Nevertheless, Spock has come to associate the warm glow of the dimming decklamps with rest. In another year, he will have spent more time in the fleet than he did on Vulcan, and in some regards that makes the ship a closer to home than his own planet.

“I believe it’s your turn to play white.” Kirk shoots him a knowing smirk from across the table as he sets the board. His features are softer in this lighting. It lowers the contrast between his tanned skin and ruddy hair, and manages to mask his freckles and the bruised rings under his eyes in equal measure.

“I am disinclined to ‘count’ our first match, as it was the two-dimensional variant. You may have white, if you wish.” Spock has prepared himself a cup of spice tea and Kirk has replicated a cocktail that scents of juniper.

“You’re only saying that cause you lost. I wouldn’t have pegged you for a sore loser.” Kirk chuckles in amusement, but does not move to reset the board. He lets Spock have the first move. “Hold on, I want to put in a song request first.”

Kirk gets up to thumb through the switchboard attached to the music controller, clearly with his mind fixated on something specific. They’ve not yet felt obligated to be seen openly fraternizing after working hours, but Kirk insisted that ‘dating’ is an integral aspect of Terran courtship practices. Seeing as the recreation deck is the closest approximation available for such an outing, they agreed to meet up for a strategic public display tonight.

Spock had argued that, were they truly so involved, they would likely be partial to private activities in the seclusion of their quarters, to which Kirk had countered with whether Spock truly wanted to spend the evening locked in their small room together for the sake of appearances. Besides, it kind of ruins the illusion if you’re caught down in the labs all night when we’re supposedly getting it on. So Spock had acquiesced to his superior knowledge on the subject. 

“Sorry, ran into Ortegas at the bar.” When Kirk returns, he’s brought a second drink. “She asked what we’re up to and I told her to mind her own business, which definitely means she’ll do no such thing. Reverse psychology.”

Spock turns to look over his shoulder and finds Kirk is indeed correct. She and Chapel are absorbed in a tete-a-tete where they’re observing them from across the room. 

“Are you certain our chess match will be adequately perceived as a ‘date’?” Spock turns back to give him a questioning look and makes his opening move. “In my research regarding Terran dating customs, I found a number of resources suggesting common activities including but not limited to holocinemas, fine dining, dancing, outdoor activities, and establishments offering alcoholic beverages. None, however, mentioned chess.”

“You ran a network search for stereotypical human date ideas? ” Kirk snorts with light laughter and almost knocks his bishop off the second level. 

“As I mentioned previously, I am not familiar with what is typical behavior under such circumstances. Vulcans are betrothed as children. We do not engage in courtship practices.” Spock says, clipped and short. He takes one of Kirk’s pieces and he sighs in frustration.

“No, I’m sorry. You’re right, that was mean. I appreciate the thought. Really. I should probably do the same thing before we get to Vulcan so I don’t embarrass you in front of your parents.” Kirk offers earnestly, and Spock decides he will forgive his misstep, if only because he was actually looking forward to their rematch and doesn’t wish to spoil the evening with a negative attitude. “To answer your question, no, I wouldn’t say chess is a typical date. I’ve never had a girl come up to me in the bar and offer me her FedChess handle, but if she had I probably would have proposed on the spot.” Kirk laughs to himself again. He laughs a lot around Spock, with a frequency 28.9% higher than with the other crew members. 

Laughter can be a sign of affection in humans. It can also be a sign of anxiety.

“Besides,” He continues. “I haven’t heard of many Vulcan-human relationships anyway, so I don’t think we have to worry about meeting anyone’s expectations. You don’t have to be such a perfectionist about this. Just relax and have fun and it’ll look natural.”

Spock considers their board positioning and stalls his next move by sipping his tea. Kirk is playing a much more open game than their previous match, an unexpected shift in style. It leaves him vulnerable to attack, but Spock too if he commits.

“My parents are one such couple.” He again acquiesces to following Jim’s lead, as it would be unsporting to decline the gambit. He takes his knight, knowing his own piece is sure to follow in a rapid exchange.

“That’s right, I almost forgot.” Kirk, as expected, captures his rook on the third level. He keeps the piece in his palm, rubbing the heel of it between the pads of his fingers like a talisman. Spock chooses to interpret ‘almost forgetting’ as a sign that, for a moment, Kirk mistakenly considered him wholly Vulcan. The complement makes up for his earlier comment. “Well, I guess that makes you the resident authority on the matter. What was your parents’ first date?” 

“I am uncertain what activities they engaged in during their courtship, however my mother once recounted that my father ‘professed his affections’ by standing under her window with, I believe it is called a ‘boombox’? playing a classical Terran pop standard in the driving rain,” Spock offers flatly, and Kirk must find his delivery of the anecdote humorous because he erupts into laughter so hard his expression nearly sparkles with amusement. Spock’s chest tightens at the warm sound.

“And what did your stoic Vulcan mother think of that?” He asks, struggling to catch his breath.

“On the contrary, my mother is human.” Their game has been largely forgotten in favor of their conversation, at least for the moment. Kirk’s laughter has attracted the attention of several individuals in the room, and Spock can sense their eyes watching them at their table and tries not to pay their scrutiny any mind. He focuses his attention on Kirk instead. “I believe he was informed this was the tactic employed by the protagonist in one of my mother’s favorite historical Terran films.”

“No shit…” Kirk manages to pull himself together, wiping the wetness from his eye with the heel of his palm. “Well, I hope you’re not planning on taking lessons from your father. I don’t need you to, I don’t know, construct a multibillion dollar interstellar travel device to sell the crew on your love for me. Though, I always thought of myself as the ‘Ellie’ in this scenario, staring up through my telescope looking for little green men. But maybe you’re the logical Ellie and I’m the emotional Palmer. I don’t know, I think the metaphor is falling apart.”

“I do not understand the reference,” Spock says. Kirk smiles wistfully and shakes his head.

“Nothing, it’s…” He sighs and looks at the board again, but Spock gets the suspicion his eyes are staring past it. “You said your dad did that cause it was your mom’s favorite old movie. Mine’s Contact. It’s uh… It was made almost a hundred years before we met Vulcans. Humans used to make a lot of movies about what they imagined first contact would be like. Most of them were depressing, all about wars, conquering or being conquered. But this one was a message of hope. We imagined we might find friends among the stars. I don’t know, I always thought that was poetic in a way.”

“I would be curious to watch it. I suspect I would find the depictions of the extraterrestrial beings most fascinating.” Spock allows a note of humor to pass through his voice for Kirk’s ears only, and is rewarded with another of his golden smiles. Finally, he settles on his next move, though Spock is hardly paying the game any mind.

“Oh yeah? Well, they’re certainly creative, I’ll give you that.” Kirk nudges their knees together under the table, and Spock doesn’t flinch away at the touch. “Alright, we’ll watch it before I leave, but only if you agree not to pick apart all the gross inaccuracies. We were spaceflight amateurs, alright? You have to cut us a little slack. It can be our stereotypically human date.”

“I was of the impression the holo need be romantic in nature to qualify.” Spock had actually read that the chosen holo should ideally be as disengaging as possible that it might lend itself to not being watched at all, but he does not say as much.

“It has a romantic subplot. Close enough.” Kirk simply shrugs and considers the board one final time before smug satisfaction creeps over his features. “I believe that’s checkmate, Mr. Spock.”

Spock looks back at the board and, for the first time in several moves, ponders their position in more detail. True enough, he’s lost again. He furrows his brow, contemplative, studying the board for insight. Kirk shoots back the rest of his drink and scrubs the smile off his face with the back of his hand.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” He claps Spock on the shoulder and the touch lingers longer than before, perhaps on account of his slight inebriation. His hand trails down his sleeve as he stands up from the table, heaving a great yawn of exhaustion. “Don’t worry, you’ve got a whole month of rematches ahead of you. Let’s head back and get some sleep.”

Spock picks up the pieces and sets them back in their tray and has a look around the rec room, only to find that Ortegas and Chapel have long since gone. The room is largely cleared out. They’re nearly the last ones to leave for the night. Spock hadn’t realized that it had gotten so late, and it does not bode well for their current predicament. They are hardly getting enough sleep as it is.

When they’ve returned to quarters, Kirk mindlessly kicks his boots off beside the door and immediately slumps into the desk chair with a heavy sigh. Spock checks the chrono and realizes the unfortunate reality that, should they take turns splitting time as usual, neither is likely to receive more than two hours of uninterrupted rest. Kirk must come to the same conclusion. He looks at the bed, then back to Spock with an expression of weary resignation.

“You wanna flip for it?” He offers. “Actually, scratch that. You can have first shift. If I go to bed now, you’ll never get me up in the middle of the night.”

Spock would agree that’s probably the truth, though he does not say as much. Kirk already looks as defeated about the whole thing as he feels. The situation has become untenable. Alpha is due for a further three on-days before they are scheduled for a full 24-hour rest at the shift changeover. Meditation has already begun to prove insufficient for his emotional controls, and Spock does not wish to lose his composure on the bridge. He is in need of a full night’s rest. By the looks of it, Kirk isn’t faring much better with their current arrangement. His eyelids are flagging where he’s beginning to drift off at the desk.

There is of course one possibility which no doubt they have both considered despite their reluctance to voice it allowed. 

Spock is not unfamiliar with sleeping beside another person. Of course, most instances have been on away missions in the field which necessitated shared sleeping arrangements, either for warmth or safety or lack of gear, while awaiting beam out following unforeseen mission complications. Typically, Spock finds himself paired with the Captain under such circumstances, or with a member of the security team when Number One is also present. In any case, it has always been under the auspices of duty with none of the accompanying subtext lingering between himself and the lieutenant. 

“In the interest of efficiency, I propose an amendment to our current compromise.” Spock keeps his hands clasped behind his back, posture formal, and stares out the window to avoid direct eye-contact.

“You're suggesting we… uh…” Kirk gestures in the direction of the small bed, hardly large enough for one person. It will not be the most comfortable arrangement, but it is still preferable to not sleeping at all. “Together?”

“It is logical, given the circumstances.” Spock strains to keep his voice steady, no inflection.

“Right. Logical.” Kirk runs his fingers through his hair awkwardly. “Yeah, I mean, I don’t mind. I just thought… with the touch thing and all… Look, if you’re cool with it, I don’t have a problem.”

“It is preferable to the alternative.” 

“Exactly what a guy loves to hear,” Kirk tries to lighten the tension with a joke, but it falls short of the desired effect. He breathes in a deep breath and stands up, posture an obvious attempt at feigning casual. Spock pretends not to notice. “I uh… Can’t sleep next to the wall. Tight space makes me anxious. I hope that’s not an issue.”

Kirk says it like it is a confession, though Spock is uncertain why. There is a pre-Surakian custom on Vulcan that the stronger warrior between bondmates should sleep closest to the door in case of danger, and thus his position near the wall places Spock in what would traditionally be viewed as the submissive position in more conservative circles. But this is not the Time of Awakening and Spock is aware of no such customs among humans, and so does not mention it.

“I would not be opposed to that arrangement.”

Kirk only nods, and turns towards the sonic to prepare himself for sleep. Spock opts to wait his turn outside.

When he has finished getting dressed, Kirk is waiting at the bedside, presumably so that Spock will not need to climb over him. He’s dressed in a long sleeve shirt, and Spock realizes he has done so to minimize the potential for skin contact. It is a thoughtful gesture, even though it will likely leave him uncomfortable. Spock knows how to compromise, too.

“I can adjust the climate controls, if that would be more comfortable for you.” It will be less comfortable for Spock, but perhaps the heat of another body will make up for it.

“That'd be great, actually. Thanks.” Kirk’s shoulders relax in visible relief. The air compressor is loud in the uneasy silence when it cuts on.

Spock does not allow the liminal moment to linger any longer than necessary, and slips under the sheets. Kirk joins him not long after. They turn back to back, and even with Spock’s nose nearly flush to the wall and Kirk nearly leaning over the edge, there is only a scant inch or so between them. The bed was not designed with two people in mind.

“Computer, lights off.”

In the darkness, Kirk’s warmth and breathing, even his scent, are more evident with one sense denied. Spock tries to think of anything else in hopes of narrowing his focus on rest, which naturally always results in the opposite of the desired effect. Kirk must feel the same, because minutes pass and despite his earlier exhaustion, his breathing fails to even out.

Should he say something? It feels customary to say something.

“Goodnight, Jim.” He offers quietly. It is awkward. The moment for having said anything passed long ago. Kirk shifts slightly under the sheets.

“‘Night, Spock.” He replies after a moment. 

Eventually, Kirk drifts off. He must, because even without skin contact their proximity is enough that Spock can sense the faint psionic energy rippling off his mind leveling out like a sea on a calm afternoon. His presence laps gently at the edges of his psyche, and soon enough the rhythmic metronome of his distant dreaming lulls Spock to sleep in kind. 

Chapter Text

Subject Log Stardate 2394.6: Uh. Hi there. I’m Jim, uh, Lt. James Kirk. Sorry, this is a little awkward. I’m not used to people listening to my personal logs, but if you’re out there you’ve probably read my file already so I figure we’re past the point of introductions. I guess I’m supposed to tell you my first impressions about my match, huh? I don’t know, how could anybody even hope to describe Spock? I don’t wanna say he’s ‘not like other Vulcans’ cause I know he’s got a chip on his shoulder about his mom. He’s a great Vulcan. Very stoic, perfectly logical. But you knew that. There’s just something about him. The second you meet him it’s like–it’s like BAM!–like something’s gone click in your head and you just know he’s something special. I can’t really explain it. You could call it intuition, but he’d probably hate that. I’m not just saying that cause he’s hot–I mean he is. Good looking. Have you ever met someone you had a bad feeling about and their whole vibe makes you uneasy or put off? This is the opposite of that. It’s like when we picked Bones up on Dramia II and he threw up on my feet in the shuttle and right away I knew he was one of the good ones. That’s uh, Dr. Leonard McCoy, my friend back on the Farragut. That was just my gut though. With Spock, it’s like you can literally feel it. Ugh, this is stupid, what am I even saying… Anyway, if you perverts were hoping for a play-by-play of us getting it on like rabbits, I’m sorry to disappoint. We’ve played a few more rounds of chess and that’s about it. We get along fine, but I don’t think he’s really interested in me like that. I’m not saying I want out, I’m just not sold on the idea you can crunch some numbers and lock people in a room together and make the magic happen. I just don’t want it to be a shocker when we split up in the end, that’s all. Kirk out.

“We’re not gonna get caught.” Jim’s stage whispering only serves to enhance the drama of tip-toeing around in the middle of the night since his voice echoes off the tile regardless. 

“Our behavior is suspicious,” Spock says. His head whips over his shoulder to look behind them every time he hears so much as a tick in the pipes.

“It’s almost three in the morning, no one is gonna be down here.” Point in fact, privacy is a foregone conclusion. Jim had to get crafty about overriding the safety lock that seals after 11 PM. “Didn’t you ever sneak out when you were a teenager?”

“No.” 

Alright, that one’s on Jim. The answer should have been obvious. 

“So I’m your first, huh? Wanna make-out in the back of my dad’s car? It’s practically a human right of passage.” Jim runs the magnet strip on the hacked keycard between his lips so it’ll swipe better and Spock’s eyes nearly bug out of his skull. Jim snorts out a laugh he doesn’t manage to suppress. “Relax, I was just kidding.” 

Spock doesn’t release the tension in his shoulders until the access light blinks green and the door clicks open. Jim flicks on the lights and, sure enough, the deck is a ghost town. It’s haunted with a liminal eeriness under the harsh fluorescents, all sterile white and inorganic lines. Reminds him of a hotel he stayed in once as a kid when his parents decided a good old fashioned American road trip sounded like a quality bonding experience. Stinks of chlorine just the same. 

“See? What’d I tell you.”

Jim reckons a thalassophobe stranded on Argo couldn’t hold a candle to Spock’s panic response at the first sight of the pool. Which is to say, Jim catches him honest to god wringing his hands in his towel to stave off the nervous energy. He has to remind himself over and over that this is very serious business and not funny in any way whatsoever. Spock has entrusted him with a deeply personal secret and Jim’s not shitty enough to make him regret that vulnerability. 

“We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.” He offers, nudging their shoulders together so Spock will be encouraged to look at him instead of the water. “We can just put our feet in or something. Come back tomorrow if it’s too much.”

“I understand that you are attempting to ‘soften the blow,’ however I am no longer afforded the luxury of procrastination.” Spock shifts uneasily on the pool deck, trying to put on a brave face. Anyone else would probably say he looks just as void of affect as he ever does, but Jim’s convinced he’s starting to get a good enough read on him to know better.

Spock is right though, as much as he must hate to admit it. The swimming test is scheduled for two days from now. There’s no putting this off any longer.

He’s lucky he got advanced warning in the first place. Jim had let slip over dinner that Number One had him working with La’an again and the security team was going to be holding a surprise aquatic safety physical this week. Apparently there’d been an incident on another vessel involving a shuttlecraft in emergency re-entry protocol that was forced to crash land in an ocean planetside. The shields failed, and they were lucky enough not to burn up in the atmosphere, but the shuttle broke apart on impact. One of the ensigns didn’t know how to swim and consequently drowned. Now Starfleet is issuing mandatory training in response. 

Jim had thought it little more than a mild inconvenience to get the whole crew scheduled for testing, but you’d have thought Spock had been shot. Getting him to admit he didn’t know how to swim was like pulling teeth. Jim told him it really wasn’t a big deal. Not like they’re gonna kick him off the ship if he fails. They’ll just stick him in mandatory night lessons, but Jim can understand not wanting to be embarrassed in front of the crew. They’d totally take the chance to rib him about knowing something he didn’t. It was Jim’s idea to sneak down here for a private lesson.

“You really wanna do this?” Jim takes their towels and communicators and tosses them aside on one of the deck chairs, tracking Spock’s movements from the corner of his eye to keep a gauge on his apprehension.

“‘Want’ is perhaps a poor choice of phrasing, however I am willing to do what is necessary to master this skill.” Spock approaches the edge of the five foot section like it poses a biological hazard. He watches the water carefully as if he expects a kraken could breach the surface and suck him under at any moment. 

“You’re sure? You’re really sure?” Jim sidles up beside him and gazes down into the depths to check for sea monsters. It’s nothing but crystal blue persuasion straight to the bottom.

“Jim…” Spock warns.

“Fine. You trust me?” 

“Yes.” Spock nods, dutiful and serious, like Jim’s signed his death warrant and he means to carry out the order with unflinching resolve. He can’t help but smile.

“Alright, I just had to check because–”

He reaches out, quick as a bolt of lightning, and shoves Spock low on his center of gravity, sending him careening into the water all flailing limbs. He smacks the surface square on his ass and the water splashes up onto the deck. Jim howls with laughter and dives in after him.

When he breaks the surface, Spock is flailing and gasping, eyes wide and terrified. Jim reaches out and wraps his hands around his biceps over his wetsuit.

“It’s alright, you’re fine. It’s shallow enough to stand here. See? Nothing to be scared of.” Jim tightens his grip a little and only lets go when Spock’s feet hit the bottom. He shoots him the filthiest look, but the threat’s entirely washed out  with his wet hair dripping in his eyes. 

“Why did you do that?” Spock snaps. He runs his hands down his arms and chest over the tight black material like he’s trying to wipe the water off. Jim will admit he was a little disappointed he opted for the bodysuit over the trunks, but it makes sense. The pool is heated, but even still it probably feels like an ice bath to a Vulcan. “Respond.”

“I’m sorry, I had to, okay? Getting in is the worst part. If I let you dip your toes in you’d feel how cold it was and psych yourself out. You just gotta bite the bullet.” Jim ducks his head under again, getting his hair good and wet, and comes up for air shaking like a dog. Spock flinches at the droplets. “Hard part’s over now.”

“You should hope that you are certain of that claim.” Spock glares at him with daggers for eyes as if the whole thing’s his fault. You try to do a man a favor…

“Or what? You’ll make me sleep on the couch tonight?” Jim snorts. “Look. This is an in-and-out job, alright? You don’t have to be an Interplanetary Olympian, you just need to pass. The test has three parts: the front crawl, treading water, and submerged object retrieval. If you master the basics, you’ll be just fine.”

Spock nods along, and it already looks like he’s starting to shiver. They’ll make this quick before his fingers prune and his lips go green. 

“Right, so…” Jim rubs his hands together, thinking. He’s never actually taught anyone to swim before, and it’s not like he remembers learning himself. He opts to take a scientific approach, seems like that’s best suited to his audience. “It’s all in the core. You have to keep tension in your legs and stomach. If you can do that, your body’s natural buoyancy will take care of the rest. We’ll just try floating on your back first.”

Jim demonstrates, leaning back gently into the water and kicking his feet up and arms out, only moving his hands very slightly. He undulates up and down, with his face just above the surface. Spock watches him, completely mystified.

“You are not sinking.” He remarks skeptically.

“No, of course not. Come on, you know this. The human body is slightly less dense than water and it helps when your lungs are full of air.” Jim slowly paddles in a small, lazy circle around Spock’s position before righting himself when he comes back around.

“I am Vulcan…” He’s making excuses that border on illogical now, but Jim’s not going to insult him by pointing it out.

“I haven’t forgotten, but I don’t think you were born with lead bones and iridium skin so I think you’re gonna be just fine. I’ll hold you so there’s no chance you’ll go under. Here, put your arms around my neck.” Jim squats down low enough his shoulders dip under the water and Spock eyes him apprehensively. Telling him to touch is a big ask when he’s already miles outside his comfort zone, but it’s not like they’ve got kick boards and water wings to work with here. Eventually, he relents and slips his arms over his shoulders and flattens his palms against his back. Jim reaches one arm down behind his knees and the other behind the small of his back and sweeps him off the bottom of the pool. Spock jumps with surprise and tosses his chin over his shoulder, clinging on for dear life. Jim has to bite his lip to fight the urge to laugh. “It’s alright. You’re not gonna sink.”

He slowly starts to lean him back into the water and Spock’s fingers tighten in his hair with a grip strong enough to rip it out from the root. He dips him farther but Spock insists on dragging Jim down with him. His brown eyes are wide with fright, faces just inches apart. Jim licks his lips.

“Spock… You have to let go,” He says. Spock’s fingers only dig tighter against his scalp. “I’ve got you. Promise.”

Spock nods and relaxes his grip, but his whole body goes rigid with tension. Jim reaches around to coax his limbs into unwinding until he’s lying flat on the surface with Jim still supporting the majority of his weight. 

“See? You’re light as a feather, I barely have to do anything.” It’s not entirely true, Spock is definitely a little less buoyant than a human, but he’s not going to tell him that. The placebo effect is a powerful ally. “Now just close your eyes and focus on your muscles. Keep your core and your thighs flexed and spread out your arms.” 

Spock’s gaze is locked on his like targeted phasers but he’s good at following directions and he does close his eyes eventually. Jim relaxes the arm holding his legs a bit and can feel them dipping, so he pinches the soft meat of his ass to get him to startle on reflex. 

“Yeah, now don’t relax that tension. Think of it like meditation.” Jim speaks softly. He just stands there for several minutes and lets him become adjusted to the feeling of weightlessness, the only sound the white noise of the filters and the soft lapping of the water against their skin. Finally, when he’s not shaking like a leaf anymore, Jim decides it’s time for the next step. “So now you want to cup your hands in little paddles and just move your arms up and down parallel to your body, like a bird flapping. Not too fast, though. You should be able to feel yourself lifting slightly.”

Spock does as he’s told. His hair fans out in the water in a soft dark halo, and he looks infinitely less severe like this without the trimmings of flawless Vulcan precision. His face looks like it does when he’s sleeping, the only time it ever seems to relax from its tight, blank mask. Jim’s content to steal a glimpse in secret while he’s not paying attention.

It takes a bit of trial and error, but he gets the hang of it eventually and Jim can get away with just a slight brush of his hands under his body. He’s not really doing any of the work now, but it’s a sense of security thing, like training wheels on a bike. But, he’s got to take them off eventually.

“I’m just warning you, I’m gonna take my hand out from under your legs. You’re gonna feel them sinking a little but that’s okay that’s the point. You want to keep your body in a straight line so your head comes out of the water like a see-saw and then you’ll be upright. You ready?” Spock nods the okay, but as soon as Jim pulls away and he senses his body beginning to sink slightly, he freaks out.

“Jim!” His hand darts out to catch his and their fingers connect. The emotional transference feels like licking a nine-volt battery and the fear shoots up his spine and straight to his cortex. For a moment, it mingles with his own mind so seamlessly Jim nearly confuses the feeling for his own. It’s intense, and a bit disorienting. He tightens the grip on his hand.

“You’re doing great. You’re a fast learner, you know that? You’ve done more in an hour than most people manage in a week.” Jim squeezes again, picking up on the subtle, pleased little flicker that passes all too quickly at the praise. “You’ve got this. Wanna try again?” 

“Affirmative.” Spock draws his hand back and resumes the position. Jim gives him a minute to reacclimate again before he nods the okay. This time, he does better. Maybe a piece of half-human instinct takes over or maybe he was just watching Jim closely earlier because he realizes he needs to kick his feet a little. By the time Jim takes his hands back completely, he’s treading water.

“You’ve got it! I bet you’re a natural at everything, I don’t know what you were worried about.” He beams in his direction, and Spock’s face blooms a bit green over the bridge of his nose. Jim files sensitive to praise away in a lock-box in that part of his brain that has a bad habit of getting him into trouble, and promptly tries to forget about it. Unsuccessfully.

“Thank you for assisting me. You had no obligation to do so.” Spock says quietly, and it sounds too much like an apology. Jim’s gotten the impression in his time on the Enterprise that all too often Spock is made to feel like his Vulcanness is an imposition. He decides he’s going to do everything he can to remind him that isn’t true. It’s just another part of what makes him Spock.

“Don’t mention it. What are friends for?” Jim says. Spock raises his eyebrows at the word ‘friend’ but he doesn’t challenge it. He counts that as a small victory. It’s only then, once he’s relaxed his feet on the bottom of the pool again, that Jim notices he’s shivering. “I think it’s time we called it a night. One for three is pretty solid. We can finish the rest tomorrow.”

Spock nods, and they make their way to the step ladder. Jim tosses him a towel once they’re back on the deck, and he immediately tries to squeegee all the water away like a man possessed. He scrubs the fabric over his head and it leaves his hair a rucked up mess. 

“Jim?” He looks up at the sound of his name. Spock looks so soft like this it makes his chest hurt. “I do not find swimming to be a pleasing pastime.”

Jim laughs, with him not at him, and his mouth quirks up at the edges too, if only for a moment.

“I’ll be sure not to book our fake honeymoon at a Risan beach resort.” 

☿   ♀   🜨   ♂   ♃   ♄   ⛢   ♆

Organizing the swim test is a dull affair, but at least it gives Jim a chance to work on his tan. Artificially, at least. The pool deck is outfitted with special lights during the day intended to mimic sunlight. Supposed to be good for mood regulation or something. He posts up in a deck chair, PADD in hand, and alternates between checking off names as they pass through and reading through the mission file Number One passed along for the drop down on Khione. Somehow the idea of a planet full of beautiful women doesn’t get his motor running as much as it would have as a cadet. Jim scrolls idly past the rows of photographs he’s meant to memorize, all plump pale faces and blonde hair in sparkling headdresses bedecked in tinkling silver baubles. It’s hard to tell them apart.

“Shopping for a favorite?” La’an says like it’s meant to be a joke, but Jim can tell there’s an undercurrent of venom in it. Hard to say how long she’s been standing over his shoulder. She’s allegedly here on ‘lifeguard duty,’ not that anyone so far has needed it, though Jim can think of one who still might…

“I’m off the market.” He smiles tightly. She’s had a bone to pick with him from the start, and all Jim can figure is Sam’s been talking real trash at the crew happy hour. At least they’re on speaking terms now, that’s an improvement. “You can thank the XO, she told me I should have the delegates' names memorized before we beam down.”

“Could have fooled me, I thought a kiss and run was your style,” she says, airy and unaffected. Whatever. Jim doesn’t need to be all buddy-buddy with everyone on the ship. It’s not worth letting her get a rise out of him.

“I prefer brunettes.” He shrugs. Figures that ought to sour her attitude, but she stiffens up at that. Gets that look in her eye again she had on the first day, all distant and far away. Hard to say where it is she’s gone. Jim flips his aviators back down and leans back on the deck chair. He could go for a nap right about now. Or a mai tai. 

“Looks like your boyfriend’s in the next rotation,” she remarks idly. If Jim didn’t know better he’d swear there’s a hint of jealousy in there.

“Betrothed.” He corrects automatically. He feels like a broken record saying it all the time, but Spock said that’s the appropriate term and he’s trying this new thing called cultural sensitivity that seems to be a foreign concept on this ship. Wait, Spock’s next? Oh no… “Hey, wait a minute–”

Jim jumps up, straddling the chair and scans the pool deck. It’s nearly the end of the day, so it’s pretty slow down here at this point.  He’s gonna pass. They practiced again last night until he was practically green in the face from holding his breath so long. Took a lot of tries and a lot of water up the nose til he figured out the whole positive pressure thing. Still, the fewer people who are around to watch the better.

“I know this is kind of an ask, but…” Jim lowers his voice and checks over his shoulder to be sure no one’s in earshot. “Do you think we can push Spock to the end of this group?”

“Oh, so you’re playing favorites?” Alright, now she’s just being difficult for the sake of it. Jim rolls his eyes.

“It’s a mandatory safety physical, I’m not asking you to skip him just…” Jim huffs in exasperation. He’s not trying to betray Spock’s confidence, but he doesn’t want him to choke on the test either. “He doesn’t like swimming, okay? Don’t make him do it infront of more people than he has to.” 

La’an actually softens a touch at that, and Jim can tell she’s considering it. She looks across the deck to where a gaggle of girls from the sciences are huddled up and chatting near the door. She edits something on her PADD.

“He can go last.” She relents. 

“Thanks, I owe you one.” Jim lets out a sigh of relief. “I mean it. Don’t be afraid to cash in.”

She doesn’t humor that with a response. La’an blows the whistle and manages to corral the ensigns in their science-blue one pieces into formation for the test, but Jim’s eyes are on the door waiting for Spock. For a minute, he worries he’s not going to show up at all, but that would be out of character. He catches sight of him lingering just beyond the glass, dressed in his wetsuit and looking every bit the picture of Vulcan stoicism. He doesn’t have long to get antsy, though. 

“Hey! If you’re finished, clear out! Don’t crowd the deck!” La’an yells at the people loitering around to make themselves scarce, and Jim flashes her a grateful look she doesn’t deign to acknowledge.

When Spock comes in, they catch eyes for a moment and Jim flashes him a corny double thumbs up.

“You really like him, don’t you?” La’an says and this time it doesn’t sound like a joke.

It’s a loaded question with a mandatory answer under the circumstances. He watches Spock awkwardly approach the water, all thin, gangly limbs and narrow frame exaggerated by the contours of the slim black suit. He sizes up the pool, calculating, like he’s still not sure if it's a specimen or an adversary.

“Yeah.” He smiles. “I do.”

“I can tell,” she says, and it’s underpinned with a note of melancholy. 

She blows the whistle again, and Spock wades in up to his chest looking about as morose as his Vulcan sensibilities will allow. Jim holds his breath. 

The test goes, surprisingly, without issue. Spock’s nothing short of awkward and miserable in the water, but he manages. Two minutes treading water, two laps freestyle. He fumbles around at the bottom of the pool looking for the ring (Jim couldn’t convince him to open his eyes underwater) but he grabs it after a second and surfaces unscathed. The whole thing barely lasts five minutes in the end. 

The second he’s through, Jim rushes over to the edge with a towel and hauls him up out of the water by the arm, a proud grin splitting ear to ear. He wraps the towel over his shoulders and gives a tight squeeze, rubbing the heat into his back with his palms.

“I’m never taking you swimming again. Promise,” He whispers for his ears only. 

“Let us hope it is never required.” It’s laced with Spock’s usual flat humor that lets him know he’s just fine. Jim smiles, big and bright. When he looks back over his shoulder, La’an turns away.

☿   ♀   🜨   ♂   ♃   ♄   ⛢   ♆

“Come on, pick up…” Jim pleads with the console in Spock’s quarters as if it has any real say in the matter. Ship’s time on the Farragut is the same as the Enterprise, a constant throughout the Fleet synced with San Francisco, but there’s no telling if Bones is on shift. The price of being on the medical staff.

He’s probably got another hour at least before Spock gets back from the lab. Something about it being easier to book time on the instruments in the off hours, but Jim suspects he might have needed a little alone time. They’ve been spending a lot of time together lately. Sure, there’s work and all. Jim hardly catches a glimpse of him during alpha save for a nod of acknowledgement when he’s trailing Number One around the bridge, PADD in hand, taking notes like her hot little secretary. But when they’re off duty, they’re hardly ever apart. 

It’s a perfect storm of circumstances. They’re sharing quarters, that much is unavoidable, but there’s also the fact Jim doesn’t know anyone else on the ship. There’s Sam, though the way things are going he’d be better off without him. La’an has warmed up to him beyond absolute zero and he’s friendly enough with Ortegas and Uhura, but they’re hardly on good enough terms to justify inviting them to ping-pong in the rec room. 

That leaves Spock. They sleep together, eat together, pass the better part of their evenings faking bedroom eyes over the chess board together… It’s like he’s grown a siamese twin. It’s not all bad, not really. Spock is easy enough company so Jim can’t say he minds that much himself. But he’s a social butterfly, and Spock hardly seems the type who’s accustomed to having someone crawled up his ass all the time. He can’t fault the guy if he’s sick of looking at his face by now.

Jim's had a few girlfriends like that, the clingy sort, the kind that take personal offense when you dare take a piss without an escort service. It always stales in a week or two. A night out of character is hardly going to spoil the ruse. Space is good. God knows there’s enough of it out here to go around.

Finally, the call picks up on the second dial and the subspace static resolves into the Farragut.

“Well, if it isn’t the man of the hour. Haven’t heard from you, kid. We had a betting pool going on whether or not that Vulcan bride of yours wised up and shoved you out the airlock yet.” Bones is in his cabin nursing a rocks glass full of something dangerous, which means he’s not scheduled to scrub in tonight. Must be a dull week on the Farragut, too. With any luck, the Romulans will keep quiet out here. “How’s married life treating you?”

“Really great, thanks for asking. You know we’re talking about buying a house. Picket fence, two point five kids, maybe even a dog. How do you feel about the name ‘Argos’? Too erudite?” Jim kicks his feet up on the desk and makes himself at home. Among all the tacky chintz in Spock’s quarters he found a weird Rubik’s cube with squares that change color depending on which angle you’re viewing it from. It’s been kicking his ass all night. Looks like there might be three unique solved states. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve actually been stringing this poor bastard along…” Bones shoots him an unamused glare. Jim gets the impression he only picked up because he’s been itching to lay that ‘I told you so’ speech on him, so it’s nice to turn the tables. 

“What? No! Of course not! I’m not that much of an asshole…” Jim cusses under his breath and reshuffles the puzzle again. It’s disorienting. He sighs. “Actually, in a weird way, I guess you could say it worked out as well as it could have. Turns out he didn’t want to get married either. Apparently arranged marriages are still a thing on Vulcan, and he was just trying to get out of his. I promised I’d help him convince his parents he’s no longer an eligible bachelor if he let me play stowaway for a few weeks.” 

“Jesus, it’s always something with you, isn’t it? Ridiculous…” Bones rolls his eyes and refills his drink. He’s told Jim on more than one occasion his ex-wife’s the one who’s gonna give him cirrhosis but he’s giving her a run for her money. “You’re just lucky he didn’t report you.”

“I’m being chivalrous, alright? This sort of thing should be illegal in the Federation. I’m making a political statement. Conscientious objection.” Jim shrugs. He looks back at the puzzle again. New attack strategy: first the blue side, then the yellow. The perpendicular view yellow. Ugh, whatever. 

“Is that your new excuse? Doing the heartless hobgoblin a favor?” Bones kisses his teeth. 

“Oh come on, he’s nothing like that. Don’t be a dick,” Jim says. They’ve all heard the stereotypes. Brutus Erat Logica –the unofficial motto of the opposition to the Federation’s founding. There are bigots everywhere. “He’s my friend.”

“Vulcans don’t have friends. You’d be better off anthropomorphizing a pet rock,” Bones says. It’s not like Spock hadn’t told him the same thing, more or less. But if not friends, what are they? Co-conspirators? Jim decides it doesn’t matter if Spock thinks of him as a friend, he can still be one to him.

“I told you he’s not the walking computer you think he is. He’s pretty funny. Got a kind of dry, sardonic sense of humor. And a snowglobe collection.” Jim reaches for the shelf and holds up the little trinket for the camera, making an imaginary snow day on the Academy grounds. “And this bird fountain… thing. See? It’s cute.”

“I’ll upgrade him to chia pet.” Bones rolls his eyes. “Well, better you than me I suppose. Reckon I’d sooner crawl back to Jocelyn.”

Jim is careful to replace the snow globe where he found it beside the picture frame, keeping the scene rotated at an aesthetically pleasing angle. There’s not a speck of dust anywhere on the shelves, Spock’s made sure of that.

“It’s fine. Really. He's kind of a blanket hog but that’s my fault. I made him turn the air down cause he keeps this place hotter than the threshold of hell.” Jim gestures to his outfit, which is less of an outfit and little more than a set of non-regulation checkered boxers, as if to prove his point. “But he didn’t complain when I suggested chess and drinks for the third date in a row. He’s easier to please than Carol was, I’ll tell you that much. If I never have to pretend to care about Keeping Up with the Cardassians again it’ll be too soon.” 

“You’re sleeping together?” Bones nearly chokes on his drink. He hammers his fist against his chest and coughs it back up. 

“I mean yeah, it’s not like they set me up in the penthouse suite. What, did you think I was gonna sleep on the floor?” Jim gestures to him like he’s some kind of idiot before the implication dawns on him. “God, not like that! You’ve been hanging out with Gaila too much while I’ve been gone. Get your mind out of the gutter. It’s a perfectly logical arrangement.”

Jim sinks down into the desk chair and swivels idly with his bare feet. He pulls out the puzzle again cause he’s always been a fidgetter. It doesn’t help that the shaft’s stiff and the stickers are worn off from Spock’s fingers. Maybe he’s got lube in one of the drawers…

“Logical. Yeah, I’m sure. Listen to yourself. Tch, logic my ass…” Bones has that exasperated tone he gets when he’s tired of hearing about Jim’s latest ‘Section 31 killed Zeframe Cochrane’ conspiracy theory. “Now I know why you couldn’t be bothered to call your friends. Thought maybe you were getting too big for your britches over there in the major leagues.”

“I’ve been busy! Number One realized I’m not a total green hand so she’s been dumping enough paperwork on me for five people, and I’ve only got the night off fake boyfriend duty cause Spock’s running some kind of matter-antimatter fission experiment.” Jim waves his hand over his shoulder dismissively. “Gonna kick his ass in the blindfolded Rubik’s cube tournament tomorrow, though. We hit the pool on Thursday. Apparently Spock didn’t know how to swim. I know, I didn’t believe it either, but I guess it makes sense when you remember Vulcan’s a desert planet. And no, I did not laugh, I said I’d teach him, hence the pool. You ever seen a wet Vulcan before? They kind of look like soggy kittens. Oh, and we were gonna watch Contact because someone–” Jim looks pointedly at the camera. “ – thinks Jodie Foster can’t act and you know I hate watching movies by myself. Anyway, point is I’ve got a lot going on.”

“I can see that you’re right dedicated to playing house...” Bones hums, nodding to himself, lost in contemplation.

Jim doesn’t entertain that comment with a response. He pretends to ignore how his eyes narrow at him over the screen and focuses on the pleasant clicking sound of the puzzle between his fingers. A long minute passes and Bones sips his drink, rocking back and forth in his chair. You might be forgiven for thinking he was on the back porch in high cotton instead of a starship.

“You know what I find a mite unusual?” He says finally, and Jim already knows he’s not gonna like where this is going from the way his drawl comes through in the vowels. “You’ve not said a damn thing about the Enterprise all night. Haven’t let me get a word in edgewise about things round here neither.”

“I’ve been following the news over subspace…” Jim says, strategically nonchalant. He flicks the same turn round and round the edge of the puzzle, waiting for the shoe to drop–whatever it’s going to be. He spins the chair so Bones can only catch his expression in profile.

“Aww hell, Jim! Just admit it! You’re sweet on the damned Vulcan,” Bones says, waggling one finger at the viewscreen like he’s making an objection in a court of law.

He’s got a smug look about the eyes like the cat who got the cream and all it serves to do is light Jim up something fierce. Sam’s got half the fleet thinking he’ll fuck just about anything what spreads its legs, but Bones has hauled his ass out of enough benders and bar brawls to know it’s always Jim who winds up with his heart broke. 

“What?!” Jim’s face passes through five stages of grief and confusion before stitching up into a look of thorough disbelief. “No! Hell no! Just because I’m being nice to the guy doesn’t mean I’m trying to get in his pants! I get accused of that enough from everyone else, you of all people should know that isn’t true.”

“That’s not what I said, that’s what you wanted to hear,” Bones says, tipping his drink back. “I said you’ve taken a shine to him, and I don’t mean how you get with the floozies who troll around in the port bars.”

“It's a four-week marriage of convenience.” Jim can sense himself getting defensive, sets his jaw with his tongue on the roof of his mouth like he’s ready to take a punch and isn’t looking to cut a tooth. 

“I reckon you’re so full of shit your eyes are brown,” Bones counters.

“I get it!” Jim snaps. “We’re gonna go to Vulcan and I’ll kiss his parents’ ass and I’ll come back to the Farragut and never hear from him again! I wasn’t born yesterday. Is that what you wanna hear? Huh?”

Bones sighs, long suffering, and leans back in the chair. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, doesn’t rise to the bait.

“I’m allowed to worry about you,” He says finally. 

“What’s that you’re always saying? You’re a doctor, not a therapist?” Jim’s never been one to wind down quick once he’s spun up. “Maybe you should start acting like it.”

“I’m sorry.” Bones, for once, has the couth to look apologetic. “I wasn’t trying to get you all worked up. Forget I said anything.”

“Maybe we should,” He says.

The silence that follows is uneasy. Jim turns the puzzle over in his hands, but the tiles won’t stop shifting in the light. Blue, yellow, blue, yellow… Finally he gives up and tosses it back in the drawer. 

Chapter Text

Subject Log Stardate 2394.8: I have notified my parents regarding my newly betrothed status as I will be returning to Vulcan in 2.35 standard weeks at the commencement of our quarterly shore leave coinciding with the Terran winter holidays. As we are currently stationed a mere 25.05 lightyears from the Vulcan system, I find their lack of response curious as we have not been notified of any subspace transmission relay outages in the region. Therefore, I must conclude that their failure to reply communicates their displeasure with my choice of bondmate. I find this to be of little consequence, as my father and I have frequently been at odds regarding the trajectory of my career and personal life. If I were to extrapolate from previous data, my father’s dissatisfaction only serves to mark my choice as the correct one. 

In answer to the day’s prompt concerning emotional attachment to my chosen match, I… The lieutenant and myself share a number of common interests and values beyond the superficial. I have thus far found his curiosity for the mysteries of deep space and commitment to exemplifying the ideals of Starfleet both on and off duty to be strongly aligned with my personal moral philosophies despite the fact he is profoundly… human. Kirk has proven an insightful and loyal confidant. I have not shared such a rapport with another previously, as it is not the custom on Vulcan. I am beginning to find his company valuable to me in a manner most unfamiliar. His presence is frequently associated with increased energy, narrowing of mental focus, and occasionally light-headedness as well as elevated heart-rate and norepinephrine levels. As this physiological response is not noted in any Vulcan medical science journals, I am left to conclude this is the human aspect of my biology reacting to a uniquely human stimulus. I do not know what, if any, deeper meaning this signifies. I will continue to make observations regarding my impressions of the lieutenant as directed. Spock out. 

Spock is not in the habit of waking up any earlier or later than he intends to unless interrupted by red or yellow alerts requiring all personnel aboard report to stations. That is precisely why when he rouses and checks the chrono to see it is 2:37 AM ship’s time and there are no alarms blaring on deck, he becomes suspicious of his surroundings. It does not take long to realize the source of his disturbance is Jim. 

The width of the bed is far too narrow for two grown men to fit comfortably with enough space to allow for no contact. Spock was forced to adapt to the reality that each night their combined weight creates a valley in the center of the mattress and gravity draws their bodies together down the path of least resistance in their sleep. Jim makes an effort to wear long sleeves to minimize the potential for accidental skin contact, for which Spock is grateful, but the thin material only helps so much. Jim’s mind projects like a beacon, a lighthouse in the darkness guiding lost sailors of old safely home. He is so bright. When they are this close, Spock can sense the swirling eddies of his psyche waxing and waning as the tides and breaking on the edges of his shielding. It is hard to say if this is little more than a curious biological oddity for a member of a psy-null species or if Spock is uniquely attuned to the resonance of his thoughts. 

Spock draws the sheets over his nose in the cold air of the cabin, mind yet swollen with the cotton of sleep, and inches back against Jim’s radiant body heat for warmth. Jim makes a hoarse sound in his throat and huddles closer, one hand digging into the fabric of Spock’s pajamas and his face presses against the nape of his neck. The touch flashes and imprints a vague vignette of his thoughts, how lightning illuminates the visual field for the briefest instant. He is dreaming.

Spock is familiar with the phenomenon though he has never experienced it himself. It remains poorly understood, though it is conjectured to be a neurological adaptation that allows humans to process and store information on physical and emotional stimuli encountered during their waking hours, much as Vulcans are trained to do through meditation. Spock had once idly wondered if this was perhaps evolutionarily advantageous as it required no mental training nor detracted from time otherwise spent on productive matters. The sterile, clinical accountings available in textbooks did not prepare him for the emotional intensity humans experience during the process.

It is not the first night Jim has dreamed, though Spock would not say he has previously found it disruptive or distracting. One might equate it to a mild white noise akin to the hum of the cosmic background radiation heard through the radio telescope receiver. Tonight, Jim’s mind is stormy and tangled, and the impressions washing off him are difficult to categorize. He is profoundly terrified, and the adrenaline sparks static across Spock’s weakened shielding, occasionally cracking thunderous between them with something that bears the texture of desperation. The sensation leaves Spock feeling nauseous, a pang in his stomach that encourages him to cramp and double over at the midsection on reflex. 

This is Jim’s mind attempting to sort through his emotions and experiences. The danger is little more than a harmless fabrication, he reminds himself. Spock should not interfere with what is a natural and healthy process for humans. Nevertheless, it is difficult to watch Jim suffer so terrifically and offer no aid, even if it is natural. While the dream itself is a fiction, Jim’s emotional response is all too real. Spock does not understand. All has been quiet in the quadrant of late, and there is no imminent threat to either the ship or Federation at large to be worthy of such deep anxiety. Perhaps, then, it is a distant memory that his mind continues to grapple with rationalizing even now. Spock does not wish to consider the nature of such an experience that would prove so haunting.

Jim makes another pained and desperate sound, and clutches harder. His fingers dig into Spock’s ribs. Spock can sense his pulse elevating, heart beating against his ribcage where Jim’s hand rests over his side. He resolves to wake him, and tells himself it is only because he will not be able to return to sleep in their current state. 

“Jim,” Spock whispers. He turns over in their hollow valley in the mattress and their faces are quite close like this. In the dim orange sodium lamp of the emergency beacon, he can read the outline of his tumultuous expression. He repeats his name again, a bit louder this time. “Jim?”

Spock nudges his arm, shaking him gently, and eventually Jim’s eyes flutter open. His expression is glassy and far away.

“I am sorry to wake you. You were emotionally distressed. I believe you were experiencing a ‘nightmare.’” Spock draws his hand back and Jim shifts a bit closer, burying his nose sleepily in the pillow near the crook of Spock’s neck. The damp warmth of his breath licks his skin. Spock shivers.

“Shit, ‘m sorry…” He mumbles, not all there. He sighs. “Shoulda warned you…”

Jim rolls over onto his stomach, head still facing Spock’s direction. He’s taking up more space than he’s due by rights, but Spock doesn’t mind the proximity. He eyes the soft lines of his face, still wrinkled slightly with worry. If he falls back to sleep now, it is likely the dream will return.

“If you would permit me, I would offer my assistance in dispelling the disturbing thoughts,” he whispers. It is not a typical offering. Such an act would be considered quite intimate on Vulcan, and is only rarely practiced even in the medical field with those experiencing intrusive thoughts due to acute post-traumatic stress response. Spock finds he does not wish to witness Jim’s suffering if he does not have to.

“You mean… make me forget? I… There are some things I can’t afford to forget. No matter how bad I want to,” Jim mumbles grimly. Spock can tell by the way his eyes don’t focus right in the darkness that he can’t quite see his face.

“Not forget, no. I would merely offer a… distraction.” This is, perhaps, an inadvisable course of action, but it would be rude to retract the offer now that he’s made it.

“Alright. If you think it’ll help. Don’t wanna keep you up…” Jim’s voice is slurred lazy with sleep.

“Please close your eyes.”

Jim does as he’s told, eyes drooping shut again and he sniffles against the pillow, shuffling slightly to make himself comfortable. Spock takes in a sharp breath and lifts his hand, letting his fingers hover over Jim’s temple with slight indecision for a moment. It’s not a meld, not enough to see anything of substance, just enough contact to impart an abstract impression of a thought. Spock relaxes and brushes the pads of his fingers across the lick of his cheek bone, allowing the touch to settle over the thrumb of his heartbeat.

He chooses an innocuous memory to channel, something suitably benign and laced with nothing but easy peace and contentment. His mind gravitates to earlier in the evening when he and Jim were seated shoulder to shoulder on the observation deck, chatting idly about nothing in particular and watching the swirling purple landscape of the surrounding nebula through the viewport. He allows his emotional state in that moment to pass through their touch and flow into Jim with the easy, unintrusive trickle of a babbling brook. 

“Mmm…” Jim sighs contentedly. “Feels nice…”

Such an odd response. Humans are usually quite apprehensive about psionic contact, and it often leaves them uneasy. La’an had told him as much after the meld they shared. Jim’s mind is naturally receptive to the contact, and it requires no conscious effort on Spock’s part to keep the line open and flowing freely between them. Jim dozes quickly under the touch, his mind quieting down to the faintest mellow whisper. Spock does not draw away, hand lingering until he has drifted off into unconsciousness. His hand feels as though it were a fly caught in a glue trap, and soon he finds himself asleep, too, palm yet cradling the curve of Jim’s cheek.

☿   ♀   🜨   ♂   ♃   ♄   ⛢   ♆

They have been making it to the mess earlier of late, which affords enough time for Spock to replicate a real meal rather than simple synthetic food cubes and tea. He slides into the booth beside Jim whose tray is piled high with two large omelets, a waffle slathered in syrup, cheesy grits, bacon, coffee, and toast with jam. 

“Breakfast of champions,” he smiles, and Spock watches him dig in to his plate like a man possessed. Jim is of a better humor in the mornings recently, perhaps because he is sleeping less fitfully and is allowed a full seven hours rest, which remains slightly insufficient but it is difficult to encourage him to settle down any earlier in the evenings. Spock’s nightly assistance with his dreams has become routine as well, if you can call three instances a pattern of behavior.

If it happens once it's a scandal, if it happens twice it’s a tradition Jim had remarked one evening as they were playing chess in the rec room when Spock had commented that they attracted far less curious eyes the second time. Perhaps this applies in all things. 

Jim’s presence rarely feels intrusive anymore, and Spock surprises himself with how easily he has grown accustomed to sharing his time and space with another. He’s often found social engagements with the crew to be a rather draining affair, frequently dragging out longer than is strictly necessary, and he’s in the habit of finding reasons for being the first to excuse himself. It is the inverse with Jim. More often than not, Spock becomes frustrated with the boatswain’s whistle as he wishes to hear the end of Jim’s train of thought. It is illogical. He will see Jim again in only a scant few hours’ time, at which point there will be something new to discuss as it seems impossible they would fall short of things to say to one another. And still, their brief partings always leave him feeling strangely bereft. 

“You wanna watch that movie when we get off tomorrow?” Jim talks with his mouth full. He’s barely swallowed when he picks up his coffee and starts to chug. Spock opens his mouth to respond that yes, he is most interested in the film as he found the idea of studying human predictions about First Contact in pre-warp society quite fascinating a premise from a xenoanthropological perspective, when he’s rather rudely interrupted.

“Oooo watcha watching? Can we come?” Ortegas and Uhura slide into their booth without invitation and Spock endeavors not to narrow his eyes in distaste. He hopes that they do not actually intend to join them, as he was looking forward to having Jim’s company to himself for the evening so that they might debate the nuances of First Contact protocols. Jim has had some insightful thoughts on how he would handle such engagements were he ever captain of a deep space vessel himself, even if he and Spock have not always seen eye to eye on the matter. His behavior is illogical. Surely Uhura would provide much insightful commentary on the subject given her background in xenolinguistics, but Spock finds that nevertheless he does not wish her to be present.

“No.” Jim rolls his eyes, playful and good-spirited. “It’s not much of a date if you’re there too.” 

Spock nods in silent agreement, grateful to have the excuse, and slides closer into Jim’s right side in a subconscious display of support for his reasoning.

“You two are so gross,” Ortegas teases. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s super uncool to sit on the same side of the booth when you’re eating?”

Spock stiffens at that. He was unaware that there was a social protocol regarding how couples are meant to seat themselves at meals in human custom. On Vulcan, it is traditional to sit adjacent to one's family and bondmate at meals to better facilitate the sharing of food. He had presumed this was the same for humans, as Jim frequently ‘steals’ two or three of his fried tubers off his plate, to which Spock had assured him this would not be considered theft in Vulcan custom as they intend to be perceived as mates.

“Actually, on Vulcan, it would be weirder not to sit next to your partner. And if you were on Qo’nos, you’d need another person to sit between you in public,” Uhura interjects animatedly, and Spock is again grateful for her breezy change of subject. “I just find food culture so fascinating. Even on Terra, there can be huge differences. Like, for example: who would you allow to drink out of your glass? A sibling? A partner? A friend? What about Captain Pike or the Federation Chancellor? Where do you draw the line on that level of familiarity, you know?”

Jim steers the conversation further away from their teasing him for his awkward faux pas by recounting an embarrassing anecdote about how he was once partnered with a particularly slimy Bzzit Khaht for CPR training and had to spit afterwards and since then he doesn’t think drinking after anyone would gross him out. The conversation rapidly devolves into a game of brinkmanship with the whole table save for Spock one-upping each other about the grossest things they’ve endured in the line of duty. When the whistle sounds, Ortegas is laughing so hard she can hardly breathe.

“Catch you at the meeting.” Jim gives his arm that tight squeeze Spock is beginning to grow fond of, and he watches him leave until his figure disappears inside the turbolift. When he looks back at Ortegas and Uhura, they’re sharing a mischievous look.

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At 0100 hours, all members of the away team are due in the ready room for a briefing regarding the upcoming diplomatic mission to Khione. The landing party is overwhelmingly female in its composition as the planet’s governmental system follows a matriarchal structure, and it is anticipated the treaty negotiations will go more smoothly if the female officer core is in attendance to conduct business on the Federation’s behalf. As a consequence, of the dozen officers who will be beaming down only himself, the captain, Dr. M’Benga, and Jim are male. 

Jim has complained to Spock on no fewer than four occasions that he is mildly resentful of his yeoman posting while aboard the Enterprise. From Spock’s perspective, it is immediately obvious that Jim is being groomed for an XO position back aboard the Farragut and Captain Garrovick is using this as an opportunity to trade favors so he can shadow a first officer aboard a high-ranking vessel. He could have just as easily been assigned menial duties on the lower decks for his temporary orders, but his current posting allows him significant exposure to Commander Chin-Riley’s daily duties. Spock has said as much to Jim, but he remains skeptical. Perhaps his inclusion among the senior staff officers for the upcoming mission will serve to sway him to his superior logic. 

“Alright folks, we’ve got a good one on our hands.” Captain Pike addresses the team from the head of the table and claps his hands to get everyone’s attention. “The Khionians have been interested in joining the Federation since they first became warp-capable around 50 years ago, but treaty negotiations have been stalled since up til now they’ve been hesitant to allow Starfleet to settle an installation on one of their moons. They’re sacred celestial bodies to their people, and they want their surfaces to remain undisturbed as much as possible. With current tensions escalating with the Romulans, the Federation hasn’t been willing to grant them admission unless they have a chance to get eyes and ears in the region. Things being what they are with the Romulan threats of aggression against the planet and the Khionian’s philosophical unwillingness to mount a deterrent force, seems like now they’re all too happy to grant them that base if it means coming under the protection of our alliance.”

Jim is seated at the other end of the table next to Number One, taking notes on her behalf. Spock watches him slip the butt of the PADD stylus into his mouth, running it over the soft spot of his lower lip thoughtfully as he nods along with the Captain’s explanations. Spock swallows dryly.

“Now I don’t want to give trouble a mouth, but I don’t see this one going any way but well. The Khionians are good folks. Word on the street is their weather might be cold but they’re given to a warm disposition. We’ll finish up negotiations and, weather permitting, maybe enjoy some of their gracious hospitality and a white Christmas.” 

From there it’s on to the finer details. Representatives from each department give short briefings about cultural considerations and initiatives, the logistics of lodging on and transport to and from the planet’s surface. The whole affair is rather routine as the risk profile for the mission is ranked green. Spock has heard most of this before–precautions for allergens and foreign pathogens while on the surface, installing the relevant universal translator patches, what to pack in case of emergencies–and so occupies himself with watching Jim instead. 

Spock has begun to take notice recently that Jim is really quite attractive. It’s not that he missed this observation before, it’s simply that Spock has rarely been of a mind to notice such things beyond a trivial, factual observation of aesthetics. Spock finds it pleasing how his hair never quite lies in the same pattern twice, amuses himself in memorizing each new freckle that peppers his tanned skin with the same attention to detail he uses when plotting star maps of unexplored sectors. Jim is an endless font of fascinations. Spock wishes to hear him speak again to be certain he has properly placed the pitch and timbre of his voice, that he would look this way so he can continue to debate with himself if his eyes are green or brown or if this is entirely subject to illuminant metamerism. He would like to memorize, tag, and catalog every knowable aspect of his person, a desire that is entirely paradoxical as he suspects there will always be more of him to discover.

Jim has a strong build for a human, far from skinny, with a soft dusting of adipose tissue expression over his dense musculature in a manner that never occurs in Vulcan males. He is smooth yet sturdy. If Spock were to grasp his arms or legs, he would find his body soft but not at risk of breaking. He would prove sufficiently durable to endure any strenuous physical activity. What an unusual thought. Holding Jim, perhaps underneath him, face flushed and skin hot, all labored breathing. 

Spock watches Jim engage in his habitual fidgeting rituals as he slides one digit into his mouth to chew on the skin around his fingernails. Spock holds his breath when he takes the meat of his forefinger between his incisors and–

“Spock?” Pike gives him a curious look. “We’re uh… waiting to hear about that base now.”

Spock did not realize he had allowed himself to become so uncharacteristically distracted, and now the whole table is eying him expectantly. He catches eyes with Number One briefly, and her gaze darts sideways towards Jim before offering him a sly little wink and a knowing smirk. He looks down at his PADD to hide the green blooming over his features.

“Of course. Apologies, Captain.” He scrambles to pull up the document to project on the viewscreen. “Science and Engineering Departments have collaborated on a dossier detailing the construction of the proposed base. The observation station will be positioned in orbit around the smallest and farthest moon, Merope. As the moon is tidal locked with the planet’s rotation, the station will not be visible from the planet’s surface. This places the installation in ideal range to observe Romulan movements through the neutral zone and negates the Federation’s ability to conduct any surveillance initiatives on the planet’s inhabitants. Additionally, both the surface and naked eye view of Merope will remain undisturbed.”

Jim favors him with one of those brilliant, beaming smiles when he’s through, his chin resting in his hand on the table. Spock shuffles awkwardly under the attention. As soon as the meeting is through, he makes a beeline back for the science station before he has an opportunity to make a bigger fool of himself than he already has.

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Spock is beholden by the other members of the bridge crew to attend biweekly meetings of an unsanctioned social sorority event known as “Enterprise Girl’s Night.” He has pointed out that if this were truly a ‘girl’s night’ it would be illogical for his attendance to be expected or if they insist on his inclusion in this Terran ritual they might perhaps rename it to “Girl’s Night and Spock.” This only resulted in fits of laughter. Spock did not understand the source of the joke.

He does not dislike spending the occasional evening with La’an, Chapel, Ortegas, Uhura, and Jenna Mitchell. However, he did attempt to decline this week’s invitation as he was already invited to spar with Jim in the ship’s gymnasium, which only catalyzed a nigh cataclysmic outcry. Jim had only laughed, remarking that it was a ‘human thing,’ a social covenant known as ‘bros before hoes’ which obligated one to prioritize their friends over their significant other in certain conflicts of interest. He said it was no issue, and that he would see him tonight and to ‘have fun doing pedicures.’ Spock had wondered how he had known this activity was planned for the night’s agenda. 

The meeting is scheduled to convene in Mitchell and Ortega’s suite and Spock comes dressed as instructed out of uniform in comfortable civilian attire consisting of blue linen summer robes tied at the waist. He is the last to arrive, and Uhura has already gotten started on fashioning Chapel a fresh set of acrylic tips.

“Spock!” As soon as he walks in they all stop what they’re doing and corral him into sitting on the carpet. It becomes immediately apparent that they have been ‘pre-gaming’ his arrival with synthetic ethanol and that no one has looked at his well thought-out discussion topics list including Khionian fashion, plans for the upcoming shore leave, and observations of the A23II quasar. It would appear he is to be the topic of interest this evening. 

“Okay spill!” “You have to tell us everything.” “Does he do the Vulcan kiss thing?” “How is he in bed?” “Do you top?” “How big is his dick?” “Oh my god, Erica, you can’t just ask that!” “Why not? I’ll show him my strap collection.” “I give a pretty mean blow job if you want tips.” “Are they gonna let you room together on Khione?”

They are all speaking at once, their voices blending together into a harsh menagerie with the pop music blasting on the stereo in the background. La’an pours herself another shot of something blue and kicks it back. She appears to be the most inebriated thus far, and the only one who’s not peppered him with the shot-gun of queries. Spock swallows tightly and fists his hands in the shag rug before he remembers to collect himself.

“Why are you interested in my romantic relationship with Lt. Kirk?” He says quietly.

“Well of course we are, we’re your friends. It’s our job to decide if he’s an asshole or not.” Mitchell gives him a strange, quizzical look.

“Yeah, like, love is blind and all that. You need people who care about you to give an outsider’s opinion in case you’re just swooning over his charms,” Ortegas says, and everyone nods in agreement. 

The girls seem to take this duty quite seriously, as though this approval process were not unlike seeking his parent’s blessing on the matter. There is, perhaps, some logic to their reasoning. For a species so easily prone to becoming emotionally compromised, it would be logical to seek the counsel of a third party with one’s best interests in mind before commiting to a decision of such magnitude as selecting a bondmate.

“I appreciate your offer for counsel, however I am not emotionally compromised and am therefore capable of making an unbiased assessment of my relationship with the lieutenant,” Spock says, hoping that will be sufficient to dissuade them from pursuing the topic further.

“Oh, he’s in deep…” Chapel’s eyes go wide as if she were making a terminal diagnosis. He is grateful that their brief and ill-advised affair ended on as amicable terms as was possible, or this conversation could be far more uncomfortable for all parties involved. “He never talked like that about T’Pring.”

Spock is uncertain what that is supposed to imply as his statement was not intended to carry any subtextual meaning. 

“Okay, you guys are overwhelming him. One question at a time.” Uhura offers him a soft smile before going in for the kill. “Are you… sleeping together?”

Spock is not so clueless about Standard expressions not to understand that she is asking whether they have been sexually intimate, not if they are sharing a bed. The whole room is awaiting his response with baited breath, even La’an, who was previously attempting to feign disinterest. Spock senses his heart rate beginning to elevate dramatically. He wishes that Jim were present to offer his guidance. He would know what to say to placate their interest. But he is not here, and now Spock is left to fend for himself. They had not thought to prepare a story about the more intimate aspects of their relationship, and he has never been a good liar. Spock does not know enough about human relationships to judge whether answering yes or no would put the ruse they have carefully constructed in more jeopardy. 

If he were to mislead them, their earlier comments suggest they would likely probe him with more detailed queries about the nature of their intimacy. Spock would not know how to answer. He has never been intimate with anyone, which is not unusual for a Vulcan. It is not typical to experience a mating drive prior to Pon Farr, although sexual desire is quite commonplace thereafter. Spock is a ‘late bloomer’ for a male even by Vulcan standards, though not so much to be cause for concern that he is experiencing hormonal dysfunction. He does not believe it will be perceived this way by the human women. So he opts for honesty, as is best suited to his nature.

“No, we are not,” he answers flatly. They all share a shocked look that is difficult to interpret the meaning of, but Spock has gathered that they have determined something about this admission to be deeply serious.

“Well, has he kissed you? Either way, I mean, human or Vulcan.” Uhura asks and again, Spock decides to answer honestly. He is not in the habit of telling lies, though he has heard it said before the best lies hold a grain of truth.

“No,” he says hoarsely. Mitchell actually gasps this time but no one looks more surprised and unnerved by this revelation than La’an.

“No fucking way…” Ortegas balks. This is it, Spock thinks, he has made a grave miscalculation and now their precarious charade will come tumbling down like a house of cards. He is more frightened of Jim’s disappointment than his parents. What if they make him leave the Enterprise, or worse, they are written up on ethical violations? Spock is not prone to anxiety under typical circumstances, but he finds he wishes he were not living in such interesting times. “Do you have any idea what that means?”

Spock shakes his head emphatically, and Chapel places a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“It means he really, really likes you, Spock.” Everyone around him confirms that this is the correct assessment, which only confounds him further. 

“Clarify. I do not understand how Lt. Kirk declining to engage in physical intimacy suggests that he is more attracted to me.” Spock eyes them all quizzically. “On the contrary, I would be given to conclude the opposite.”

“Oh my god shut up, we’ve all seen the way he looks at you. He’s totally into you,” Mitchell laughs and pours them all another round, even Spock, though they are aware it will have none of the desired effect. He is in the habit of accepting in the spirit of camaraderie. La’an, however, declines another glass.

“I, uh… just got a comm about vandalism on the lower decks. I should, uh, try to sober up. Go take care of that.” La’an excuses herself from the discussion with an obvious lie, but Spock chooses not to draw attention to it. He has learned something of discretion during his time working with emotional beings. They wish her a good-night as she dips out of the room. 

Ortegas sighs dramatically and looks at him like she’s making an apology.

“Here’s the thing. Jim’s kinda got a reputation for being a bit of a playboy. Nobody wanted to say anything because you seemed like you were really into him and we were all super happy for you that you were gonna get laid after your break up because let’s be honest–you totally needed it,” she says, and Chapel hits her on the arm. “Just being honest… Anyway, this changes things.”

“I am not following your reasoning,” Spock truly does not. He doesn’t know what a ‘playboy’ is or why the dissolution of his betrothal to T’Pring would necessitate ‘getting laid’ unless they were familiar with the nature of the Pon Farr, which they are assuredly not. 

“Look, Spock. When a guy is only interested in getting with you to fool around, he tries to have sex with you as soon as possible.” Chapel explains. They are all smiling with humor, and perhaps knowing something he doesn’t has them all preening. “If he’s not doing that, it means his interest in you is serious. He’s letting you make the first move as a sign of respect for your boundaries.”

Illogical. Spock wonders if he will ever achieve a perfect grasp on the nuances of human behavior. For lack of better information to go on, he will accept their premise for the time being. Although, it is certainly inapplicable to his personal circumstances as they are unaware that he and Jim have no intention of pursuing an authentic romantic relationship at all.

“So then the important question is…” Uhura bites her lip with a little smile. “Do you want to kiss him?”

Until now, Spock has not given much thought to the matter. He had considered, of course, that there might come a time when kissing Jim is a necessary obligation for maintaining their cover. Would he want to kiss Jim of his own volition, removed from the pretense of their fictional courtship? He tries to imagine it. Jim might smile at him, one of those golden, brilliant smiles he seems to save for Spock. Maybe he would run his fingers down his own because he has thus far proven himself quite open to Vulcan customs, and his thoughts would sparkle as they do when he is lost in a pleasant dream. He might cradle his head with one hand in his hair, not unlike that night in the pool. And he would pull him down to meet him, Spock has seen the women do it, stolen kisses in alcoves off the main corridors when they think no one is looking, and their lips would slot together with a brush of air. It would be nothing like T’Pring or Christine, because Jim is a man and because he is Jim and–

“Yes,” he says, and he can sense the tips of his ears burning green as he makes the admission. The women squeal with delight.

“You guys are watching that movie tomorrow night, right? That’s the perfect chance!” Uhura says.

“You want some advice? Here’s what you do: first of all, you’re absolutely not gonna watch the movie,” Ortegas says and Chapel just snorts with laughter and rolls her eyes.

“Does that not defeat the purpose of agreeing to watch a film together?” Spock had understood that this film was of particular emotional significance to Jim, and that he was looking forward to discussing it together. This will not be possible if they are distracted engaging in… other matters.

“No, Spock! It’s all about pretense, okay? It’s just an excuse to sit close together all alone in the dark. I thought you were supposed to be smart or something,” Ortegas says, and Spock resents the implication that his lack of familiarity with Terran social norms holds any bearing on his intellect. 

“Don’t listen to her. Like I said, anyone with eyes can see he likes you. If you see an opportunity to make your move then take it. There’s no way he’s going to shoot you down,” Mitchell offers, but Spock is not so sure. They have only had cause to observe the Jim who is pretending to be Spock’s mate. Of course it would appear to them that Jim holds nothing but affection for him. They cannot know how he feels in truth.

The situation is beginning to become more complex than he had initially calculated for. A chaotic system with too many unforeseen variables cannot be reliably predicted. 

“Just follow your heart. I promise, it’ll turn out fine.” Uhura offers him a gentle smile and a slight squeeze on the arm over his sleeve. 

“Thank you. This conversation has proven… most insightful.” Spock swallows the dryness in his throat. “I will endeavor to heed your advice.”

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“You do bear a strong resemblance to the actor portraying Palmer,” Spock notes, and it is true. It is perhaps a combination of mannerisms and the noble, principled persona. He may not always agree with the scientist’s logic, but unlike the other dissenters, he always respects her. Spock decides that he will ‘root’ for his relationship with the scientist to pan out in the end. This is, of course, a foregone conclusion as the film would not have a ‘happy ending’ otherwise. His mother familiarized himself and Michael with the concept as children. His father found the idea illogical, as life does not often have happy endings.

“Who, McConaughey?” Jim sits beside him on the bed, as there is no couch in Spock’s quarters. He is voraciously consuming a Terran snack, popcorn, and he complains the replicated version is no match for the real thing but is nevertheless an essential cultural accoutrement to enjoying 2D cinema. Spock had tried it and found it tasted like little more than salty puffs of air. He takes a few more pieces from Jim’s bowl anyway. “Well, consider me flattered but I’m really not that good looking. It’s funny you say that, though. He was in another picture where he played the captain of a space colonization vessel.” 

“Perhaps we should watch that entry as well,” Spock offers, and not simply because he suspects Jim will enjoy it.

He has not had cause to watch a ‘movie’ outside an academic setting before. It is considered an old fashioned artistic medium, largely supplanted by 3D holos and virtual realities that allow the audience to be as much a participant as an observer. Spock does not dislike the more passive nature of the experience. It is perhaps more thought provoking, and prioritizes reflection over cheap thrills. They are not obligated to talk, as it is socially acceptable to simply share each other’s company. He would not be opposed to doing this with Jim again.

“Oh, so you’re a fan now? I have competition with a guy who’s been dead for almost 300 years?” Jim nudges their shoulders together with a playful, teasing smile. “Nah, I don’t think so. The space travel is totally bogus, it was all wormholes and stuff. They really thought the Einstein-Rosen bridge had promise back then, if you can believe it. He gets sucked into a blackhole and lives at the end–sorry I’d say spoilers but you’re a couple centuries too late. Anyway, you’d hate it.”

“You have seen it?” Spock raises an eyebrow.

“Course, I kind of have a thing for old school space sci-fi. Most of it’s crap, though, so you should thank me cause I'm only gonna show you the good ones.” Jim munches quietly and turns back to look at the screen.

Spock had initially intended to follow the advice of Ortegas and the others, but was uncertain how to go about initiating anything suitably romantic with Jim. They suggested that it would be traditional to hold hands, but Spock blushed at the thought of trying anything so provocative so immediately. It is alright, though. Jim has been rather engrossed in the film and Spock has found it quite interesting himself. Much of the human’s understanding of astrophysics is rudimentary at best and many of their theories are frankly illogical, but the narrative is engaging enough that he does not wish to become distracted. When Jim begins to grow tired, he absently leans his weight against Spock’s side and his head on his shoulder. Spock remains stock still for fear that so much as breathing too deeply might disturb him into moving.

The film is rapidly reaching its conclusion. As promised, the pre-warp human’s depiction of an advanced alien species did prove most fascinating. A powerful and omniscient race, both wise and benevolent, who shared their natural wonder for space and some but not all of their technological progress. He can appreciate Jim’s enchantment with the sentiment. How lonely it must feel to believe you are alone in the universe. He wonders if this is how they appear to new planets during First Contact, or how Vulcans were first perceived by humans. 

Jim watches intently, shifting slightly when the scientist and the philosopher kiss during their reunion. His eyes dart away from the screen for just a moment.

“You promise I’m not boring you? It’s okay, you can be honest,” he says softly. Jim looks up at him and his face is half-lit in the light of the viewscreen.

“No. I apologize if I have given you that impression,” Spock says. Jim shuffles a bit again, and Spock catches an undercurrent of anxiety even through the material of their clothes.

“Okay, I believe you. It’s just…” Jim sighs. “I don’t know, most people think this old stuff’s kind of lame. Books, movies… I don’t know. People gave me a hard time about it at the Academy.”

“Jim, I do not know how to convince you that I do not find your interests to be ‘lame.’ I have enjoyed myself tonight, and would accept your offer to watch a film of your choosing again.” Spock eyes him carefully. Jim is being vulnerable, sharing something that is important to him that has often been belittled in the past. That he can understand quite well. 

Jim takes a deep breath and turns to look at the screen again, though the film is over now and it is only a list of the crew and staff scrolling past.

“Well I’m glad you liked it. Means a lot to me,” he says quietly. Jim picks at his hands where they rest on his knees, drawn up close to his chest. Spock tries to think of something to say. Jim had desired to talk about the film, and so he goes with that.

“What I fail to understand is why the humans remained so suspicious of their extraterrestrial patrons.” He offers. Jim shifts where his head rests on his shoulder just slight enough to look up at him while he’s talking. “Apprehension was illogical once they made clear they meant no harm.”

“I know, it seems stupid to us in retrospect, knowing what we know now, but…” Jim looks down at his hands as he talks, worrying his thumb against his palm and down the length of his fingers. Spock swallows and tries to focus on the list of names still scrolling past on the screen to distract himself. He is beginning to feel warm. “How could we really be sure? I mean, maybe… Maybe we had it all wrong. Maybe what we wanted from them wasn’t at all what they expected from us. What would a race of enlightened, intelligent beings possibly need us for anyway? I guess they were worried about getting hurt.” Jim is babbling, as he has come to identify as one of his nervous habits. It does not take a touch-telepath to sense the jitters rolling off him in waves. Spock tightens his hand in the sheets beside his thigh. “Or even if the aliens were benevolent, in the face of what would end up being the most profoundly impactful moment for humanity in all of recorded history we were just another lifeform to them. And they’d forget about us as soon as they left.”

Jim finishes the thought quietly, voice trailing off to a near whisper at the end. Spock has the distinct impression that they are engaging in the variety of conversation where one thing is being said on the surface when they are truly talking about something else entirely. He has never been adept at navigating those. 

“If it were true that humanity had so little to offer, it would have proven illogical to make contact in the first place,” Spock says, voice sticking in his throat. Jim’s eyes turn up to look at him. “I believe the humans allowed fear to cloud their judgment.”

“I don’t know, Spock. It’s only natural to be afraid of the unknown sometimes. Afraid of change. I mean, what if…” Jim chews on his lip, like he is trying to decide if he should finish that sentence. He opens his mouth once, stops, starts again. “What if you ruin a good thing? What then?”

“Then you have failed to consider the possibility such change would prove superior,” Spock says simply, logically. The obvious answer. 

“You’d have bet it all on black then?” Jim’s mouth quirks up slightly before it falls again just as quickly. “You’d… take a ride?”

“Yes,” Spock whispers. Jim is so close now he can feel his breath on his skin and he watches his eyes leave his and trail down his face. Jim licks his lips, and inhales through his nose. Spock stiffens in anticipation of something–for what he’s not sure.

Suddenly, Jim takes a deep breath and bolts upright like he’s been stung, running his fingers through his hair with anxious energy.

“I’m sorry, it’s uh…” He gestures emptily towards Spock without turning back to face him. “It’s getting late. We should get some sleep.” He nods to himself over and over, like he is attempting to reassure himself. 

When Jim stands up and locks himself in the sonics, Spock gets the distinct impression that he has missed something important.

Chapter Text

Subject Log Stardate 2394.83: [recorded: 2 minutes 37 seconds of no input. Please attempt to recalibrate the microphone. If you wish to terminate the session, please exit the program now.]

“Fuck!” Jim hisses and shakes his hand out, clenching and unclenching his fist. He’s managed to split a knuckle on the bag, the blood is already leaching through the white wrap. He cusses under his breath again, and starts to unwind the fabric with his shaking left hand. He fumbles with it at first, reaches up to push his sweat mottled hair out of his eyes and tries again.

The ship’s gym is empty at this time of morning, or maybe it’s still night. Suppose it depends on your shift. He couldn’t sleep. Neither could Spock. He’s a terrible liar, but it turns out that extends to faking sleep as well. Normally he’s so still that the first few nights Jim honestly wondered if he woke up beside a dead body. He had to slip a finger under his nose to check if he was still breathing, just to reassure himself. He was shifting too much last night, didn’t offer his ‘distraction’ as he calls it, whatever that is. Jim didn’t ask. 

Jim peels back the cotton gingerly, careful not to tear the skin. It’s a sore lick, right on the bone, but he’s had worse. At least he didn’t break anything. He lifts his hand to his lips and sucks the worst of it clean. Tastes of salt and iron on the tongue. He shouldn’t push it so hard, it’s been a long time now since he was angry enough with himself for bloodsport. Therapist says that’s a kind of self-harm even if you’re not the one doing the hurting. Maybe he’s starting to believe her. He lets out his breath and rests his forehead against the bag, panting.

He almost kissed Spock. Spock. With his mouth. Kissed him.

God, what was he thinking? Spock would’ve probably punched him in the face. Jim would’ve probably deserved it, too. A punch might have felt as good—better even. Might have been enough to knock some sense into him, being hit with even a fraction of that Vulcan strength.

Bones is right: Jim’s got problems, and this is one of them—always has been. Call it a complex, a fixation, a neurosis, who cares what you name it, seeing as naming it doesn’t make it go away. He gets stuck on people. Or better said, it’s really the other way round. Lets people stick to him, lets them sink their teeth in real nice and deep-like so they can wring him out when they snap his neck. 

It’s not fair. Not fair to Spock, that is. He didn’t ask for any of this. Jim’s not even graced with the plausible deniability that he's been led on, because all Spock has to be is himself—he’s not even trying. And that’s the real problem, the meat of it. He doesn’t have to try. He never did.

Spock relays the coordinates of their current position galactic, ecliptic, and equatorial out to the seventh sigfig and Jim wants him. Spock brushes his teeth for precisely two minutes and thirty seconds in the sonic in the morning and Jim wants him. Spock puts on a sweater when the deck is 27 degrees, Spock raises his eyebrow a micrometer when he misses the joke, Spock presses the button in the turbolift, Spock replicates spice tea, takes Jim’s bishop, eats, sleeps, walks, breathes, and goddamn, does Jim want him. So bad it’s like Chinese water torture.

He’s got no one to blame but himself. He had an in and an out and split the difference.

Jim might have wised up and never come aboard at all, never met Spock in the first place. Can’t crave something when you don’t know the taste of it. 

And what if he had bought into the promise of what SIPAA was dangling in front of him? Spock had agreed to their arrangement, sure, but Jim thinks back to the Spock he met during that first chess game, so long ago now: the Spock who was terrified of spoiling the study data, the one who sounded like he was in it for something real. If he had accepted the gambit from the start, would their time together have played out differently? 

Spock isn’t stupid. This is a solved game. A relationship with Jim has finite end positions. Surely by now he’s crunched the numbers and arrived at the same answer as everyone who came before him: that Jim is nothing but trouble, and the only winning move is not to play.

Jim startles when two young ensigns come in and drop their bags beside the squat racks. He checks the chrono, and realizes it's almost time for alpha. He’s missed breakfast. Spock is going to know something’s wrong. So much for subtlety. Jim sighs, and whips out his comm.

Jim
sorry for ditching you
went to the gym this morning and lost track of time
we still on for the party tonight?

Spock
You are not obligated to eat with me if you do not wish to do so. It is not my intention to monopolize your time aboard the ship.

Spock's instantaneous reply contradicts its contents. It’s a punch to the gut. It’s not his fault, Jim reminds himself, he doesn’t deserve to be punished. He hasn’t done anything wrong. The next response follows just as quickly.

Spock
While I am not partial to social engagements, I believe it would appear suspicious were we to decline the invitation.

That’s right. It’s so easy to be himself around Spock that Jim had almost started to believe that Spock had stopped pretending, too. He thought they were becoming friends, maybe more than that.

But Vulcans don’t have friends.

Spock has never lied about what Jim is to him. This whole time he’s been trying to escape a relationship, not start one. Jim’s only been seeing what he wants to see. For Spock, entertaining Jim in his spare time is an obligation at best and an inconvenience at worst, one he is polite enough to carry out with the same unwavering professionalism he holds when he takes the bridge. He’s dutifully upholding his end of the bargain, and so long as he’s aboard the ship, Jim is chained to the terms of their agreement. 

They will make an appearance at Pike’s party, share quarters on Khione, spend Christmas on Vulcan like real couples do… And Jim will smile, and Jim will laugh… He might even enjoy it, if he allows himself the indulgence of illusion. How is it that Vulcans choose not to feel? He thinks of Spock, and wishes he could understand. 

Jim
true. we can meet up back at our quarters and head over to pike’s together?

Spock
That is sufficient.

Sufficient. Jim is adequate, passable, satisfactory. Nothing more. Spock suffers Jim because he is useful to him, and Jim will play the fool because being useful is an approximation of being loved. Maybe it is the closest thing he’s allowed. 

☿   ♀   🜨   ♂   ♃   ♄   ⛢   ♆

Jim has spent the better part of the day scraping what little remains of his pride off the ship’s deck and gathering his resolve. He's managed to rationalize his predicament and bury the Spock Problem beneath a dense concrete sarcophagus fashioned of duty and maladaptive coping mechanisms. 

He waltzed with Ruth for three numbers to the tune of the Trident Brass at the Academy Ball after she’d dumped him to save face without breaking character. This is nothing. It’s only a party. Spock doesn’t even like parties, he said as much himself. They’ll make an appearance long enough to be noticed. Spock will tire of the noise and the crowd in an hour, two at most, and Jim will carefully sidestep his invitation to return to quarters with the ace he snuck up his sleeve. The new lieutenant down in engineering—What was his name? Scott?—invited him and a few others who know how to keep their mouths shut over to offer their… engineering advice on his ‘proprietary distillation apparatus’ after the festivities tonight. In any event, Spock’s Vulcan biology spares him the dubious benefits of alcohol so it’s an easy out. Foolproof, even. Jim will get drunk enough on bathtub gin to forget the taste of Spock’s name, pass out on the lower decks, and wake up with enough time to throw up in the sonics before transport. 

Clinging to Number One’s coattails as she buzzes about from one department to the next and finalizing arrangements before transport tomorrow offers him the familiar, easy comfort of work for distraction. There’s hardly any time for idle thought and chatter. By the time the whistle sounds at the end of their last full shift before they’re set to beam down to Khione, she dumps a stack of PADDs in the ready room and barely acknowledges Jim’s presence before making a beeline for Pike’s quarters under the pretense of ‘helping set up the party.’ Jim rolls his eyes. 

He clocks out of his shift and bypasses the officer’s wing for the married quarters deck, careful to avoid passing the turbolift that feeds the science labs. He’s stalling. He ought to go meet up with Spock, but there’s one more task he’s got to tend to before they leave tomorrow anyway, one he’s been dodging for the better part of his time on the ship. Nothing like procrastinating one shitty task with another, but by the time he returns from Khione, Sam will already be gone. 

Jim hesitates for a moment before buzzing the door to his quarters and straightens his uniform like he’s preparing for inspection. It’s stupid. When the door slides open, Sam almost looks surprised to see him.

“Hey stranger.” Jim forces a smile and hopes it reads like an olive branch instead of a barring of teeth.

“Hey, Jimmy.” Sam’s eyes don’t crinkle at the corners, but he doesn’t look like he intends to gut him and skin him, either. He’s had a few weeks to cool off now. A detente, then–It’s the holidays after all. Winona’s never been much for couth, but she didn’t raise them in the barn. 

“Heard the shuttle’s heading out soon for early leave requests. Just thought I’d…” Jim gestures emptily between them before dropping his hand and scrubbing it down his thigh. The transport for the nearest starbase leaves tomorrow. Sam’ll need to catch it if he plans to make it to Deneva to see Aurelan and the boys for Christmas. 

Sam nods, in want of something to say, and the silence lingers for a beat too long to feel entirely natural. 

“Guess you’re not coming back to spend Christmas with us, huh?” Sam says finally, not with any real malice behind it. It’s good of him to keep up the pretense of offering, but the last time they spent Christmas together all four of them Jim was still a student at the Academy. At this point, his parents might as well be married for the benefits package. 

“No, I… guess I’ll be spending the holidays on Vulcan.” Jim looks down at his boots, kicking absently against the door jamb. It doesn’t matter, not really. He's never been much for marking the season anyway, not since Tarsus. They didn’t have a Christmas that year.

“Right…” Sam says, still hovering just inside his quarters. He sniffs awkwardly, running his sleeve under his nose. “Probably for the best. Mom said she’s coming and you know I can’t stand the two of you in the same room.”

Jim can’t help but snort a light chuckle at that. “Dad?”

“Nah, his ship’s real deep in the sticks. If he caught a shuttle he’d have to turn back around before he made it even half-way,” Sam shrugs.

“Another e-gram then?” Jim licks his lips and a small smile creeps up his face without his permission. “What was it last year?”

“Upgraded meal tickets at any casual dining restaurant, good at your nearest starbase.” Sam chuckles to himself. “Isn’t it a little fucked up his gifts for you always involve food?”

“Oh god, you’re right,” Jim snorts with laughter, because laughing pulls the teeth from the beast of it and Sam’s always had a dark sense of humor. It helps to break the tension some. Sam finally steps back from the door and Jim lets himself in, taking a seat at the small dining table. 

It’s strange, being here. The last time Jim had a chance to sit down with Sam in a kitchen was the last meal they shared in the farmhouse before their parents sold the property back in Iowa. He has a sneaking suspicion it will be the last for a long time to come. Maybe Sam knows it, too. Maybe that’s why he’s not picking the fight. 

“I brought you something. Sorry it’s food-adjacent,” Jim teases, reaching into his bag.

“Ah, you didn’t have to get me shit. I didn’t get you anything. Guess that makes me the worse brother.” Sam flops down in the other chair and reaches out to take the bottle from Jim’s hand.

“Well it was meant to be a housewarming gift originally, so we’ll call it even, but you’ve got to promise to save some for Aurelan.” Jim pulls out two cheap replicated cups that are definitely too low brow to match the vintage. 

“A fifth of Lanthine Tears.” Sam twists the bottle in his hands, holding it out to squint at the label and chuffs. “You know, I’m not in my twenties anymore, right? I think a house warming gift is usually a stand mixer or something.”

“Wouldn’t have fit in your bag,” Jim says. 

They clink glasses before taking a pull of the clear liquid. It’s got a strange, iridescent hue to it that sparkles holographic when you turn it through the light, but really it doesn’t taste any different than a particularly smooth vodka. Silence settles between them after that. They’ve never been much for talking, not productively at least, but silence is an improvement on their usual habit, and Jim isn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Jim sips his drink and looks around the room instead of his brother. Sam hasn’t been reassigned from married quarters yet, probably never will now that he’s not long for the ship, and there’s a hollowness–the untouched stove, the gaps on the shelves where decorations used to rest–that gives the space a melancholy aura.

It’s nothing like Spock’s quarters. No trinkets, no scent of resinous incense, no velvet curtains or sheets and uniforms starched to perfection. The only way to describe the atmosphere is severed, as though someone reached in and carved the liver out of the thing and the room ambles on bleeding out from the inside. Jim tries not to think of his own quarters back on the Farragut.

“Do you miss her?” He blurts out, not sure what makes him say it. “Aurelan, I mean.” 

Sam gives him a strange look, one that’s hard to decipher. 

“Yes, I miss my fucking wife. What the hell kind of question is that?” He doesn’t sound angry, that’s just the way Sam talks. Reminds him of Bones sometimes, or maybe it’s Bones who reminds him of Sam. 

“Sorry, that was a shitty thing to say…” Jim cringes and looks down at his glass, contemplating how rude it is to get drunk off his own gift and how embarrassing it is to show up to a party already plastered. He can sense Sam watching him from the other side of the table but doesn’t have a mind to care. Sam makes up his mind for both of them, and tops off their glasses. It’s not like him. He doesn’t drink much. Jim tips his glass in his direction and shoots it before leaning forward on his knees, turning the plastic through his fingers and watching the chrono by the bed.

Sam has that posture on like there’s something he wants to say but can’t decide how to form the sentence around the idea. Jim hears the chair creaking when he leans back in the silence, and lets out a heavy sigh.

“Jim, why are you down here?” 

That’s a great question. Pike’s party starts in an hour. He’s going to be late. 

“Jim–”

“You were right, okay? I shouldn’t have come here. This was stupid I–” Jim scrubs his hand over his lips. “I should have stayed on the Farragut.”

Sam doesn’t say anything, just sips his drink. 

It was like this once, after Tarsus. People kept telling Jim he didn’t have to talk about it when it couldn’t have been more obvious they were hungry to know, to fuel their sick fascination. Or they’d tell him they were sorry. Sorry that happened, or maybe they were sorry they had to hear about it, because they ought to say something when there was nothing left to be said. Sam was just quiet. For a while, Sam was the only one Jim could stand to be around.

“You like him,” Sam says eventually, when it’s obvious Jim’s content to hide out here brooding til he kicks him out. He doesn’t have to say his name. They both know who they’re talking about, but it’s polite of him to play at talking in generalities for the sake of his dignity.

“You don’t.” Jim says flatly. Sam hasn’t been too keen on anyone he’s ever dated. Not Gary, not Carol. Hell, he didn’t even like the girl he took to prom.

“I hate him.” Sam’s never pulled any punches when it comes to complaining about his boss. Jim had a mental image of the Vulcan long before they met as someone so fanged and imperious he’d had a hard time reconciling the flighty, awkward man he’d met with the character in his brother's work anecdotes. “He’s a sycophant, a bigger fleet bootlicker than you and dad even. You’re perfect for each other.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” Jim chuffs. It's always about their father with Sam. Even when he’s not around, he still manages to cast a shadow. It was never about Spock in the first place. Jim should have known.

“Should have called Garrovick if you wanted someone to kiss your ass.” Sam doesn’t ruffle when Jim gets defensive. “I’m just telling you how it is.”

“Yeah, then how is it? You think I’m gonna end up like dad?” Jim sets his teeth behind his cheek but doesn’t turn around to look at his expression. “Well I’m not that stupid.”

Carol is the elephant in the room, but even Sam’s not cruel enough to mention her. That’s a low blow. He just sighs, and for a moment, Jim can’t help but sense he’s being pitied. It makes him feel small.

“Us Kirks, we've never been a traditional family, nothing nuclear about us. Maybe that’s why we all needed to get the hell out of Riverside,” Sam says carefully, gingerly, like Jim’s a minefield ready to blow up with one misstep. “I’m just saying, stop trying to check off all the boxes–the wife, the kids, the ranch–cause you think that’s what a starship captain’s supposed to look like. I know you, Jimmy. It’s never gonna make you happy.”

“You don’t know anything about what I want,” Jim bites back reflexively. 

It isn’t true, though, not entirely. That’s the thing about siblings. You can grow apart, but they’ll always know where you’re rooted. For all he and Sam bicker about Jim following in their father’s footsteps, he still sees him as that scared little boy on the rescue vessel out of Tarsus. You don’t pick fights with someone you don’t care about. Jim wishes he would realize he can take care of himself.

“You’re a selfish person.” Sam shrugs. It’s not said like an insult, just a statement of fact. Jim tightens his hand around the cup anyway, bending the plastic. “And the first thing you learn when you’re a parent is you can’t afford to be selfish anymore. You’d make a terrible father.” 

Jim opens his mouth to snap back with something smart before he thinks about Carol. He’s never even heard the kid’s name. Could be a boy or a girl, for all he knows. He never bothered to ask. She didn’t seem to think he should. Sam spares him the humiliation of saying it out loud, and Jim has the wisdom to bite his tongue. Sam waits for Jim to interject before finishing the thought, voice quiet.

“Spock’s not gonna ask you for any of that. He’s not gonna wake up one morning looking to settle down on Deneva. He’s gonna die on this damned ship, I think he knows that.” Sam almost sounds sorry for saying so, like admitting it is a kind of concession in Jim’s favor, though it certainly doesn’t feel like it. He says it like he’s apologizing, but to Jim or to Spock he isn’t quite sure. “Won’t even flinch when it happens. He’ll probably tell you the warp core’s melting down like he’s talking about the weather. This ship will be a steel coffin for the both of you. I bet you think that’s real romantic.”

Jim can feel the corners of his mouth quirking up despite himself. 

“Come on.” He turns back to give a playful glance at his brother. “It’s at least a little romantic.” 

“You would think that. Freak.” Sam melts a little at that. He chuckles, and Jim laughs, too. 

It’s messed up. Jim’s a pretty messed up guy. Suppose that’s an immutable piece of him now, after everything.  Jim couldn’t imagine ever admitting to something so macabre with Bones or god forbid the fleet therapist. He certainly couldn’t to Carol. But that’s what’s nice about Sam–he doesn’t have to pretend. They might not always see eye to eye, but he understands, in his own way. There’s something to be said for being known and loved in spite of it.

“I… should really get going. Don’t want to miss Pike’s party.” Jim awkwardly sets the cup down on the table and scrubs his hands down his thighs. “I hear he’s a pretty good cook. Wouldn’t want to miss the hor d'oeuvres.”

“Wouldn’t want to skip a chance to brown-nose,” Sam quips back, light hearted, and Jim just rolls his eyes. Before he turns for the door Sam claps him on the shoulder. “Look, I–” Sam draws his arm around his shoulder and pulls him in. “I’m sorry for what I said before. You don’t have to make the same choices as me, I get that. But you’re still my brother and… I worry about you, Jimmy. That’s all.” 

“I love you, too.” Jim makes the effort to return the hug. It’s still stiff, still unnatural, but it’s a better approximation of the real thing.

“You’ll come visit us?” Sam lets him go, and looks him up and down. It’s about as close as he’ll ever come to reminding Jim of their father. “I don’t want this to be the last time we see each other this decade.”

“Yeah. I’ll try.” 

They won’t, but it’s the thought.

☿   ♀   🜨   ♂   ♃   ♄   ⛢   ♆

When Jim was still wet behind the ears and getting written up for petty antics his first year at the Academy, his father had phoned over subspace with nothing more to say than he’d never met a boy so smart who could manage being so stupid. At the time, Jim had grasped the sentiment but not the meaning. Now, he thinks he understands. 

It’s only a half hour before they’re due to the party when Jim finally makes it back to quarters, and he’s a roiling ball of nerves. Seeing Sam hardly served to put him at ease, though he had no preconceptions that the visit would prove otherwise. All he’s surely done is put Spock in a bad mood. He’s already nervous about this, he told Jim as much. He’s not fond of parties, and if the gossip circling the officer’s mess is anything to go by, the events of last year’s little get together proved pretty embarrassing for him. The last thing Jim needs to do is cause him more anxiety by making them late. He steels himself against the prospect of disaster, and reminds himself that starship captains are impervious to fear in the face of danger before keying into the door.

“Jim!” Spock whips around to face him, dressed down in his socks and uniform blacks, like a dog who’s been waiting on the porch for his owner to come in from the fields. He smiles in that eyes-only way he has and there’s no fighting gravity. Jim punches the button beside the door and it slips closed.

Don’t say it, don’t say it–

“You miss me?” Jim teases, against his better judgment. He promised himself he wouldn’t flirt, and here he is gone back on it in under a minute flat. 

“...your absence was notable.” Spock’s ears flush a touch green, and he turns away. 

“Sorry, I…” Jim swallows. Fallen again, like a drunk between two stools. There was no helping it. It was over before it began. “I was busy. Number One had me running errands all over the ship, last day before the mission and all. You know how it is.”

“It is of little consequence.” Spock picks at something white and woolen on the desk as if he’s fascinated with the material instead of looking up. “You are here now.”

The grey expression Jim’s had on all day breaks despite himself and the warm front chases him further inside. He’s almost becoming comfortable with the heat in here. The screen is open on the replicator console, and he walks up behind him to have a look over his shoulder.

“Looking for something to wear?” The GUI is opened to the non-regulation clothing screen. 

“As I am unfamiliar with the subtleties of this Terran custom, I would be grateful for any insight you might provide.” Spock nods bashfully.

Jim leans over and flicks through the pre-programmed options in the replicator schematics. The time-honored tradition of the ‘ugly sweater party’ has been observed since the 20th century and it shows. There’s thousands of options to choose from, and Jim can understand why the overwhelming variety of choices would be bewildering to a Vulcan. Most of the quips and jokes are probably lost on him, and he’d be humiliated showing up in something inadvertently offensive. God, he can only imagine what Ortegas would tell him to wear. 

“Why don’t we try something non-denominational…” Jim narrows their choices to the ‘winter’ theme. There isn’t much to call a winter on Vulcan, so he’s heard. The days are slightly shorter, but it has little effect on the temperature. It never snows there. Jim continues to scroll mindlessly through the options, hyper-aware of Spock’s breath on his neck as they huddle over the small console screen. He’s nearly distracted enough to miss it when Spock asks him to stop. 

“Is that a… white sehlat?” Spock says, sounding hopeful. It must be some kind of Vulcan animal Jim’s never heard of. He smiles.

“I think it’s supposed to be the abominable snowman.” Jim gesticulates meaninglessly, trying to encapsulate the scale and spirit of the cryptid. “It’s like uh… big ape-man who lives in the snow.”

“You have such mega-fauna in the wilds on Terra?” Spock’s eyes go wide with surprise. “I was not made aware of any such creature on my visit to the San Francisco zoo.”

“No, it’s just a story made up to scare kids from going into the woods alone, I guess. The snow can be dangerous in the mountains.” Jim tries not to laugh, it would be impolite, but Spock’s adorable when he’s curious.

“That is illogical. Would not the natural dangers of the weather conditions prove a sufficient deterrent without the need to invent fictitious stories of additional threats?” Spock cocks his head, confused. “The wilderness of Vulcan’s Forge also poses great danger to unprepared travelers, but the le-matya is no mere myth.”

“I don’t know, I guess it’d be easy to explain things like tree wells and white-outs and avalanches to a Vulcan kindergartener, but that kind of stuff would fly over most human kids’ heads. Now a monster–that they’ll remember.” Jim smiles fondly, remembering watching one of his mother’s favorite old movies with the abominable snowman by the fire with Sam when they were little. That version wasn’t meant to be scary, but a moral lesson about not judging people by their appearance. He decides not to complicate things further for Spock by trying to explain that one. “It’s pretty common in ancient Terran folklore to make up stories for things we didn’t have the science to understand or warn against dangers in simplistic terms.”

“It is not known if such stories ever existed on Vulcan. If they did, they were lost during the Time of Awakening. We have no concept of ‘mythical creatures’ now, as even Vulcan children follow the principles of Surakian logic.” Spock looks rather wistful and contemplative. He furrows his brow. “However, the sehlat is a protector animal. Many families acquire them to watch over their children. I had one as a boy.”

There is something left unsaid there, and Jim doesn’t press. It’s probably nothing at all like one’s beloved childhood dog, but if it is, he decides that’s too personal to pry about.

“It can be a sehlat, if you want it to be,” Jim says instead. 

“This sweater is acceptable.” Spock nods, and Jim’s surprised he doesn’t argue the illogic in that when a sehlat was definitely not what the Terran artist had in mind when they drew the sketch.

Jim punches in the replication code for his selection. For himself, he decides to forgo his long-running tradition of picking the classic gem that reads I’m so good santa came twice for something a little classier. He goes with one that says my other starship is a sleigh with a cross stitch design of a constitution-class vessel drawn by eight tiny reindeer. Good enough. 

Spock excuses himself to the sonics while Jim gets changed. He slips into the sweater, which carries the unfortunate subtle smell of volatile organics that everything does when it's fresh out the replicators. He supposes it adds to the kitsch. When he slides open the door to the bathroom, Spock is studying his own appearance in the mirror.

“Do you find this sweater to be sufficiently ‘ugly’?” Spock’s brow furrows minutely and Jim watches his reflection from beside his shoulder. A lucky thing he’s in the sciences–blue really is his color. He runs his bony fingers self-consciously down his stomach, smoothing out the bulky synthetic wool. 

Jim looks up and admires their reflections side by side. He almost doesn’t recognize himself as one half of a pair but they fit together somehow, despite their differences. They cut a handsome figure. Jim catches Spock’s reflection eying his expression from the other side of the glass. He swallows, and looks down at the sink.

“I don’t think you could look bad in anything, but it’ll have to do.” 

☿   ♀   🜨   ♂   ♃   ♄   ⛢   ♆

So they weren’t lying, Pike really does know how to cook and the Enterprise crew really does know how to let their hair down and have a good time. Jim sneaks another of those addictive Tellar truffle bonbon things off the buffet, stuffs it into his mouth when no one is looking, and washes it down with another glass of spiked punch.

It’s Jim’s kind of party, the low-brow kind: none of the stuffy, formal cocktail hour networking airs you’d find grounded in San Francisco. The Captain’s quarters are spacious, but they weren’t built with entertaining in mind. They’re got the whole officer core crammed together ass to tits like a tin of sardines and the floor’s getting sticky with spilled drinks. A few of the more cavalier among them are already drunk enough to yell over the music or shed their hideous sweaters on the couch. Spock stiffens when someone trips and shoulders him on the way past.

Well, it’s not everyone’s kind of party, but he’s been a good sport about the whole thing, as best as can be expected. 

Jim lets a hand trail over the small of Spock’s back as he slides behind him to trade places so he’s pinned against the bulkhead with Jim’s body serving as a barrier between him and the crowded room. He allows his palm to settle over his hip, keeping him tucked close in his orbit.

“Better?” Jim leans into his ear so he can be heard over the rousing refrain of the fourth sing-a-long rendition of All I Want For Christmas Is You.  Spock nods once, curt and short, and Jim watches his adam’s apple bob when he sips his glass of water.

Their little ruse offers the perfect excuse to touch tonight, and Jim's a total asshole for milking it for all it’s worth. But really, it's symbiotic–Jim allows himself this small fiction, this minor indulgence, and Spock only has to touch Jim instead of playing bumper cars with half the staff roster. They're supposed to be a couple, afterall, and what sort of convincing passionate, whirlwind romance are they selling here without a little PDA…right?

“Oh come on, Spock! Live a little!” Ortegas’ words are slurring together and she reaches out good-naturedly to punch him on the arm. He flinches away, fleeing closer against Jim’s side. He’s a monster for enjoying this at Spock’s expense, really he is. “I’m sure your boyfriend would love to see you cut loose for once.”

Jim resists the urge to grimace at the teasing way she says the word, even if he knows she’s only trying to get a rise out of Spock. She throws a smug little wink at Jim like she suspects he’s going to take her side on this one. She’s about to be sorely disappointed.

“I don’t know… If I’m drunk, and Spock’s drunk, then who’s gonna fly the plane later if you know what I mean?” Jim flashes her a saucy grin, but gives Spock a light squeeze on the waist so he knows he’s only playing up the act. The tips of his ears tint all the same. 

Jim plucks the hot chocolate out of her hand and chugs it in one go before she has another opportunity to try and foist it off on Spock again. He winces at the burn and coughs slightly. God, how much whiskey did they pour in that? 

“What’s wrong with doing it sloppy style once in a while?” Ortegas wiggles her eyebrows, and Spock bristles to body the jab. “Or does this one think reading the Annals of the Vulcan Mathematical Society counts as foreplay?”

“No, that'd be me, actually,” Jim counters with sardonic seriousness. “I like my men the way I like my meromorphic functions–integrated to non-zero values.”

Ortegas eyes him with confusion like Jim’s grown a second head. Spock’s lips quirk up at the corner.

“I believe the intended innuendo is ‘wrapped around his pole.’” Spock lifts a single eyebrow in his direction. “With the implication being that I would be the cosecant of one over z.”

Jim has to snort into his hand so his drink doesn’t come out his nose.

“...What?” Ortegas contemplates him like she’s trying to parse the comms queue without a universal translator. 

“A punctured disk,” Jim offers, elbowing Spock in the ribs. 

“Uh… Yeah, okay.” She glances uncomfortably between them with an awkward little laugh. “Well, make sure you wear protection. I don’t think any of those words are in the Bible.”

“They are, however, in Surak.” Spock’s aura lightens some, and Jim relaxes a touch in relief.

Ortegas throws her head over her shoulder, searching the room until she finds someone to latch onto for an escape. She catches Christine on the arm like a drowning man on a liferaft as she walks by.

“I’ll, uh, catch up with you later. You guys have fun. Or whatever,” she smiles and dips off into the crowd, and it’s just the two of them again tucked away in the corner against the bulkhead. Jim licks his lips and stares out at the crowd, laughing and joking with each other, from beside Spock. They gaze into the fishbowl as mutual outsiders.

“Hey.” Jim’s thumb rubs down his side gently to get his attention, and Spock pauses scanning the environment for signs of imminent danger long enough to look down. “I hope you don’t let her get under your skin too bad. It’s just a thing humans do sometimes when they think of you as a friend. Giving you a hard time like that.”

Spock shifts his weight slightly–a tell–but doesn’t move to escape his light grip. 

“Your concern is noted. However, as I am Vulcan, I am not given to emotionalism in response to mild ridicule,” Spock’s eyes wander the room again. He’s a terrible liar. 

“Right. I didn’t mean to imply… Just thought you should know. It means they like you. If they didn’t, they’d be doing it behind your back.” Jim glances down at the floor. “Trust me.”

Spock is quiet for a long moment, though the pause feels pregnant somehow. Weighty. The room is hot, and Jim is starting to feel the buzz kicking in. He’d swear the ship was under sheer, but they’re at stable warp. He tugs at the collar of his sweater absently. 

“Jim,” Spock says finally. His head is tilted to speak in his ear, and his breath is hot, too. He’s starting to get light-headed. “Are we… friends?”

Jim has to tighten his grip on his waist to avoid listing sideways in surprise, but Spock doesn’t move if he’s bothered by it. He can hear his own blood rushing in his ears. 

“I…” His mouth has gone dry. He needs another drink to make it through this conversation. “Of course. I mean–I should think so. You’re a friend. To me.”

I’d be more than that, if you’d let me. His mind supplies dangerously, but his inhibitions aren’t quite lowered enough to let that one slip through unchecked. 

“I see.” Spock nods, pensive. “Yet I have not observed you engaging in this behavior with me.”

“What do you mean?” Jim can’t help it. Spock is being vulnerable, and that’s his kryptonite. He doesn’t have the excuse of putting on the show for anyone, but he lets himself drift closer anyway until they’re tucked up with their sides pressed together. Spock inhales unnaturally long, but doesn’t draw away. “I think you’re plenty funny, I just don’t think you have to be the butt of the joke.”

“I have rarely been accused of humor…or friendship.” Spock’s posture slips, just a touch, not really slouching but enough that his weight is resting against the crook of Jim’s arm. It’s so easy, so natural, as it’s been all night. Jim keeps having to remind himself it’s just for show, that Spock would never allow this without an audience to justify the logic in it, but the more he drinks the more he gets to thinking…

Well. Thinking never got anyone anyplace good. 

“Ah, don’t say that. There’s lots of people on the ship who’d call you their friend.” Friend. Jim didn’t think Vulcans even had friends, but Spock spends his time living among humans, so he supposes he was bound to contract the idea eventually, even if it’s not quite the same for him. It doesn’t feel quite the same to Jim. Is it truly friendship when one party is so smitten with the other, or is that a kind of inequity that precludes the possibility? 

“As I understand it, the concept of a ‘friend’ requires a certain element of reciprocity from both parties,” Spock says, and Jim understands that to mean there might be plenty of people on the ship who’d claim to be friends with Spock, but precious few, if any, about whom he might say the same. Spock takes a deep breath, and wrings his hands in the hem of his sweater. When he speaks, his voice is soft enough Jim has to lean in to hear him.  “Jim. You must forgive me. When I feel… friendship for you, I am ashamed.”

But you do feel something for me. Jim’s a hopeless romantic, and the seed of even a small promise like that is enough to twist the ache in his chest. He draws Spock’s weight the tiniest bit closer on reflex. 

“I’m not sure that feel is the right word,” Jim’s breath still tastes like liquor and hot chocolate. Spock can probably smell it on him with how close they are. “It’s not something you feel but something you build. It’s a relationship between two people. A bond. I’m no Vulcan, but I don’t think that breaks any rules.”

“...a bond…” Spock goes tense under his touch, and suddenly Jim remembers how loaded the meaning of the word is to a Vulcan.

“Sorry, I–” He’s gone and put his foot in his mouth this time. Liquor is a dangerous game. “I didn’t mean anything by it, not like that. Just… forget I said anything.”

“I… understand,” Spock says softly. 

The silence stretches out between them, awkward and heavy, punctuated by the sounds of the party. It’s only gotten rowdier as the crew’s gotten drunker, tripping over their words and their own left feet. It stinks in here, like cheap booze and sweat and food gone stale. Hot, too. Jim watches their reflections, another couple sucking face against the bulkhead in the opposite corner. Her hand pushes up under the other woman’s sweater and–

If Jim has to hear Jingle Bell Rock one more time he’s going to vomit. He looks up at Spock and finds him in much the same spirits. Reckon he hasn’t seen him this miserable and overstimulated since he dragged him out of the pool. He stares out at the room, but no one is paying them any mind anymore. They’ve made an appearance. They won’t be missed if they slip out now. Jim folds, and resigns himself to breaking his final vow of the night.

“Spock… You’ve never been to an afterparty, have you?” 

“An afterparty?” Spock cocks his head in confusion, and his nose crinkles in ever so slight apprehension. “I do not understand. What is the logic in hosting a second party immediately following the first? Is one not sufficient?”

“Come on.” Jim lets his hand slide to the small of his back again and makes to part the sea of the crowd. “I think it’s time we got some air.”

☿   ♀   🜨   ♂   ♃   ♄   ⛢   ♆

“I believe the lieutenant has achieved a sufficient level of inebriation.” It’s Spock talking, he’d recognize his voice in the darkness at the edge of the known universe, but where it’s coming from… That’s a bit more ambiguous. “Perhaps it would be prudent to take our leave for the evening.” 

It’s all a little hazy, in retrospect. Jim was already pretty tipsy when they left Pike’s and made their way to the lower decks. He doesn’t really remember how they got here, if he’s being honest, and he’s not sure where here is either. He suspects from the immediate context clues that they are most likely in a bathroom. Someone might have run him through the sonics fully clothed. 

“Aye, yer spot on. Gonnae whitey again if yer not careful about it.” The guy talking, he looks familiar but Jim can’t pin down his name. He's in engineering reds with a hairline that’s receding too far for his babyface. He’s keeping him propped up in the stall by his shoulder while Jim scrambles to find his footing on boneless ankles. His mouth tastes like rotting fish. The ceiling subtends their position, the ship’s fluorescents orbiting in a wide arc. Someone ought to have a word with the pilot.

“Do you require assistance?” 

“Obviously I do ya fucking reprobate, am not a damned Klingon.” 

Jim senses his body being dragged like a ragdoll, but it doesn’t quite feel like his mind’s along for the ride. 

“My apologies, it was not our intention to disturb your gathering.”

“Relax, we’re just having a gaff.” The red-shirted stranger claps him twice on the shoulder. “Dinnae ken he’d have a reaction. We’ve all been mad wae it, least he didn’t whip out his tadger and have a wank…”

Someone peels him off the linoleum and passes him off to Spock, and Jim’s knees go weak when his arms snake around his waist. He smells delicious, like… like spicy curry. Jalfrezi? No, vindaloo.

“Thank you, Jim.” Oh, he must have actually said that. Spock’s skin is loud where his forearm rests against the small of his back. His shirt’s rucked up. He took off the sweater. Jim thinks he remembers throwing up on that. His head yaws unnaturally on its axis but Spock catches the base of his skull in the cradle of his palm before he cracks it open on the stall door. “I believe the lieutenant requires acute medical attention. I will escort him to sickbay.”

“Ah shite, he’s a wee bit blootered but ah ken he’ll live.” His voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater, Jim can hardly piece his accent together. “Give him some water, he’ll be alright after a kip.”

Spock gazes down at him, expression skeptical, and Jim wonders momentarily if he is an angel the way the light bends through his gravity and forms a halo to frame his handsome features. He has the overwhelming compulsion to touch his face, just to be sure he’s not imagining it.

“Haw! Quit yer mooning and gaun home.” The engineer snorts with laughter and follows them out into the hall before heading back to his own quarters.

Jim shakes from his reverie and comes to dizzy and nauseous. He has to lean his full weight into Spock’s chest to keep himself up right. He scrubs his mouth with the back of his hand but it doesn’t take the sour taste away. He smacks his lips.

“Jim,” Spock says his name gently, too gently given the humiliating circumstances. Enough of his wits have come back to him to recognize he should be embarrassed about his behavior. “Can you walk?”

Jim nods, and tries to focus on not spilling his guts on him again. They shuffle down the corridor towards the turbolift, and Jim’s fingers dig into Spock’s shirt to keep himself steady. Spock manages to haul him into the lift when it dings, not that Jim’s helping him out with it. He’s not felt this space sick since he first joined the Academy. Spock leans back against the rear of the lift and Jim chases him against the wall, wrapping his arms around his neck to support his weight. God, he’s so tired. He could fall asleep right here. But they might be close to their quarters. They should make it back before someone sees them. He’s being embarrassing right now. Worse, he’s embarrassing Spock. Jim chews his lip and tries to bury the bubbling anxiety. 

“We need to get out of the lift.” Spock says, voice hoarse, and it’s only then that Jim realizes he’s buried his fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. He nods, and fumbles out into the hall.

It’s quiet here. Most of the other officers must be in bed or chasing the rosy fingered dawn in another corner of the ship. Somehow, it only serves to make Jim ever more self-conscious about his smashed state. He’s sobering up enough for some self-awareness, but trying to act normal takes all of his meager focus. 

“I’m so sorry…” Jim mumbles out. He can hear the words slurring, but his tongue can’t seem to shape the sounds correctly. “I don’t… I’m sorry. I’m embarrassing you.”

“You need not apologize.” Spock keeps one arm thrown over his shoulder, a precaution against disaster. “Your state of duress is not unlike my own following the events of the captain’s previous holiday party. I believe my obligation to see you safely retire is a preeminent example of what humans frequently term karma.”  

“Can’t believe I missed it.” Jim allows himself a slight smile at the image. 

“On the contrary, I am grateful that you were not present to witness my lack of composure.” The bridge of Spock’s nose flushes at the memory. 

They come so close, nearly making it to the door without incident, before Jim almost trips on his own boots. He flounders for purchase, but manages to catch Spock’s hand before he eats the deck. 

It hits Jim over the head with the force of a steel chair and knocks the air clean out of his lungs. A bone-deep ache, the marrow hollowed out with a spoon, desperately hungry to be filled–hunger with such intensity Jim hasn’t felt since–

His breath leaves him in a slow groan and his back hits the wall. Jim tightens his grip even as Spock tries to pull his hand back. 

yearning desire hopeless lonely rejection fear want want want 
God, his skin’s melting off like he’s being burned at the stake.  

He wants– no, this is far more base, more grotesque–he needs –right now, in this moment, or he will die for lack of it, whatever it is. Yes, he wants– Jim? No, that doesn’t… Spock . Since the start, right there, how could he miss this? How could he be so blind? Nothing could hope to be more important. Spock. He’d kill for him. Die for him, even.

“Spock…” Jim’s voice warbles on the sound of it. The taste of the syllables is a drop of rain in the desert. It’s so hot. His skin is boiling, if he could just drink. Jim fists his hand in the fabric of his shirt, and nearly smashes their faces together, narrowly missing their noses when Spock steers his head out of the near collision. 

“Jim–” Spock’s eyes go wide with terror, and he punches the door to open the cabin before trying again to jerk his hand free of his grip unsuccessfully. He’s never seen Spock’s face so panicked, even with the ship on red alert. Jim has to say something, only he doesn’t know what, anything at all. If he doesn’t his vital organs will burst. He has to touch.

Jim rearranges their fingers in an interlocked weave and the spark flutters like a heroin high, distilled cooling relief. He reaches up to place his other hand on Spock’s face –kash-nohv– he’s never heard that word before, but his fingers know what to do on instinct. They miss their mark when Spock manages to wrestle them into the room, despite Jim’s fighting him at every turn. The door seals shut behind them.

“Please I– let me–” Do what, exactly?

“Jim. Let go.” 

Spock finally snatches his hand free with enough force of Vulcan strength to snap his finger bones clean in half if he weren’t limp with drunkenness and pins Jim to the bulkhead by his biceps in a bruising vice.

A door slams shut.
In a moment, the night is silent again as any other. The flames expire to ash on his tongue.

Spock’s hands are shaking. His hair’s rucked up, eyes blown so wide the warm brown of his irises are totally eclipsed by his pupils. His breathing is labored, jaw clenched so tight he might crack a tooth.

“I shouldn’t have– The hand– I’m so sorry. Please, I didn’t– I’m so sorry, I–” Jim has royally fucked up. His heart collapses into his stomach, and wet spots blotch in the corners of his eyes.

“Jim.” Spock takes a deep, steadying breath, but his shaking doesn’t abate. “You are heavily intoxicated and your judgment is impaired. You do not know what you do. The fault lies in my own carelessness.”

“Spock…”

“Do not speak.” Spock shuts his eyes and his grip tightens down further, so hard it hurts. Jim deserves it. He deserves worse. “Please. You need to rest. I require meditation at this time.”

When his grip looses after another long, even breath, Jim is sorry when he doesn’t punch him in the face. Instead, his posture is entirely broken. He doesn’t look at him again when he darts out of the room. Jim’s not stupid enough to follow him out. He knows how it goes. He’s played this game before. 

Jim massages his arm where Spock’s handprint is sure to bloom come morning. Alone again among the spice and the chintz, he allows himself the indulgence of tears. 

Chapter Text

Subject Log Stardate 2394.87: There was an… incident. I am… It is my fault. The lieutenant, he… Jim was incapacitated due to the physiological effects of GABAergic intoxicants on the human nervous system resulting in impaired judgment. He was not himself, and I… I did not take advantage. The hand contact was purely incidental. It was not my intention to allow it to linger, but Jim… The emotional transference was acute. I hypothesize that positive allosteric modulation at the GABA-a receptor resulting in excitation of the inhibitory cascade responsible for sedation and lowered cognitive ability may also have a depressive effect on the innate psionic dampening exhibited in psy-null individuals. Experiencing the unique intensity of the Vulcan emotional condition without signal dampening proved overwhelming for him. It is highly improbable that the event will result in any lasting psionic damage. As for myself, however… [pause] I have been careless. I experienced a pronounced difficulty maintaining my emotional controls during the physical contact and required significant meditation to stabilize my condition. It was irresponsible to leave the lieutenant unattended in his physical state, I should have alerted medical. I… was not in my right mind. However, I lack the excuse of being under the influence of intoxicants myself. At times, I find the lieutenant has a similar effect on me. I intend to take additional measures to strengthen my psionic shielding to lower the risk profile of such an incident occurring in the future.

Physically, I find myself in less than optimal condition this morning. I am experiencing mild to moderate corporeal myalgia, most pronounced in areas of the body associated with elevated psionic receptance, as well as minor cognitive fatigue. Additionally, I am running a low-grade fever. Given the… strenuous nature of the previous evening, I do not consider these symptoms abnormal, nor will they impede my ability to perform my required duties. The away team is preparing to beam down to the surface of Khione Prime at 1100 hours to begin diplomatic negotiations. I intend to proceed with the mission as planned. Spock out.

Spock jerks awake in the silence, hot, skin singing with it like a kettle on a stove. Paradoxical. It is cold here, freezing–in the low light of the emergency ambers, what little humidity lingers in the cabin air has condensed into small crystals about the porthole on the ship’s exterior wall. The sheets are damp with sweat, not his own, loud where the tight weave of the material scratches against his skin. Jim, it seems, has kicked the heavier blankets off in the night. Overheated, perhaps, as his body attempts to metabolize the intoxicants and reassert homeostasis. His brow is covered in a thin sheen of perspiration.

He rolls over in the dip of the mattress, and his eyelashes flutter open reluctantly. Spock has managed to stir him, though he has hardly moved a muscle. Perhaps he is, as Jim often remarks, thinking too loudly. 

“Spock…” Jim’s voice is rough with grit, wrung out from volume and overuse the night prior. His nose scrunches up distastefully.

“Sleep,” Spock is guilty. He shouldn’t have woken him, Jim needs every opportunity to recover before today’s mission. “There remains an additional ninety-three minutes yet until reveille.” 

“You came back…” He sighs, scrubbing the sand out of his eyes with the heel of his palm.

“Naturally. These are my quarters. I required sleep prior to our departure for Khione.” Spock shifts slightly on the mattress to draw the top sheet up over Jim’s frame. The temperature has cooled so far as to be uncomfortable even to humans, and Jim needs to keep his core temperature well-regulated to accelerate his recovery. 

“But I… Shit, I can go.” Jim slowly returns to cognizance, despite his efforts to lure him back to sleep. His eyes go wide with fright. “I can sleep in the rec room, or on the floor.”

Spock rests a hand on his shoulder over his black shirt–Jim is still dressed in his clothes from the party–to keep him from rising, and Jim starts with anxiety. It stings. Spock takes his hand back, quick as if he’d been burned. 

“Illogical. You may still be experiencing the lingering effects of the drug. Perhaps you require an additional hypo–”

“You hypo’d me?” Jim slurs, still lazy with sleep, and adjusts his position on the pillows to better look at him where they’re lying, face to face.

“My apologies, I was unable to receive your consent to medical treatment as you were unconscious upon my return. However, the double-dehydrogenase and hemodynamics injections required immediate administration to prove efficacious prior to our scheduled alarm,” Spock says, apologetically. Jim has mentioned he is not fond of the hypodermic route of administration, but Spock weighed the prospect of his discomfort enduring the mission ‘hungover’ and arrived at the logical conclusion that this course of action was the lesser of two evils.

“Thanks. It’s not your job to take care of me,” Jim says, and Spock can sense the shame washing off him in waves with how close they are in their small, shared bed. The metabolites linger unpleasantly on his breath. 

“Thanks are unnecessary. It was the logical decision while you remained under my care. I should apologize, as it was irresponsible to leave you unattended,” Spock says, but Jim only seems to curl further in on himself the more he tries to apologize. The guilt again creeps up on him. He has made Jim profoundly uncomfortable, perhaps it would be best if he gave him space to recover without him around…

“No, Spock. Listen to me, it’s…” Jim sighs mournfully and turns his head away. His features are pained in the thin orange light of the sodium lamps. “I don’t really remember what happened, if I’m being honest, but I… I know it wasn’t good.”

Spock braces himself to bear the brunt of Jim’s wrath, but allows him the space to finish. He at least owes him the politeness of listening before running away. He has already fled once. It would be shameful to do so again.

“I know touch is… different for Vulcans. I didn’t… I wasn’t thinking, but that’s not an excuse. I should have known better. I… I’m sorry.” Jim sucks in a deep breath and tightens his fingers around the sheets. His hands are shaking with nerves. “You’re allowed to be mad at me. I’d understand if… I can go. If you’re… If you don’t want to do this anymore, I get it. If you’re uncomfortable, you don’t have to explain it to me, I’ll go. Just… god, I’m so sorry.”

Jim sucks in a deep, unsteady breath, clearly not in control of his emotions. Dampness pricks at the corners of his eyes. Spock feels something unpleasant twist in his chest.

“Jim…” Spock says his name gently, but he doesn’t turn to face him. He watches his face warble unsteadily still. “There is much I do not understand of  human customs, and I am most familiar with the regret that accompanies acting inappropriately. Yet you have never belittled me for my mistakes, and I would be a hypocrite to hold you to a higher standard. I am not upset with you.”

“Okay. Yeah, okay…” Jim sniffles and runs the heel of his hand under his nose, blinks his eyes with atypical rapidity. His lashes are sheened with a small sparkle of water. He nods to himself. “I’ll be more careful. I won’t… touch you. It’s– I can respect that.”

Spock’s stomach drops at the prospect. He has come to enjoy Jim’s casual displays of intimacy, perhaps more than would be becoming for a Vulcan. But he is half-human, and perhaps that allows him the grace of some minor indulgence…

“It is true that the customs surrounding physical contact are different for Vulcans,” Spock starts apprehensively. It is difficult to admit, but it’s quiet here, and the admission is for Jim’s ears only. He trusts that he would not betray his confidence in this matter. “However, it is also true that touch is commonplace in the human tradition of friendship, and are we not… friends?”

“Yeah…” Jim finally looks at him, smile tired and wry that doesn’t quite manage to sparkle with its usual luster. “I don’t deserve a friend as good as you.”

“You are not obligated to amend your behavior. I was merely… surprised.” Spock swallows, and lowers his voice so far below a whisper it’s hardly audible in the quiet of the morning at all. “I do not mind when you touch me.”

“Okay.” He nods, mouth quirked up slightly at the corner, and Spock experiences an uncomfortable fluttering in his heart rate. Jim chuffs under his breath. “I meant it, you know, but I’m not sure it was a promise I could keep. Not for lack of trying, anyway.”

The tension relaxes out of the air, but Spock is awake now, pulse elevated. He doubts he would be able to return to sleep if he tried. Jim groans and turns his chin to crack his neck. 

“I feel like death…” He runs a hand through his sweat-mottled hair. “I think I need a shower.”

Spock leans in ever so slightly, and makes a show of inhaling the ripe air between them.

“Yes. You do.”

☿   ♀   🜨   ♂   ♃   ♄   ⛢   ♆

By some minor miracle, Spock and Jim manage to assemble their bags and make it to the transporter on time for the mission. A heavy breakfast in the mess helped to set them both to rights, but it would appear that they were not the only members of the away team struggling to pull themselves together this morning. The captain and number one stumble onto the platform, punctual and well-dressed, but Spock is familiar enough with the two of them by now to recognize they, too, are looking a bit worse for the wear. It is fortunate that local time on the planet dictated beam out would occur well into the later part of the day. 

The weather on Khione this morning is balmy and fair by the local’s standards, but the temperatures remain well below freezing with the added wind shear necessitating they forgo the standard uniform for heavier gear. A bioadaptive underlayer is sufficient for the human crew, but Spock’s Vulcan physiology necessitates he wear the arctic parka, typically reserved for field missions to more extreme climates. He looks ridiculous, hardly able to move his arms in the bulky, restrictive fabric, though he knows he will be grateful for the concession later. He keeps catching Jim glancing his direction out the corner of his eye, and smiling with light humor.

“Is something amusing, lieutenant?” Spock lifts a single, accusing eyebrow in his direction from his spot on the transport deck.

“Nothing at all, Mr. Spock.” Jim says, but his smile only widens. He licks his lips and fixes his gaze on the ensign at the transport controls. 

“Does anyone need to use the bathroom one more time before we get in the car? No? This is your last warning,” Pike says, making his usual joke before they leave. The others have explained this is a reference to the Terran tradition of a ‘road trip’ but the humor in the joke remains lost on him. When the team gives him the thumbs up, the captain signals the controller. “Alright, Mr. Patel, take us out of here.”

Spock has never quite grown accustomed to the peculiar sensation of discorporeation. The experience is always disorienting, and when the team rematerializes at the foot of the capitol steps, he squints his eyes against the change in light intensity. Cloud cover is dense over the city, and light snow flurries crystallize on the air. Khione Prime is positioned far enough from their system’s star that it appears a full degree smaller in the sky compared to Sol on Terra, but the snow and the white architecture serve to render the surroundings unnaturally bright via reflection, giving the impression that the world itself scintillates with silver starlight. The scenery is foreign, but undeniably beautiful. And then the wind hits, and Spock has to brace himself against the sting of ice on his cheeks. The human crew do not appear so affected.

“We are honored to welcome you.” Three members of the Khionian delegation and several members of their retainer have assembled to receive them, all bowing in unison. Spock recognizes the woman in the center as Serope, a member of the high council, from the briefing. Her esteemed position is marked by the tinkling silver bells on her headdress, the sound echoing over the stone as she tilts her head in polite deference. The team bows in return, as instructed was the proper greeting.

The Khione are possessed of a squat, stout bearing, soft and rounded with adipose as is typical of humanoid races evolved to endure colder climates. The temperature appears to be of little concern, as their robes leave much of their pale skin on display. Their complexion bears a near translucent pearlescence, perhaps to maximize ultraviolet light absorption to compensate for the planet’s solar distance. Serope smiles, her rounded cheeks plumping as ripe fruit with the motion, but it draws attention to the peculiarity of her features–her eyes are wide set, nearly on the sides of her face. A prey adaptation. Spock wonders what beasts are lurking deep in the snows of this quietly peaceful planet. He thinks of what Jim said of Yetis.

“Captain.” Serope approaches Una and bows again, deeper this time, and reaches out to take her hand pressed between two palms, above and below, in the local custom. “We are pleased to see the Light of the Seven blesses you with safe travels.”

“Actually, uh…” Una turns to Pike with a smug little smirk and subtly clears her throat. “He’s the captain.”

“My sincerest apologies!” Serope flusters, catching herself and bowing deeply to Pike, bent nearly in half at the waist. “We are still adapting to the customs of your Federation. Do forgive us this disrespect.”

Pike chuckles and takes their faux pas on the chin, flashing Una a humorous grin. Spock turns back to the reception party and notices there are no men among them. Most curious. Serope extends the invitation for introductions to the remainder of the retainer and ship’s crew, and soon they are bubbling about inquiring as to the transporter process and their Starfleet uniforms. It cannot be more than twenty minutes, thirty at the most, but Spock can already sense his core temperature cooling drastically in the environment, and he begins to shiver to compensate. He reluctantly dips his nose into the collar of his jacket, but it does little to aid his state of discomfort. The snow flurries amass themselves in his eyelashes and he blinks against the wind. His focus wanes, and he struggles to follow the flow of the conversation.

His condition had markedly improved after breakfast, but the cold is not doing his aches and fever any favors. The morning’s discomforts return with a vengeance. By now, Spock’s shaking must be so pronounced to be evident even to the Khione, and he hopes the behavior doesn’t constitute some unforeseen social indignity. There’s a nudge on his arm that he’s almost too numb to notice, but when he turns around it’s only Jim. Some of the snow has alighted in his hair, and Spock watches the flakes as they kiss his skin and melt on contact with his warmth, the moisture leaves little tracks like tears down his cheeks. His face is mottled a handsome pink from the wind. The stubborn lock of his cowlick has come loose as it’s gotten wet and rests in the middle of his brow. He shakes it out of his eyes like a dog. 

“Are you alright?” Jim’s expression is mildly concerned. Spock finally looks up and notices the party is beginning to clear out of the courtyard without them. “I know, it’s freezing out here… Don’t worry, I think they’re taking us inside now. At least, I hope it’s inside. We’re gonna drop off our things in the guest wing. Come on.”

Jim picks up both their small duffle bags and heaves them over his shoulder, jerking his chin in the direction of the grand colonnade where their hosts are leading the rest of the crew without them in toe. They have to jog lightly to catch up to the pack, and they pull up with the rear guard. Jim licks his lips and a small smile breaks over his face. He leans into Spock to whisper, and points between the heads of the courtiers ahead of them.

“At least someone’s enjoying herself, right?” He snickers, and Spock follows the path of his finger to spy Ortegas. The Khione seem to be enamored with her demeanor, as evidenced by their curious affectation of bobbing up and down at the knee to signal their excitement. They babble mercurially, and the pentatonic chimes of their silver bells mingles pleasantly with the pitch of their laughter, echoing through the colonnade. 

“Quite,” Spock offers. The retinue is content to leave Spock, Jim, and Doctor M’Benga to their own devices, though they do make a concerted effort to make conversation with Pike given his station. Nevertheless, the party largely gravitates, perhaps subconsciously, towards La’an and Una and the other women. Spock is grateful for the reprieve. He’s not the sparkling conversationalist at the best of times, less so in his current condition. Discomfort and irritation nip at his nose with the wind, and he hopes it doesn’t show in his expression. 

The grand palace is constructed with remarkable craftsmanship, and calls to mind the historic architecture of Shi’Kahr. The smooth lines are angled to withstand the force of the winds, and the choice of stone mimics the appearance of ice. Despite the inhospitality of the climate to offworlders, the Khione must not find it so, as there are plentiful courtyards with low lying foliage and shrubberies. The plantlife here must have developed a distinct photosynthetic process, and the brilliant red hues are striking against the white backdrop. He makes a note to inquire about their biochemistry with the local scientists, and perhaps acquire some samples for his collection. 

When they arrive in the guest wing, the women are swept in the opposite direction and the men are led up a small flight of stairs to a secluded mezzanine in the western corridor of the palace. The doctor and the captain are offered their own lodgings, and Pike tosses Spock a teasing wink that he pretends not to notice before the staff leads him and Jim to their room at the end of the hall. 

The room is neither spacious nor ostentatious, but that is more than compensated for in the grandeur of the limited trappings. Like the rest of the surroundings, the stone-carved walls and floor give the illusion of being hewn from ice, but Spock is grateful to find there are numerous concessions to warmth here. He supposes the Khione were warned that their visitors are not accustomed to the climate and have endeavored to be gracious hosts. There is what appears to be a hearth with a bundle of the strange red wood they glimpsed in the courtyard that should serve well to heat the small space come nightfall. The sleeping area is not a ‘bed’ in the typical sense, but rather finely woven mats similar to those employed in Vulcan meditation with a collection of tidily embroidered cushions and furs that cover the better part of the floor before the hearth. Spock would ordinarily be apprehensive about making use of animal pelts, but they do appear much warmer and softer than the synthetics issued on the ship and undoubtedly more efficacious at retaining body heat. Given how far the temperatures are expected to plummet during the night, he is grateful for what he can get. There are no lamps; the lights are inset in the walls themselves, and the crystal casts a diffuse and atmospheric glow that refracts, causing the room to appear lit from within. There is little else in the space, largely spartan compared to many places the crew has visited before. It appears the Khione are partial to the spirit of quality over quantity.

“Oh thank god.” Jim tosses their bags aside and makes a show of flopping down in the middle of the cushions with his boots still on. “Finally, something larger than a twin.”

The Khione have prepared an extensive litany of cultural exchange activities for the remainder of the day, and Spock is ushered into a curious transport resembling a maglev trolley to tour the global laboratory campus on the northern outskirts of the city. Under ordinary circumstances, he would be delighted to be afforded an afternoon off-duty spent in personalized presentations of ground-breaking research detailing the evolution of the local flora and fauna and current projects underway at the warp-propulsion labs. Today, he is not proud to admit that his mental acuity continues to flag with each passing hour. Perhaps the weather is to blame. Spock often found even the comparatively mild climate of San Francisco challenging to endure, but now his ears pop as a low-pressure system rolls off the coastline, bringing with it whipping winds and heavier precipitation. Sightlines are now limited to a scant few meters beyond the windows of the tram. It is of little concern as the weather is not atypical for the region in the summer months, but Spock nevertheless finds the temperature distasteful. He allows a member of the ship’s engineering team to engage their escort in idle conversation and distracts himself from the growing numbness in his ears and fingers with a light meditative trance. 

As a member of the command team, Jim has been invited to partake of a separate tour of the national archives where members of the delegation will be giving an abbreviated overview of the planet's political and anthropological development. Spock regrets that he was not afforded his choice of presentation. It is only logical that he be selected as the Federation’s representative of their scientific interests. He is admittedly curious to discuss structural elucidation of novel chemical scaffolds from natural product isolates. He is far less qualified to appreciate the nuance in post-nuclear planetary unification policy. 

He would have found the afternoon more tolerable and engaging with Jim’s witticisms in his ear. 

They are met at the campus by what Spock interprets to be the Khione equivalent of two researchers-emeritus, one male and one female. This should be remarkable given that earlier he was beginning to question whether there were men on this planet at all, but Spock’s mind is not on the task at hand, and in the moment he neglects to think anything of it. Perhaps his neutral, mechanically unfazed reaction is more polite anyway. Gratefully, they are corralled into the vestibules before Spock can develop frostbite in the nigh blizzard conditions. 

The Khione’s demonstrable technological progress is noteworthy given the relative isolation of their star system. Despite the development of warp-drive technology, the Khione display little interest in colonization, instead placing higher societal value on social welfare and ecological stewardship typically only seen in civilizations one to two centuries post-first contact. He ponders idly his discussion of first contact philosophy with Jim, and wonders if he should amend his previous assertion that proof of extraterrestrial life is often a necessary catalyst for the development of a unified social consciousness and the obsolescence of subjective self-identity. He might comm Jim, pose a query as to his thoughts on the matter… 

What might Jim be doing at this moment? Perhaps he is cold. He hopes he is not. He hopes that Jim is comfortable. It is cold here even for humans. Spock might… They might take a nap by the fire. That sounds preferable to his current activities. It would be so warm, he is so warm–

Someone offers him a pair of safety goggles and sweeps him over the threshold into the materials science lab. 
What was he going to message Jim about? He can no longer remember.

The male scientist is presenting the team’s research on the synthetic silicon dioxide compounds that provide the structural underlayment of the planetary capital’s architecture and its modified thermodynamic properties. Something about dielectric coefficients. Stishovites and cristobalites and tridymites and novel crystalline arrangements whose heat and pressure of formation are precluded in nature. His voice is strangely muffled, and Spock finds he must exert considerable effort to keep his focus on the diagrams detailing the process chemistry. His mouth is unusually dry despite having consumed more than adequate amounts of water before beam out. The aches and chills continue to prick distractingly down his spine and he battles the urge to shiver. Nevertheless, he manages to engage the team with his insights enough to delight them with the prospect of future collaborations with Federation scientists, which was his primary role for this mission. 

Spock endures the tour of five additional labs, feigning interest with remarkable cogence in his current condition. As the afternoon draws to a close, he is dizzy and lightheaded. There is a cluster headache forming behind his major psypoints that he fights to suppress. He is resting momentarily at a bench in the vestibule when he is approached by a familiar face.

“It is nearly sunset, we should return to break our fast.” The escort that led them on the tram bows deeply, and Spock catches a whiff of her scent when the air disperses around her with the motion. It is not something he is typically taken to notice, not since his arrival at the Academy. Humans are a quite odoriferous species, not pleasantly so, but he has since adapted through exposure and no longer makes note of it at all. The Khione scent is cloying, bittersweet balsam on the palette. The resinous undercurrent reminds him too much of Vulcan women in the noble circles of Shi’Kahr. He disapproves. “The council invites you to join us this evening for a sampling of traditional cuisine. We hope that you will continue to indulge our hospitality.”

Food. She mentioned dinner, yes? He should respond, that would be polite given the circumstances.

“I am…” Spock pauses to assess his physical condition. His body is experiencing acute thermodysregulation and cannot decide if the environment is too hot or too cold. He accommodates poorly for either circumstance. His eyes are warm and glassy, but his skin pricks with gooseflesh. His stomach knots, and he fights the urge to double over at the midsection. “Ravenous.”

☿   ♀   🜨   ♂   ♃   ♄   ⛢   ♆

Spock’s aura is marginally improved once they are offered appetizers. He inhales the earthy tubers passed around on small platters, and their hosts are so delighted that he enjoys the food that they continue to offer him more until he begins to bloat after only the first course. Still, it is as though his stomach were hollow and his hunger cannot be sated. Already he has eaten enough for three men double his size. It must require significant energy expenditure to keep his core temperature stabilized in the freezing conditions. It has only gotten colder since nightfall.

They are seated on fine embroidered cushions about a low, circular dining table in the Khionian tradition. The crew has been divided two to a table, interspersed with members of the hosting delegation to better facilitate conversation. Spock is grateful to have been seated beside Jim as their mated status was disclosed during the lodging arrangements. Much like Vulcan customs of old, the Khione dine with their hands and seat themselves beside their bondmates during meals. There is another pair among them, as evidenced in the customary way they mark their status in the draping of their legs over the other whilst reclined. Spock finds, most atypically, that he would not be opposed to conforming to the local custom himself, but Jim maintains a polite and professional distance between them. 

“Pretty good, huh? I think you’ve eaten more tonight than all of our meals on the ship combined. I wouldn’t touch the greens though, I think they’ve been stewed in some kind of tallow.” Jim leans in to whisper for his ears only, and his breath pricks electric on the sensitive skin of his neck. 

There is a definite pleasing quality to the sound of his voice after feeling his absence so acutely this afternoon. Some of Spock’s anxiety abates now that he is close again, and the pulsing throb behind his eyes quiets in response to the gentle hum of his consciousness buzzing in the periphery of his psyche. Perhaps he has merely contracted a minor virus, easily attended to with a monoclonal antibody hypo and a sufficient night’s rest. Surely he will be well tomorrow before negotiations begin in earnest. He will be expected to deliver his presentation on the construction of the outpost tomorrow morning, and he will need to be cognizant enough to present the information delicately and without bias. 

Jim continues to babble pleasantly about his day while picking absently at his own meal. He recounts an anecdote regarding a number of tapestries on display in the museum and remarks that he wishes Spock were there to offer his insights on the nature of the vivid dying techniques. His words liaise between the syllables until all that remains is the musicality of his timbre, an angelic hymnal too divine for the lyre. His figure is striking juxtaposed against the neutral blues of the room, sparkling resplendent in his command golds. He is the sunrise over Ni’Var, the light of dawn over the desert sands, filling the space with his warmth and abundance. His scent is erotic, the sonic shampoo has faded now at the close of the day, replaced by his musk that marks their mattress. They will return there, too long from now, behind the locked door. It will be warm, so warm beside the fire, and Jim might hold him there, hot beneath the light of his sun. Skin on skin, he would slide a hand up his side and count his ribs, the press of his fingers on the nape of his neck, wound in his hair, his name on his lips over and over. Close– so close– one mind, one body– kaunsh'es–

“Spock? Are you sure you're feeling alright?” Jim eyes him with mild concern, searching his expression. “You look a little… green.”

He snaps back to his body. It is warm in here. They have lit the fires. 

“Yes.” Spock looks down at his hands, and there is a light tremor where he holds a loaf of the unleavened bread. He rests his forearms on the table to hide it. “You need not concern yourself. I am merely tired due to the cold.”

“Sorry, I know this isn’t exactly your dream vacation destination.” Jim offers a wry smile and nudges their shoulders together, sparking static down Spock’s spinal column. “We can turn in early tonight.”

“Please…” Spock breathes, inhaling deeply the scent of his hair where it sits just beneath his chin. His lashes flutter, head spinning dizzy. Stay close to me, ashayam. 

Jim’s attention is stolen momentarily by the Khione woman seated to his right. Spock watches in slow motion as the pads of her fingertips trail languidly over the gentle curve of his palm where it rests open on the table. The touch lingers, trailing sensuous over his fingers for a moment before she pulls away, pointing at a platter of food. She asks him a question that he doesn’t hear, only seeing the sly quirk of her pleased expression. The taste of bile rises in his throat. 

Spock bolts from his seat in an instant, ripping the platter from her hands and casting it against the stone in a violent clatter. The fine ceramic shatters into oblivion, the fractured shards skittering out of the puddling soup and the racket echoes through the stone walls of the hall. The room falls silent, and every face turns to rubberneck at the unfolding situation. 

The captain and number one eye them both with concern from across the room, a worried expression coloring their faces. It seems they were not looking in their direction during his outburst. Jim scrambles to his feet and tries to diffuse the situation. The Khione’s wide set eyes dart frantically between the two of them, unnerving in the way they need not turn their heads to gaze at them both simultaneously. They are clearly unsettled by his behavior, but seem to be at a loss for words and context. 

“Sorry, he uh… Slipped.” Jim addresses the table with easy, pleasant neutrality.  “If you’ll excuse us for a moment?” 

The women trade confused, nervous glances in unison, but their posture relaxes minutely, and they sink back into their seats. Jim acts before Spock has a chance to contemplate his next move, hooking him through the elbow and hauling him bodily out into the corridor. Spock’s entire body sings in perfect pitch at the site of the contact, heady with relief. Once they are outside, Jim wrenches his arm free and stands counterpoint across the floor.

“What the hell was that about?” Jim whips around to face him once they’re out of earshot behind the colonnade. His expression is white hot, but he tempers his emotions behind the facade of control that serves as reminder he will surely make captain on his own vessel someday. 

“She made contact with your open palm in a public setting.” Spock does not allow himself to be cowed into reticence. He cocks his chin, folds his hands behind his back, but holds them clenched in two fists out of sight. 

Jim sucks in a deep breath and steadies himself against one of the stone columns, his arms barred between them. He grips the bridge of his nose with his fingers, obviously struggling for temperance. He pauses another moment before speaking again, his tone even-keeled.

“Look. I know we just talked about the hand thing this morning, and it’s important to you. I get that.”  His voice is calm and controlled, but Spock can read him well enough by now to tell his patience is entirely forced. “And I’m not trying to go back on my word. Really, I’m not. But sometimes you have to accept that the locals aren’t gonna have the same social norms, and you’ve just gotta be the bigger man and roll with the punches. That’s First Contact 101, you know that.” 

“On Vulcan, such a vulgar display would be considered tantamount to openly propositioning you for sexual congress,” Spock spits, indignant. His hands are shaking, ears pricked for the sound of footsteps in the hall, blood racing, every instinct on high alert. 

“We’re not on Vulcan. We’re on duty, in case you forgot.” Jim grits out through clenched teeth. His patience wears thin, but Spock can’t make him understand. It itches under the skin like fight. Like violence. “Nobody here is gonna rat you out to your parents, so maybe drop the possessive boyfriend act and show a little professional decorum before you cause a diplomatic incident.”  

“My mate will not be treated like some common whore!” The words are Standard, but you wouldn’t know it, not with how the Golic comes through in the consonants, harsh and guttural. He’s hot, panting in fact, vibrating out of his skin. He is suddenly too small to fit in his body, outgrowing his bones. God it aches. His vision is cloudy, focus narrowed to just Jim Jim Jim, a broken comms tape looping over the track. 

“I’m not some two dollar hooker, I don’t need you to defend my virtue!” Jim’s temper trips finally, and he whisper-shouts just low enough not to be overheard. His face is screwed up with hurt as much as anger. “Maybe if you took a fucking breath you’d realize the only one whose getting treated like clientele around here is Erica, not that she’s complaining. I’ve barely said five words to them all night, so maybe stop accusing me of trying to fuck the help! I get enough of that shit from everyone else, I don’t need it from you too!”

“Jim…” Spock whines, aware enough to know he sounds childish and humiliating. He winces against the sensation of shrapnel lodged behind his major psypoint, and presses a finger into the orbital bone. Jim is hurt, and it bounces back, double refracted. 

Jim seems to catch himself in what he is saying, takes a breath and de-escalates. That is Spock’s job. He is the rational one, the logical one. He is not himself. He is behaving illogically. 

Failure. Undesirable. Anxiety flares and chokes in the throat. Each emotion surfaces stronger than the last, blurring together in a harsh menagerie, a run-away daisyworld until nothing remains but blinding white. He burns. The heart of Eridani. The pale fire. 

“I… I shouldn’t have said that. I’m making this about me when it’s not.” Jim sighs weighty out his nose and looks down at his hands. He runs his thumb over one of his split knuckles, picking at the scab until it bleeds. His voice is low and careful when he speaks. “Just… I think we could both use a minute to cool off. It’s been a long day, I don’t want a fight like this. You should go for a walk, get some air. We can talk about this tonight when we’ve both had a chance to think. I’ll cover for you with Pike til you get back. Alright?” 

“Y–Yes…” Spock manages with great effort. The word is foreign and difficult to shape. His voice sounds distant to his own ears. 

“Okay.” Jim says, voice softer. He nods once, hesitates before backing away towards the central hall. Spock’s instinct screams to grab him before they drift apart, but he resists. Jim looks back once over his shoulder, and sets his mouth in a steady line before walking away. 

When Jim vanishes from his sightline, the pain is so seering he cannot think for it. Forming even the most basic thought is a monumental endeavor. Everything is far too loud, too many stimuli to absorb and process. The world spins about his axis, and the texture of the floor ripples like a stone cast in a still pond. His blood bubbles with the bends. He is unsure where it is safe to place his feet. 

He walks. 

It might be minutes, it might be hours, wandering aimless.
He has no internal chronometer by which to judge the distance. He does not mark his turns.

It is all quite pedantic beside the beast of the thing that chases him. He must be being chased. His body braces itself for fight, muscles wound taught and aching. His breathing comes uneven, short and staccato without discernible rhythm. 

It is so hot. He is… He is on fire. Yes, he is going to burn alive. 
He can’t breathe.

Spock stumbles and catches himself against an exterior wall, and the cool stone brings soothing relief. More. More will help, he’s certain of it.

He attempts to divest himself of his parka, but he cannot reason how the zipper functions. Frustrated, he rips it open, and the metal pull skitters over the stone. The ticking sound stings his ears.

There are footsteps in the hall, a woman’s voice. She is the interloper. 
A guttural sound claws its way up his throat.

“Commander! I am pleased I was able to find you. Your partner mentioned that you were touring the moon gardens, and I feared you had lost your way.”

She is of no consequence. Her voice is tinny and grating.
Removing the jacket is insufficient. 
So hot.    

“I simply hoped that I might apologize for my earlier behavior. It has been a humbling experience to learn the customs of all Federation races, but there is much yet we do not know. I was not aware that physical contact held such intimate significance among your people. It was not my intention to make any untoward advances.”

Spock peels off his science blues and the bioadaptive underlayer soon after, casting them aside on the floor.

“Oh… Yes, it is quite warm tonight, isn’t it? Please, do not mind me. I am not sure how your envoy has managed to remain comfortable in such heavy clothes.”  

He presses his cheek to the frosted window with a groan, breath fogging damp on the glass.
It is not enough. His vision begins to vignette about the edges.

“I only wished to assure you that I have no intent to solicit your partner. You see… Oh, I do not wish to be offensive, truly. Please do not misunderstand. How to put this… We do not– It is not customary that we take lovers of the opposite sex beyond the purpose of procreation, and even then only briefly during The Phase. It is not considered… pleasurable among our people .”

Spock strips out of his trousers. He flattens himself against the frozen surface of the wall, but it offers no relief from the burning. The fire stokes from within, where the driving winds of the Forge spread the catching flames. His head throbs as though someone has buried an awl behind his psypoints. 

Why will this woman not silence herself?
Jim. Where is Jim?               

“You understand. Surely you understand, yes? Your people must be of a similar mind, given your choice of partner. I am pleased to find this in common with one another, as we feared our tradition might mark us an aberration within the Federation.”  

Spock is tired, so very tired. 
His knees buckle under his weight, and he slides down the wall.
Perhaps he will simply rest his eyes a moment, and he will wake beside Jim in the cooling waters of the shi’masu.

He slurs something unintelligible before his skull connects with the floor.
The woman shrieks, and dials for medical.

Chapter Text

Personal Log Stardate 2394.92: Starfleet regulations governing non-disclosure of Federation security interests to parties without sufficient clearance prohibit me from recounting this evening’s events in my SIPPA subject logs as their possible tie to our planetary hosts and their potential impact on treaty negotiations remains unclear. At approximately 1900 hours local time, Lt. Cdr. Spock, Chief Science Officer aboard the USS Enterprise, was found unconscious in the southwestern corridor of the Khione Capital Palace by Lady Elektra, a member of the local delegation, where he was then transported to the sanatorium for emergency medical attention. Ship’s CMO, Dr. Joseph M’Benga, is working to stabilize his condition, however the current weather patterns over Khione Prime render beam-out too risky while his status remains critical. I… have not been able to ascertain further details on his current status due to medical confidentiality agreements. 

I am exploring all possible avenues of explanation. It is possible that his Vulcan heritage leaves him susceptible to a foreign microbe native to the planet, and I have attempted to contact Dr. Leonard McCoy aboard the USS Farragut for his assistance in scanning the medical literature for relevant case reports. I am still awaiting response. Additionally, the extent of the Khionian’s involvement remains unclear at this time. I have formulated a number of theories I intend to interrogate over the coming hours. It’s possible that Lt. Cdr. Spock’s incapacitation is a deliberate act of foul play on the part of the Khionian delegation to secure leverage in the upcoming negotiations regarding the proposed Starfleet installation on the planet’s moon, Merope. I have assembled a list of all persons in contact with Mr. Spock or with knowledge of his whereabouts over the previous 18 hours since our arrival, and intend to enlist the support of Chief Security Officer Lt. Cdr. Noonien-Singh in detaining any persons of interest for questioning. The potential for interference by Romulan agents is not to be overlooked. I have submitted data requisitions to Starfleet Intelligence demanding any and all records pertaining to counter espionage campaigns in the region and the names of any known or suspected Romulan operatives in the star system. They have denied my request and will not field further questioning without the prior authorization of either of my commanding officers, Captain Christopher Pike or Captain David Garrovick. I… Goddamnit.

Spock… We’ll get to the bottom of this. I swear it.

The sun is rising now over the city, a sad and dim silver disk barely visible through the haze of the snow and ice. Only the subtle shift from iron to slate beyond the frosted window glass betrays the dawn at all. The halls of the palace remain as impersonal and uncaring to his plight as they were in the dead of night. 

Jim hasn’t slept, hasn’t bothered to return to the room that’s been made up for them–can’t stomach the thought of it, not with Spock somewhere beyond the locked doors of the medical wing resting on sterile hospital linens, possibly fighting for his life. They say no news is good news, but Jim isn’t so sure. The Khione medical staff who’ve been assisting M’Benga have been tight-lipped and professional, breezing right past him when they exit as if Jim weren’t out there pleading for an update like a drowning man shouting for a life preserver.  

Jim’s been wearing a hole in the stone flooring, pacing over the same patch of hallway and mindlessly flipping his comm open and shut, waiting for something, anything, like its oracle might provide the answers he seeks. He’s attempted to dial out for Bones a dozen times in the last hour alone, but he can’t reach the subspace relay this far planetside, not with the weather being what it is. Bones insists he carry an epinephrine hypo on him when he’s on away missions on account of his allergies, and he’s not proud to admit he jabbed the plunger in his thigh a few hours ago. Just to stay awake, maybe just to feel something other than panic. 

It did not ease the panic.

The rest of the crew are… not unconcerned, of course not. Of course they care what’s happening to Spock. But they have a job to do, and they are placing their commitment to duty first and foremost in exactly the manner he’d expect of the consummate professionals chosen for service aboard the flagship. It’s what Spock would want, anyway, Jim knows that. He almost wishes he were afforded the luxury of distraction, but there’s no use pretending he’d be any help to Number One in his current state, nor does she actually need him there to take notes. She has the automated recorder that does well enough.

Jim is more useful here, looking out for Spock. It’s a lucky thing, lucky he’s here–he can take charge. While the others are going forward with negotiations, he can figure out what’s wrong with Spock. Useful. He will prove himself useful, because it is a better thing than feeling powerless for circumstances outside his control. 

He paces the wing again, never far enough to lose sight of Spock’s door. Just in case. The nurses might open it a tad too far, and maybe he will get a glimpse of a foot or a hand and know that he is real and he is there and he is alive and breathing. Not that he’s looking. He’s not supposed to be looking. 

Jim distracts himself again with theories instead, running over the possibilities and weighing their likelihoods: the key players, their motivations, their strategy–he can outfox them, out maneuver them. Whoever they are, they will pay for what they’ve done.

But one glaring inconsistency still remains–who would want to hurt Spock? And why?

Jim’s heart rate spikes when he turns around and catches Captain Pike leaving Spock’s room. He and Dr. M’Benga linger just outside the threshold, heads bowed together in whispers that are too low for Jim’s eavesdropping ears. Their faces betray nothing, too practiced under pressure to give anything away. Pike nods, and M’Benga excuses himself back into the medical wing before Jim has a chance to steal a glance through the door. When Pike turns around to walk away, Jim is glued to his shoulder before he has a chance to take a breath.

“Captain!” Jim has to work to contain himself so he doesn’t come off as overbearing. “How is he doing?”

“Dr. M’Benga is doing all he can to stabilize his condition.” Pike offers him an apologetic look, and Jim already knows what he’s going to say next before the words leave his mouth. “I’m not at liberty to say anything more than that. I know you’re worried about him, we all are. But you need to be patient and let the medical staff do their job.”

“That’s the same thing you said two hours ago.” Jim tries to hold back his frustration, but it’s hard when he’s this exhausted and everyone is insistent on keeping him in the dark.

“And it’s the same thing you’ll hear until something changes.” Pike scrubs his hand over his eyes. Exhaustion is showing on his face too, and Jim tries to remind himself that even with an officer down, Pike is still obligated to maintain control of the mission. “I’m sorry. But I can’t help him anymore than you can right now.”

“You…” Jim swallows his nerves and his pride, straightens his shoulders in his best imitation of command. There are more important things on the line right now than staying in Pike’s good graces, and if he hates him for this, so be it. “With all due respect, Captain, you have an obligation to disclose to me the details of his health status. Starfleet Medical Guidelines on Portability and Accountability 45 CFR 164.510(b) grants partners visitation rights and access to privileged medical information–”

“Lieutenant–” Pike starts, but Jim plows forward, undeterred. 

“–in the event of critical physical or psionic injury–”

“Lieutenant Kirk, listen to me–”

“–or other qualifying life-threatening medical event sustained in the line of duty–”

“Jim.” Pike sighs, and eyes him with something too close to pity for his liking. “You know I can’t grant you that. Those are the spousal regulations. You’ve barely known each other three weeks.” 

Jim swallows and looks down at his feet, at a loss for a solid rebuttal. No doubt he looks childish, a lovestruck romeo, and in front of the captain no less. Pitiable. It doesn’t feel like that, though, not to him. Jim has always been a hopeless romantic, the type to fall too hard too fast, an easy victim where the arrows are more at home in his heart than the quiver. It’s different this time. Call it a hunch, but Spock is–

Not his. He forgets himself, as he’s done all along. But this isn’t a charade anymore. This is real, and the reality is he’s not Spock’s partner. They are hardly even friends. He has no right to demand anything from Pike at all, and no way to know if Spock would be okay with that breach of confidence. 

“I…” Jim swallows the stone in his throat, and nods without looking up. “I understand.”

“And what’s this I hear from the comms officer about you reaching out to Starfleet intelligence?” Pike asks, too casually. 

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’ve been digging into the backgrounds of some of the scientists Spock was visiting in the labs.” Jim perks up at the opportunity to bend his ear and field some of his theories. He whips out his PADD, and thumbs through his notes to pull up one of his better leads. “It looks like an antimatter physicist working in the warp-propulsion division took a ‘leave of absence’ six months ago and immediately on their return fielded some particularly novel and advanced theories on warp-drive development—suspiciously advanced for a species of their current stage of technological progress. It’s possible a faction of the Khione are in backdoor negotiations with the Romulans to gain access to–”

“Watch yourself, lieutenant. This isn’t your command—it’s mine.” Pike cuts him off and levels him with the kind of stern expression he only wears on the bridge during red alert, and Jim is suddenly reminded that he didn’t earn the most prestigious conn in the fleet without merit. “You’re letting your personal feelings get in the way of the mission. We have no grounds for any suspicions about the Khione, and if intelligence did they would have damn well told us before we beamed down here. Next time, you’ll voice your concerns through the proper chain of command instead of going over my head and making unfounded accusations that could undermine the delicate relationship we’re building with a First Contact species. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” Jim is finally cowed into embarrassment. He’s grateful Pike is of a mind to chastise in private instead of before the other members of the crew. He holds himself at rigid attention, and keeps his head low. Pike doesn’t say anything for a long moment, like he knows there’s something else Jim wants to say and is waiting for him to spit it out. He caves eventually. “Captain… I understand that this might be out of line but… off the record. Can you…” Jim swallows and takes an unsteady breath. “Is he going to be okay?”

Pike relaxes again out of his fight stance and rests a comforting hand on his shoulder, but it doesn’t offer much in the way of solace.

“I’m not going to lie to you. Honestly, I don’t know. I think that might be up to Spock.” Pike says, cryptically, and Jim knows there’s something he’s not telling him. “All I can say is this doesn’t have anything to do with the Khione or the Romulans, so you can put your conspiracy theories to bed. You should try to get some rest yourself. You’re no good to anyone when you’re running yourself ragged. I’ll tell the medical team to send someone to wake you up the minute anything changes. Alright?”

“Yeah. Okay.” Jim nods, and runs his fingers through his hair. It’s matted with sweat. He probably smells disgusting. Pike gives his shoulder a small squeeze before allowing his hand to drop. He moves to excuse himself, probably long overdue for a meeting with the High Council. Jim tries to pull himself together once his back is turned, scrubbing a sleeve over his bloodshot eyes.

“And Jim?” When he reaches the end of the corridor, Pike turns around to face him one final time. “You can’t afford to be emotionally compromised in the chair. Don’t forget that.”

☿   ♀   🜨   ♂   ♃   ♄   ⛢   ♆

Jim makes the long walk back to the west wing distant and delirious with lack of sleep. It’s not as though the scant few hours he managed the previous night passed out drunk were of much benefit. Exhaustion overwhelms him the moment he opens the door. The warm lights dance and flicker on the floor unsteadily, but it’s freezing here without the hearth lit. Jim doesn’t think he can summon the energy to stoke a blaze. 

He spots his and Spock’s belongings side by side on the floor, never unpacked, and the knot in his chest makes itself known again. Guilt rears its head, and soon enough Jim is choking on it. 

He should have known. All day he held his tongue on his suspicion that Spock was somehow… off. Not himself. Sure, he affected the same Vulcan stoicism as ever, well enough to pull the wool over someone else’s eyes but Jim… He should have been paying closer attention. He should have pressed when Spock continued to insist he was fine. Perhaps if he had, there would have been more Dr. M’Benga could do. He can almost hear him now whispering in his ear how illogical he’s acting, but Jim is an emotional being and he is allowed his vices from time to time. 

He shouldn’t have snapped at him like that at dinner. Spock never loses his temper. It’s like Sam said, he’d be cool as a cucumber with the ship in free fall out of orbit and the shields burnt out. If Jim hadn’t put it together before, then that should have triggered alarm bells that something was very, very wrong. But Jim had to make the whole ordeal about himself and his own insecurities, and now it’s possible the last words he’ll ever say to Spock were said in anger instead of kindness. Instead of love. 

No. Spock… He’s going to be fine. He has to be. Jim’s not sure he could live with himself if he isn’t.

Jim is no stranger to the specter of sudden death that haunts them in the service, met him in the darkness long before he ever signed on. There is no closure, no tidily wrapped beginnings and endings to speak of. This though would be far too cruel even for the desolate emptiness that is the void of deep space. Not this. Not after all that’s come before, after all he’s survived, all he’s endured, clawing his way through every stinking inch of mire to end up here, so close to the object of his desire the magnetism is enough to tear his heart in two, only to have it ripped away. Over before it even begins. The predictable outcome. Just another day in the life of Jim Kirk. 

Please, he bargains, let me have this one thing and I will never ask for anything ever again.

But the room is silent, and there is no one listening to answer.

Jim strips down to naked, numb and uncaring, and leaves his uniform pieces scattered on the floor. He sniffles against the dry air, too exhausted even for tears. He is vaguely aware that he is dissociating, how he did after Tarsus, separating himself from the reality of the situation to spare himself the weight of feeling it so acutely. He watches himself in third person when he reaches for his own bag and grabs Spock’s instead. The contents are tidily folded in orderly, repeating piles of well-starched science blues all stiff and impersonal. At the bottom though he’s brought a set of meditation robes, the black ones that fall open at the chest when the tie slides loose when he’s become lost in thought. It calls to mind the quiet evenings spent in his quarters in pleasant, easy silence with both of them seated on the floor. Jim would read his novel and the white noise of Spock’s breathing mellowing out soothed his anxieties at the close of the day. Spock’s presence carries enough weight even in silence that Jim swears he can sense it when they’re close enough, steady and calming as a rock in a stormy sea.

He draws the fabric to his nose, and finds that the scent of his skin and his incense still lingers on the collar. Jim wraps himself in it like a blanket. It dwarfs his frame so much he’s practically swimming in it. He lies down on the blankets and cushions, knees tucked up into his chest. He keeps the collar over his nose to stave off the frosty chill in the air, breath damp on the material where he inhales through the fabric. He closes his eyes, and begs for sleep to claim him quickly. 

Jim doesn’t wake because someone has come to find him, but because he is famished. He hates waking hungry. It doesn’t take him any place nice. 

The first thing he does is check his comm, but finds no new messages. The several outgoing to Bones remain unsent, and the long-range signal error still taunts him in the service bar. Jim resists the urge to throw it at the wall. He takes stock of his surroundings next, and realizes he’s still wrapped up in Spock’s clothes and flushes in embarrassment, even though there’s no one around to catch him in the act. It feels too sentimental now that his wits have returned with a few hours rest. 

He slips out of the robe and carefully refolds it, tucking it back in the bag under the science uniforms, and hopes that when Spock opens it again, he doesn’t notice how the contents have shifted.

If Spock opens it again. He refuses to allow the defeatism in the thought to linger. He dresses in a fresh uniform, and lets the mask of duty to hide the fear still clawing at his stomach, ever at home beside the hunger. At least the ache is familiar.

It’s nearly noon local time, and most the crew has dispersed to see to their mission obligations, but when Jim enters the dining hall he finds La’an seated outside beneath the pergolas twined with some peculiar ice berry whose juices burst and leach into the fresh-fallen snow. The color matches her security uniform. She doesn’t look like she’s wanting for company, but Jim would prefer her barbed comments over the monologue of his own anxieties at the moment, and so he takes the food on offer and steps out to join her in the cold. 

“Thought you’d be sleeping on the floor of the san.” She eyes him carefully when he sits down beside her before she looks away, gaze carefully trained on the thin snowfall across the courtyard. The weather has quieted somewhat, but the ionic interference in the cloud cover still leaves outgoing transport and communications unreliable. The forecast predicts the storms will rise again in the late afternoon. Reminds him of summer thunderstorms on the Iowan planes. 

Jim doesn’t respond, only shrugs, and tries to stomach the food. He can’t bring himself to touch the tubers, and instead he swallows bits of cured meats and unleavened bread without chewing or tasting. It settles like a rock in his guts. He feels queasy and full already, though he’s barely touched the plate. La’an doesn’t say anything else, not at first. They sit in tense silence, though Jim can tell there’s something weighing heavy on her mind. 

“Do you ever wonder if you’re where you’re supposed to be?” She starts, apropos of nothing. Jim looks up, but it’s almost like she’s talking to herself. Her gaze is far away. “I mean… All the little incidental choices that don’t seem to matter in the moment, but the sum of them together... Do you ever wonder if everything happens for a reason?”

“Not really,” Jim admits. Sure, there are lots of things that might have gone differently. He might have never boarded the ship to Tarsus, never gotten in all those bar brawls in starports, never dated Carol. He might have drawn spades instead of hearts and never signed up for SIPPA at all. It’s immaterial now—the die is already cast. “I figure we are who we are in the context of our choices and our experiences. If things had been different, then I wouldn’t be me anymore. Ship of Theseus and all that.”

“The what?” La’an squints at him through the wind. Her hood is hiked up around her head, and the black material frames her round face.

“Philosophical paradox. If you replaced every part of the Enterprise, is it still the same starship?” Jim shrugs. “I guess I try not to think about it much, feels too much like regret. If you’re asking if I believe in destiny, I guess I believe in creating my own.”

La’an hums to herself, nodding carefully, and returns to watching the snow. She doesn’t move to offer up her own opinion on the matter, and Jim takes that to mean she doesn’t see eye to eye with him.

“Why do you ask?” Maybe it’s impolite to press, but she shouldn’t have brought it up if she didn’t want to talk about it. Of course, not everyone’s as partial to a rousing philosophical debate as Spock. Jim senses the tightness in his chest returning, can’t seem to shake the gnawing of it for long.

La’an sighs deeply and sinks back into her chair. 

“I guess I do,” she says softly. “Believe that things happen for a reason, I mean. That there are pieces of ourselves that are immutable. It’s… a comfort, in its own way. Try to dam a river, but it will always reach the sea.”

Jim disagrees with her assertion. He doesn’t like to believe in fixed destinies, or that all the inhumanities of the world are simply inevitable. It’s a no-win scenario. A depressing thought, but he knows better than to tell her he thinks so. He takes another bite of his food instead.

“My point is, I think you’re supposed to be here. I think Spock needs your help, and you’re meant to help him somehow.” She sucks in a deep breath, and it rattles like the cold air stings her lungs. “I don’t think anything good happens, if you don’t. I guess you don’t believe in that sort of thing, but I thought you should know.” 

Jim gets the impression there’s something she isn’t saying, but doesn’t know her well enough to guess at what it is. She’s never struck him as the superstitious type. La’an has been an enigma since he first came aboard, but she’s… familiar somehow. He can’t place it, though. Perhaps he met her once, at the academy maybe–a party, a class. He feels like she’s got a face he would remember. He supposes it doesn’t matter now. 

“I have to go.” La’an gets up before he has a chance to piece together a reply, evidently having said her piece. She brushes off the snow that’s collected on her slacks and sniffs, scrubbing her nose on the back of her sleeve and blinking against the wind. “I’m on security detail for the next conference.” 

She doesn’t look at him as she goes, and when she leaves it reads like running away.

Jim is slowly losing his mind in the gardens at the heat of the day, which is really more akin to the worst of the lake-effect snowfalls in the midwest, when the Khionian nurse finally finds him with an update on Spock. It is, of course, the moment he’s least expecting it to happen, and when he finally looks up from his communicator and spies her scurrying through the snow on stubby legs in the white linens that approximate scrubs, his blood pressure skyrockets so far he nearly collapses in the neighboring drifts. Her face is alight with joy, positively beaming with delight really, and Jim can only assume that means good news. 

She opens her mouth, presumably to begin on one of their long, formal addresses stuffed with honorifics, but Jim cuts her off before she can get a word in edgewise.

“Is he awake? How is he?” Jim is almost out of breath for it the way his heart is hammering in his throat.

“Your commander’s condition is stabilized at the moment,” she says and Jim doesn’t like those words: at the moment. He swallows his anxiety long enough to let her finish before jumping to any more wild conclusions. He’s shaking. He wants to leave her in the snow and bolt for the san as fast as his legs can carry him. “He is not ill, though perhaps in a sense… Your commander is merely experiencing the onset of The Phase. The council has asked me to communicate their congratulations to you both, we are most honored and esteemed that you would be among our people at such an important time. We were not aware that males among your species were taken with the cycle, as it is quite rare here. As Celaeno, mother of fortune and winterless paradise, is in the dominant house, you must be uniquely well suited to one another.”

The Khione nurse babbles happy nonsense, and Jim is frustrated that the UT can’t seem to parse the garbled mess. A hell of a time to be lost in translation. He wants to grab her by the shoulders and shake.

“I’m sorry, he’s sick with the what?” Jim has to grit his teeth. He is trying to be respectful, truly he is, but the last thing he has the patience for right now is strange alien diseases that might seem as trivial as a mild case of the sniffles to them that could very well prove deadly to Vulcans. 

“My apologies, perhaps our terminology is not so easily parsed by your translator. It is the mating fever. It would seem your partner’s time is upon him,” she offers, still unbothered, which clarifies absolutely nothing about the situation. “Please, if you would follow me. Your doctor wishes to speak with you at this time.”

Jim doesn’t wait for her lead. He’s already been up to the san so many times he’d know the way drunk and blindfolded by now. He makes it there in record time, panting like a dog and lungs burning in the cold air. He shoulders bodily past the sanatorium staff until he spots M’Benga, a head above the crowd, and fists his hand in his medical uniform to whip him around.

“Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on?” Jim hisses, low enough the Khione can’t hear him. He’s trying for decorum, and falling resolutely flat of it. He’d like to cause a scene, just so they might know how hot he’s burning with frustration right now.

“They’re a little confused, but they’ve got the spirit.” M’Benga sighs, and scrubs a hand across his brow in a combination of exhaustion and exasperation. “Jim, we need to talk.”

The nurses continue to bubble about lightly, followed by the ever-present tinkling of silver as they babble excitedly to one another, turning to whisper and shamelessly gawk at him and the doctor. He’s so angry he could whip around and scream at them to shut up. 

“Yeah, I agree. You’ve let me spend the last twelve hours thinking that Spock is on his deathbed, and now they won’t shut up about a… a mating fever. What the fuck is that supposed to mean! That Spock is… that he’s in heat?” Jim sorely wishes there was something analogous to an airlock while planetside so he could launch the next person who insists on relaying updates about Spock to him in cryptic riddles into the harsh and unforgiving vacuum of space. “Like… like he’s some kind of horse? A girl horse?!”

“Jim, please.” M’Benga lays a hand on his shoulder and does his best to shuffle them into a more secluded corner of the wing. His grip is tight, a little anxious, and he doesn’t quite manage to look him in the eye. “Spock is okay. He just woke up about a half hour ago. I sent the nurse for you as soon as I was sure he could handle seeing anyone. I know you’re worried, that’s perfectly understandable, but right now what I need from you is to take a deep breath. Spock is still pretty weak, and I can’t let you see him until I know that you can be calm.”

“Yeah, I can do that. Yeah.” Jim nods, and tries to steady his nerves by breathing slowly through his nose. He flexes his hands over and over again at his sides. M’Benga waits long enough for his frenzy to blow over more or less until he’s merely simmering with mid-grade anxiety. He lets the air out through his teeth before he speaks again, voice level and serious. 

“There’s something I have to tell you before I let you see him. What Spock is going through… It’s an extremely sensitive topic on Vulcan, one that not many outworlders know about unless they have personally been involved.” M’Benga pauses, and opens and shuts his mouth, and his lips flatten into a firm line. He almost looks guilty for speaking of it at all. “I shouldn’t even be telling you, it’s not my place. But given the circumstances, this concerns your health as much as it does Spock’s. You have the right to make an informed decision before you consent to anything. I need to know that you understand the gravity and cultural significance to the Vulcan people, and that you can approach this with the respect it deserves. You can’t repeat anything I share with you to the rest of the crew.” 

“I understand. I won’t… I wouldn’t betray Spock’s confidence like that,” Jim says quietly. Suddenly, he’s reminded of what Gaila said to him what feels like ages ago now, before he left to board the Enterprise. He struggles to remember exactly what it was. Something about a mating drive…

“They call it the Pon Farr,” M’Benga whispers it the way you might when repeating a word you know you shouldn’t. “It’s a deeply personal and private affair. Vulcans reach full sexual maturity much later than humans, and when they do they periodically experience an overwhelming instinctual drive to take a mate. The process has profound psychological effects and exerts an intense physical toll on the body. If not… satisfied, the fever almost certainly proves fatal. Jim, I… whatever the nature of your relationship with Spock, it’s none of my business. But he’s never been through this before. Right now, he’s in a lot of pain. He’d never admit it, but I imagine he must be feeling very frightened and alone. Whatever you decide to do, all I ask is… Please. Don’t make this any harder for him than it has to be.”

Fatal. The word echoes through his mind over and over again, until it’s the only thing he hears at all. 

Spock is… if he doesn’t he’ll… Jim can’t even speak it into existence, not willing to give it a mouth even in his own thoughts. It’s simply not a possibility that he’s capable of fathoming. The girl, his betrothed—she left him, knowing full well that this is what could happen? And now it’s… There isn’t anyone else. Maybe if they were on Vulcan, but Spock has to choose between Jim and… He thinks he is going to be sick. 

Please, let me have this one thing and I will never ask for anything ever again.

It’s one hell of a monkey’s paw.

“If you need a moment to think, I understand,” M’Benga says.

To think? To think about what? This is Spock’s life they’re discussing, like he isn’t right there on the other side of the door. He could ask Jim to nail himself to a cross and he’d do it without flinching. Spock is the best of them. Next to him, Jim is nothing. It was never even a question.

“No! No, of course not. If that’s what Spock… I’ll talk to him. I—” Jim looks up, and notices the Khione are still watching them, well out of earshot but with rapped fascination nonetheless. He shoots them an irate look. “God, they act like this is some kind of circus.”

“Don’t be so hard on them. You’ve got to understand, I’ve never been in a position to have to stabilize a Vulcan during their Time, and even within Starfleet the medical literature is sparse at best.” M’Benga tightens his grip on his arm, just for a moment, but it betrays multitudes. “The Khione experience a similar biological process. If I’m being honest with you, they were able to do more for him than me. He’s damned lucky he was down here when it hit. If he were still aboard the ship… we’re still a few day’s warp from Vulcan, and I’d rather not think about that.”

Jim doesn’t have anything to say to that, he can only run a hand through his hair, nodding to himself over and over. That didn’t happen. That didn’t happen, it isn’t going to happen. There are doctors here, on this planet, who know how to help him, and Jim can help him, and Spock is going to be okay. That’s the only thing that matters, not the sickening sinking feeling in Jim’s stomach now that the reality of what M’Benga is suggesting is breaking through the panic and settling in the rational part of his mind. It’s not that this is some unbearable obligation, oh no, quite the opposite. But not like this, never like this. Not when Spock can’t choose.

Jim remembers back at the Academy, members of the command track were required to listen to several field logs of fellow officers who endured traumatic situations as part of their psychiatric evaluation. It’s essential to be sure they have the composure to handle the worst before being handed the weighty responsibility of holding the lives of some of the best. He recalls the logs of one officer, a young ensign, the sole survivor of a shuttlecraft accident who found himself pinned under the weight of a steel hull. Unable to reach his phaser or communicator, it took him one hundred and twenty seven hours to saw off his own arm with a medical scalpel. But he lived.

It’s like that, Jim thinks. It’s going to hurt like that when it’s over.

“Tell the Khione I said thank you,” he offers quietly. “But I should really talk to Spock. I… Yeah.”

“Whenever you're ready,” M’Benga says. His arm leaves his shoulder, and he excuses himself to afford Jim a moment of privacy.

Jim swallows, and resigns himself to his fate.

Chapter Text

The first thing Spock is aware of is the overwhelming sensation of being cleaved with a lirpa in the back of his skull. Perhaps the blade is still lodged in the bone, or that is what he would conclude given how the pressure throbs from the inside. He is, however, dimly aware were that the case there would surely be more green soaking his clothes and his thoughts, thready and inconsistent as they are, would by now have ceased to exist all together. He floats in etheric numbness, distantly cognizant of the pain shooting pins and needles deep in his flesh, but he cannot seem to bring himself to care. His mind is clouded with anesthetic, rendering him incapable of feeling at all. Hollow and vacuous, as though someone had stuffed his mind with cotton. He would be angry perhaps, but he cannot quite manage that either. He is… thinking requires immense focus as his mental faculties are paralyzed, though they are slowly coming round little by little and with it starts the burning again in earnest. He is so hot, terrifically so, despite the cool air of his surroundings. His brow and hands are wet where the doctors attempted to quell his fever with ice. 

The doctors. He is in the medical wing on Khione. Spock does not remember how or when he arrived here, doesn’t remember much at all aside from bits and snatches coming in and out of awareness. It is difficult to say how long it has been. It is nevertheless tranquil here, though it is quite like waking in the eye of a storm. He is in a private room, with no company save the methodical drone of the vital sign monitors. His hands are free, but when he tilts his head to look, there is a ring of bruises blooming around his wrists.

He was violent. Madness inconsolable. He is dimly aware of the sensation now, muted beneath the snowy blanket that whites his mind. 

So it has begun, then. 

He would have thought he’d have more time, before the end. Though he supposes that is an illogical thought. The odd, heady sensation does not allow him room for regret, and the artificial clarity afforded by his mental state is neither good nor bad, it is simply objective. Perhaps like this he is at his most Vulcan, a dying star burning out in white-hot supernova in a hollow emptiness all together free of feeling. He has, perhaps, never been closer to Surak than in this moment. He is not sure what to make of that.

His mind unknots itself slowly in Reidemeister moves, one crossing at a time. Under and Over. Over and Under. A memory surfaces, T’Pring’s hands as she deftly worked apart the tangles in her betrothal necklace after it had rested in her bag for too long. She rarely wore it. She drifts away, silent as still air in the desert. 

Spock returns to himself like a rising tide on a drowning man, water in the lungs and gasping for air, slow enough for the fear of one’s own circumstances to become readily apparent and still powerless to change it. It starts in the fingers and leaks into his bloodstream, pulling back and forth in waves until the sensation is over his chest and licking at his throat. The weight is crushing as the drugs begin to fade, a creeping anxiety until it becomes too deep to wade through and he is scrambling to tread the waters. He is going to sink in it, and they will find his body a stone swallowed by the unbearable weight of his own being. 

Another memory, then—a hand on the nape of his neck and another on the small of his back. His skin burns at the site of the phantom contact. 

I’ve got you. Promise.

Jim! 

Consciousness becomes him like a broken dam, water rushing in from all sides loud as thunder and a crashing wall of force. His heart is tripping the red alert, and he rips the sensor off his neck, bolting upright in the damp linens. Where is—Jim? 

Jim Jim Jim Jim Jim—

The name repeats in his head like the roar of the ocean, blurring the ends to the beginnings until it isn’t a name at all but a mantra, a prayer, old as the time before Awakening when the desert still knew the kiss of water. His throat is scratchy and parched. He lacks even the voice to scream. 

His ears trip over themselves when the door clicks and he whips his head around at mach speed. It inches open far too slow, in the gaps between heart beats, but he can smell him before he sees him, salty on the air. 

“...Spock?” His voice breaks and his face shatters into a million pieces when the door slams shut. “God, Spock!”

Jim is on him before he has the wisdom to push him away. He rips him indelicately off the pillows and into a tight embrace, buries his face in the curve of his neck and inhales, breath shaking and unsteady. His fingers dig deep and bruising into his back as though he might slip away from him if he’s not careful. Relief spikes down Spock’s spine, better than any narcotic the nurses could offer. He didn’t have a frame of reference for the pain until he was given a brief reprieve. Jim ropes his fingers in his hair and pulls his head back to look at him, broken and evidently quite shaken. Spock can sense the fear radiating off him in waves, sickening in its ferocity. 

Spock did that, he made Jim feel like that. Guilt twists in his stomach. 

“You’re… I thought… God, don’t scare me like that, I…” Jim searches his face, eyes wet and wide. He takes a deep breath and licks his lips, sighs out his nose and relaxes his iron grip a touch. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

‘Okay’ is too imprecise a term; it lacks the context to capture the gravity of the situation. Spock is stable, in the sense that an engineer might be stable in the hours and days after walking into the warp core unshielded. His body is betraying him much the same, eating away from within and soon it will again be visible without. He wishes that Jim would not be there to see it. Perhaps Jim might remember him as they were aboard the Enterprise, in the midst of an amiable game of chess, or watching the stars together on the observation deck. He does not want Jim to see him wasting away. 

Every fiber of his being screams to reach out and touch, to draw Jim into his gravity until the point of orbital collapse. He has regained enough cognizance of his own actions to know that he cannot. He is almost sorry for it. He almost wishes that he were not himself, so that he could not regret such an action in the moment. But he is not and he would and he does—he regrets the thought for even having it, because once the door is open it cannot be shut. 

“Jim. Please,” Spock says, with great personal effort. Pulling out of his arms is like ripping off a layer of skin. Jim relents, always respectful, and relaxes to sit beside his thigh. The pain is indescribable, though Spock does not let it show on his face.

“Right. Sorry. I… wasn’t thinking.” Jim looks down at his hands, pensive. His face is unreadable, and Spock has lost insight into his emotions now that they are no longer touching. His brow furrows slightly, but he puts on a smile when he turns back again. It does not crinkle his eyes. “Looks like your fever has gone down some. How are you feeling?”

“I have been better.” It is not an untruth, and a sentiment that Jim is likely familiar with as he has heard it many times among the ship’s crew when they are in sickbay. It is an understatement, but understatement is not a lie. 

“I can imagine.” Jim nods solemnly, over and over as he looks away again. He scrubs a hand through his hair, a mannerism Spock has come to understand is a ‘tell.’ He takes a deep breath, opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens again. Spock tenses up, and when he speaks it’s hardly a whisper. “M’Benga, he… He told me about your condition.”

Spock jolts like he’s been struck by lightning, tries to scramble away on the limited space of the bed, but there is nowhere to run. Jim is between him and his only escape, and he’s not certain his knees wouldn’t collapse out from under him before he reached the door regardless. He is trapped in a purgatory of his own design. 

“No, wait!” Jim is stricken, and he lays a staying hand on his thigh to keep him from running away. He wishes he would not—he doesn’t understand—that to touch— Spock would—he will—he does not wish to do something he will regret. Jim has never made that easy. “Please, just… Let me say my piece, and if you want I’ll go. I promise. If you want me to go, I’ll go.”

“As you wish.” Spock bows his head in resignation, unable to deny him anything with his face as pained as it is. 

He already suspects what it is he is going to say, self-sacrificing and misguided as he is predisposed to. He cannot ask this of him. It would be wrong, to violate his body, his person. And Spock… if he survived, he would have to carry the weight of it with him for a century, maybe more. The weight of guilt. The weight of tasting and being denied that which he wants most. It would be unbearable. It might prove as fatal as the Pon Farr. 

“You already know what I’m going to offer.” Jim steels himself with fixed determination and gives his thigh a small squeeze of reassurance. “This isn’t… a burden or another duty to me. Spock, you are not a burden to me. You could never be, you have to understand that, don’t you? You’re my friend, my best friend.” He confesses.

Spock isn’t so sure he believes that. How can this affair not disgust him to his core? Spock disgusts himself. This is not something that friends ask of one another, not even ‘best’ friends, as Jim asserts. He blisters with shame. Jim must notice him sinking deeper into himself, pulling away, because his pleas only grow more desperate and wrought with emotion. 

“Spock, I… I can’t lose you. I can’t.” Jim takes his hand in his, and the touch is so loud in its intensity Spock’s consciousness wavers trying to contain it. He is everywhere, screaming with desperation: my friend, my brother, my— “When I dream of becoming a Captain, there’s only one person I would trust to temper me, who I’d want to spend a thousand days in space with. And as difficult and frustrating as it can be sometimes, I need your science and your strict rationalism. It’s going to save me out there, I know it. I used to think I could do it alone, but now I can’t even picture it without you on the bridge, right beside me. Do you understand? I can’t lose you, not when I’ve just found you, I…”  Jim scrubs his eyes with the heel of his palm but he keeps going, undeterred. “I can’t let you go through this alone. Not when you’re scared, not with someone who doesn’t care about you like I do.”

“Please…” Jim says it like it hurts, a bone-deep ache. Spock watches in slow motion as Jim brings their clasped hands to his face and rests them over his lips. Not a kiss, not quite. “Let me help.”

Spock struggles to keep his heart rate under control under the influence of Jim’s emotions pouring in like a flood through their point of contact. He has always been so bright, like the sun, too brilliant to look at, but this is something else entirely. He burns, and Spock burns with him. Jim is bleeding as if from an open wound and soon he will be empty if he is not careful. Spock has never encountered emotion so intense. He is full to bursting with… with… Affection and desire and determination— all of the things Spock admires most in him, and does not deserve. Jim would commit himself to his choice with all the righteous duty he signed his life away to Starfleet with; he would sign his life away to Spock without question. He is not worthy of that, not from someone like Jim. 

“I cannot ask this of you.” Spock says, ashamed. He looks away. It hurts his eyes to stare too long. If he looks, he will be taken with it. He might believe that Jim means what he professes and is not simply doing what he believes he must under duress. “You do not understand what you are suggesting…”

“I am offering to have sex with you. I’m not ignorant of what that means, okay, I know how it works. And… and we don’t have to couch it in secrets and euphemisms and rituals like it’s some terrible, dirty thing. It’s a natural thing, a normal thing even—not just for Vulcans. I don’t know what they told you back home, but it’s not something you have to be ashamed of or… or embarrassed about, okay?” Jim squeezes his hand. “You’re not asking, I’m offering. Spock… You don’t owe me anything.”

Spock wavers under the weight of his crumbling resolve. He wants to believe—so desperately, illogically… Would it truly be so terrible a thing, to pretend for a time? To allow himself this one indulgence? To cradle it close, locked away in his heart, a golden little treasure to have known Jim as he yearns to know him, just this once? Perhaps a little of something is better than nothing at all… 

“The Pon Farr is not merely a joining of the body, but of the mind.” Spock has to tell him, he cannot keep this hidden from him. In a day, perhaps in another hour, it will be beyond him to explain. There will only be the need of it, blinding in its intensity. He has not known it, but he has heard it spoken of in hushed whispers. “I would seek to know you, wholly and completely, as it is impossible for humans to know one another. The fever cannot otherwise be sated.”

Jim falters minutely and an undercurrent of anxiety passes over and through him before washing away down the endless river of his emotions, replaced again with resolve in equal measure. He stares Spock in the eye with a new intensity, a deeper kind.

“I don’t have anything to hide.” He swallows. “Not from you.” 

He is scared, Spock knows that he is, he can feel it like feeling it himself. He is offering in spite of that fear. It is trust, he realizes, that he is sensing through their clenched hands, something Spock suspects is not easily won or freely given when it comes to Jim. To deny him—to what end? His own misguided hubris?—would be a betrayal of that trust. Spock has nothing to offer him in return, nothing that could ever hope to be worthy of his sacrifice, but trust? That he has already given. He would not deny him now. 

“Thank you, Jim.” Spock runs his thumb over the crest of their locked hands, and the spark of it sends shivers through the core of him, a soothing balm to the searing heat still burning inside him. He is feeling weak again. He’s not certain how much longer he will be able to stay awake. It would be nice to rest a moment with Jim by his side. He could be safe. It would not hurt so bad. 

“Yes?” Jim whispers. Spock nods once, tired and aching, and Jim’s face bubbles over into unrestrained relief and it is worth everything just to see the golden sparkling light in his eyes again. He is worth everything. “Oh, thank god… Spock, you’re going to be fine. I promise. It’s—”

Jim does not finish the thought. He pulls Spock into his chest again, their other hands still clenched tight between their chests. Spock breathes, for the first time in hours perhaps, where the oxygen reaches his lungs tucked within the cradle of Jim’s arms. The tension seeps out of him, rendering him slack with bonelessness. He holds him there for what must be minutes, not speaking. He only breathes in the scent of Spock’s hair as if to convince himself that his presence is reality and not merely a fiction of his troubled mind. His rabbit heart peters out to its strong, even rhythm and Spock times the rise and fall of his chest to the thrum where it rests under his hand. 

Never let me go, Spock thinks. I could not bear it. I wish to stay here forever. 

“...Spock?” Jim says, after a time. His voice is tinged with the slightest hint of vulnerability. He doesn’t lift his head to face him. His chin remains hooked over his shoulder, and his voice is little more than a breath of air against the shell of his ear. “There is something I wanted to ask you… while you’re…” Jim swallows with nerves, but Spock doesn’t try to finish the thought. He waits. “While you’re still… yourself. As much as you can be, I mean.” 

“I am not in a position to deny you anything.” Spock says, and realizes this must not be the correct answer for Jim winces as though he were burned. 

“No, that’s—” Jim sighs and tightens his grip, absently running his thumb over the skin where their hands are interlaced and oh. Spock should not… it is not becoming for him to react this way. “I know that this is… You don’t have a choice in this, and I… You don’t have to say anything, Spock, I’m sure you would rather this weren’t happening at all. Weren’t happening with me and I—” 

Jim’s emotional state is difficult to parse, even with their hands locked together. He is a tumultuous mixture of feelings, too nuanced to dissect. Anger, fear, joy… He has known these, some better than others. What Jim is experiencing now is something he has rarely had cause to know. He cannot name it, and so lets it wash over him and feels it in kind. 

“I wanted to ask you, while you can… While you can still say no. And you can say no. I understand, I won’t press it.” Jim takes a deep breath. “Can I… kiss you?”

“I do not understand.” Spock pulls back to eye Jim, perplexed. Jim appears terrifically vulnerable, as though he were bracing himself for a punch to the face. This request clearly holds much gravity and significance to him, though they have already agreed to partake of far more intimate acts. “We are, in fact, already ‘kissing’ in the Vulcan sense.”

Jim’s eyes go wide when Spock looks down at their hands. Instead of allowing him to pull away, Spock looses his grip where their fingers are woven together, drawing them apart palm-to-palm before taking his first two fingers and tracing the seam of Jim’s hand feather-light in a hesitant ozh’esta. The simple caress ignites the embers under his skin ablaze once again with yearning, less painful, now desirous and hungry and wanting. Jim’s lips part unsteadily. He must feel it, Spock cannot imagine otherwise with his shielding crumbled to nothing, castles of sand. His touch stutters and starts, returning the gesture in an imperfect mimic. 

“However, If you… desire it,” Spock begins unsteadily, uncertain of what to say. He wants— he has wanted, for what he perceives now as an eternity of waiting and wanting and not having. The small and humble thing grows to blot out the sky, blinding the thought of anything else. Jim’s gaze leaves his own and Spock watches his eyes trail down his face. He licks his lips. “I would not be opposed to the human equivalent.”

“Alright. Okay, yeah…” Jim trips on his own tongue and Spock wonders, briefly, if perhaps he’d not expected the answer. It’s uncertain if that means anything at all. 

They drift together, slow as plate tectonics about the fault line and Spock’s frame quakes with anticipation when Jim draws his nose against the ridgeline of his jaw. Their faces tilt opposed, and Jim pauses in his approach. Spock can feel his breath stolen from his mouth when he inhales moments away from his own destruction. Jim meets him with a tender curiosity, lips slotting into the gap between his own with all the delicate precision of a well-practiced shuttlecraft landing. 

Spock had thought he might shatter into oblivion, but at last all the tumult and shaking in his troubled world falls silent, and the peace it brings is deafening. Jim closes his mouth around his, and Spock follows the motions in time with the steps. I know this, he thinks. I have always known this. It was always here, waiting for me to find. He is made of glass—not to shatter, but hot and molten and fashioned anew when Jim’s breath reshapes his body from within into a different version of himself. 

Jim has struck the match, and he is again aflame, lit up with spotfires at every point of skin contact as his breath on his tongue stokes the flames. His thoughts choke out as the fever again burns his logic to ash. Spock grips at his clothes, begging like a petulant child, until he’s fisted his fingers through his uniform and he tastes his tongue between the knocking of teeth. He moans, not in pain—something far more wanton and debasing. He is not just melting anymore he is… he is wet, between the thighs, and is grateful for the sheet thrown over his lap. Jim draws away, pupils dilated, and a gossamer string connects their lips for a moment before snapping as if in denial of the parting. He rests their foreheads together, Spock’s head held steady and controlled between his palms. His pulse sings over his psypoints, and quiets the throbbing in his skull.

“We should go,” Jim takes a breath, and runs a thumb over the lick of his cheekbone before moving his palm to rest over his clammy brow. His expression knots minutely, almost saddened, and he nods to himself with resolve. “Your fever’s come back.”

☿   ♀   🜨   ♂   ♃   ♄   ⛢   ♆

Spock is at first grateful for Jim’s insistence that he see him to their temporary quarters on his own in some noble effort to spare him his dignity, but the challenge proves nearly overwhelming by the end of the first corridor. Spock is exhausted and lightheaded, and he is required to practically drape himself over Jim’s frame to make it up the stairs without collapsing. His breathing labors for the effort, though Jim neglects to comment on his weight which is surely cumbersome given the density of the Vulcan bone structure compared to that of humans. His head remains vaguely clouded with the effects of anesthesia, a lingering numbness that yet precludes him from experiencing the uninhibited throws of the Plak Tow. The effects are fading, however, and Spock is not certain how much longer it will stave off the inevitable. For now he is beset with total exhaustion, but when next he wakes…

It is not spoken of on Vulcan in any clear terms, and so he cannot warn Jim with any certainty what to expect.

Of one thing he is certain: he is sure to humiliate himself. Stripped of all logic, they say. He has already begun to feel it. His grip on his controls continues to falter with each step as Jim hauls him bodily through the labyrinthine halls of the palace. They have attracted the wandering eye of several Khione who whisper and point in hushed little huddles as they pass, but Jim has been mindful to avoid the crew, checking around each corner before scurrying onwards despite the dead weight hefted over his shoulder. He mumbles placating reassurances now and then, strokes his hair back off his brow when Spock wobbles on his knees like a newborn foal, head swimming with dizziness. He does not deserve such care and patience. 

Jim drags him up to the mezzanine as his vision browns out like the lights on the ship in heavy sheer and his stomach churns with bile. Spock wonders again what is so fundamentally wrong with him that even in this he proves aberrant. His Time should render him strong, virile… It is perhaps a consequence of the frigid climate or his hybrid biology that again fails him, leaving him weak and stunted. An undesirable, best left to expire on the plains of the Forge where his flesh might serve a higher purpose for the carrion of the desert.  

“You alright in there? You’re awfully quiet.” Jim grunts, heaving his weight into the crook of his arm and nearly losing his balance as he struggles to release the door lock one handed. Spock offers a paltry hum of acknowledgement, too distant and foggy to piece together a proper response. 

The lock springs free, and Jim sighs with obvious relief. 

The space is as they left it. Their arrival feels like eons ago, though he knows it could have hardly been more than a day. The space is an improvement on the sanatorium, sparse yet homey and an enticing respite when juxtaposed with the sterile linens he woke upon. He would prefer his own quarters back aboard the ship, nestled among the blankets whose weave he’s found do not irritate his skin and the sheets that scent now of the spice melange of Jim and himself. The low rise of the mats and cushions appears slept-in—Jim must have been here without him, and Spock’s chest twists with longing.

“Here.” Jim lays him down gently but inelegantly among the sprawl of furs and pillows and his limp body sinks into the softness like a broken buoy. He loosens the straps on his boots, holds at the ankles and pulls, depositing them by the wall with a haphazard thunk. He sighs, heavy and labored, rubbing at the stitch in his neck. “I’ll try to get a fire going. You want a change of clothes?” 

Spock is too tired to reply, curling in on himself now on his side and shivering with fever. It is cold here, and gooseflesh pricks on his skin. He is distantly aware that his uniform must be disgusting having sweat out a fever in it for over a day. He must stink of sex and illness, though he is grateful the nurses afforded him the dignity of redressing him at all. His eyes flutter open, vision glassy, when Jim sets down a pair of his loose, black fleet pajamas on the pillow still starched and folded. With great effort and shaking hands, he manages to right himself enough to strip out of his science blues and lift his hips to shimmy out of his slacks. Jim keeps his back turned, an obvious attempt to offer privacy though he feigns like he is fixated on stoking the hearth. It is illogical. He has seen Spock undressed every morning in the sonics, will inevitably see him laid bare again once his drive to mate can be stalled no longer. He lacks the mind to interrogate this line of reasoning further, and so when he has managed the undignified task of tossing aside his soiled clothes, he closes his eyes and rests his throbbing head among the pillows with a weary sigh.

Jim mills about for a while longer, perhaps waiting for the fire to catch so he can feed it with heavier logs. Spock hears him shuffling about, picking up their discarded belongings and changing into a fresh set of clothes himself. His footsteps are heavy with exhaustion, too, and Spock is left to wonder how his worry over him has worn him down during their time planetside. His eyes were swollen from lack of sleep. At last, he must tire himself out, or perhaps he tires of avoiding Spock, because the weight of the mat shifts as he lies down beside him. He chooses the same side as he does in their quarters, between Spock and the door, and it nurses a curious instinct in the primal corners of his mind that supplies he is being cared for by his mate. Spock shifts slightly to allow him room, but Jim shushes him gently and draws the blankets up around them.

“It’s alright, you don’t have to move.” Jim whispers. He smoothes out the furs, tracing his hand down the curve of Spock’s arm before drawing away and settling himself down among the cushions. “You should sleep while you can, if you’re tired. I’m not sure… Figure you’ll need your strength.” He says awkwardly, keeping an uncertain distance between them, more even than he did aboard the ship. 

It stings, carves an open wound that reminds Spock of the reality of the situation. The room warms steadily around them, crawling towards scalding, but Jim makes no comment on it though he knows it’s a discomfort to him. The heady scent of Jim fills the staling air between them where it lies low between the cushions. Spock’s body aches with yearning, calls out for his mate on all psionic frequencies even if Spock’s higher brain knows that he is not. He is riddled with tension, ligaments pulled taut like a bow, and he releases an undignified sound at the effort to restrain himself from the humiliating, illogical desire for touch. His skin is on fire, tuned like a radio receiver to Jim’s buzzing mind right beside him, unable to change frequencies.  

It is… a small thing. A lesser ask than the ones he will require later. Jim has made a generous offer, but he shouldn’t take advantage of his magnanimity. He will ask of him only what is necessary to his survival, and this base desire is a want not a need. He can bear the yoke of this burden without troubling him with trivialities. 

“Somethin’ the matter?” Jim slurs, lazy with the onset of sleep as his eyes blink open again. There is a stitch in his brow, a wrinkle of focused attention that Spock thinks becomes his features nicely. Jim wears it handsomely, how he would nothing at all. 

“Jim…” He tries, but his voice wobbles on the restraint. 

“I know. I know it hurts… shhh. C’mere, I’ve got you.” Jim lists forward, lazy and loose, and snakes an arm around Spock’s midsection and settles his hand over the crest of his chest. He draws Spock closer, or perhaps he draws closer himself, tucks up around the curve of his body until they take the shape of quotation marks. He presses his nose to the nape of his neck, unwitting of the gesture’s meaning on Vulcan—so intimate and vulnerable to allow another to touch the seat of the katra. He inhales from the well of Spock’s spirit and melts into his body until it is unclear where one ends and the other begins. His mind pitter-patters against his own through their skin, dripping soothing feelings of comfort and security and contentment. Jim is… he is content to lie like this, like honest mates do. Spock shivers down his spinal cord, how he does when the pressure-chamber releases on the EVA deck and equilibrium reasserts itself about his body.

“That thing you do…” Jim draws his hand up, searching his face blind, and traces the curve of his features with feather-light delicacy until his hand settles over his temple. “Can it go both ways?”

Jim’s psyche nips at the fringes of his mind where the pads of his nervous fingers rest over his psypoint, teasing the possibility of allowing his thoughts inside his own. It is a deadly, dangerous seduction—a line thoroughly crossed—but Spock struggles in his crumbling rationality to invent a good reason to decline. 

“Yes…” Spock surrenders to the idea of it, unable to deny himself.

“How do I do it?” Jim whispers. The pads of his fingers trace idle circles over his temple, and his thoughts sparkle over his shielding like pricks of light in parsecs of starfield.

“If you call to mind a memory, I can open myself to receive it.” Spock doesn’t realize he has allowed himself to drift into the touch, greedily chasing the contact, until he has already done so. 

Jim nods against his neck, and Spock can briefly sense the lick of his tongue when he runs it over his lips, contemplative. He resettles himself against the pillows a moment later, resting the pulse of his third finger in the soft spot of his temple just so, as if he were born to the ways of his people himself. 

“Okay, I’ve got one,” he says. 

Spock relaxes into the sensation, centering himself about the magnetic pull of Jim’s presence and allows the aching void of his mind to yawn open and accept him within. Jim’s presence washes over him with technicolor clarity, as bright and sharp and overstimulating as he perceives the world around him. When the summer breeze through the golden wheat fields wraps him in the warm blanket of its caress, it feels like coming home. Perhaps this is where Jim belongs, twined together and thoughts mingling in a fugue, chasing one another like rabbits through the field. Or perhaps this place, this memory, is only echoing with Jim’s own nostalgia, the scenery reimagined with the ugly parts painted over, a half remembered dream. 

He is small—or Jim is small, rather—only a child, and the stalks tower higher than the line of his sight. It is just before the June harvest, he knows this because Jim knows this, and the beards tickle his sun-tanned arms as he presses deeper into the maze. The earth stretches out endlessly, and the dirt is soft and cool beneath his bare feet. In the distance, the cicadas wind themselves out like a sports car engine in a grand cacophonous symphony, heralding the arrival of the Terran solstice. 

Jim leads them through the hazy memory, soft-lit and gentle. Spock slowly drifts, swallowed up in the enormity of the sounds and sensations as only Jim’s human mind could experience them. They wander boundless, one mind and one body, until the poaceae mingle in their variety and the stalks are replaced by the kheh of his homeworld. 

Spock’s thoughts are carried away from him, lighter than air. 

☿   ♀   🜨   ♂   ♃   ♄   ⛢   ♆

The sky is red, the blood meridian, a tapestry pulled taut on all sides and tented over the fanged teeth of the le-matya rising oxidized out of the canyon floor where his clan stands sentinel, wardrobed in silken finery or breastplates and pauldrons, braids spliced with silver tinsels or worked with bits of brightly colored cloth and faces gaudy and painted with hollowed cheeks and eyes black and unseeing, blue and gold are tracked with the blood of their owners, skin split against the bias, limbs tangled cockeyed and barbarous all shattered femur bone between the wailing and gnashing of teeth in the burning depths of a hell yet more horrible than any wound can rival—if I cannot possess then I will destroy —my hands around your throat until the light of the eye fades and your lips jerk and drool—

He awakes in the throws of fevered delirium, panting and heaving for air. 

“...Spock?” 

The sound is distant but so pleasing to the ear, the melodic harmonies of his name on his mate’s lips . He blinks, and Jim is pinned beneath the weight of his body, his hands locked around the meat of his biceps in a bruising vice. Their legs are tangled together, knotted in the sheets where they’ve tumbled about in their sleep and Spock wrested himself on top with the length of their bodies pressed flush to one another. Jim has been sweating. His shirt is soaked through, his hair matted and damp and his pupils blown wide in the low light of the dying fire. Jim lifts a hand to his ribs and strokes over the seat of his heartbeat slow and tender with his thumb. 

Jim is here —alive.

He was… dreaming. It was only a dream.

Reality begins to reassert itself, but the terror stalks his mind like a hungry predator. He dreamt of Jim’s death by his own hand. He has never dreamt, did not think himself capable of it, but he is his mother’s child and the fixed position of his sense of self rotates on its axis now. The Plak Tow. 

“Jim!” His voice cracks on the wave of relief and his eyes prick dangerously with the threat of tears. His emotional control fails him, and he leans forward to crush himself against Jim’s frame, burying his face in his neck and breathing deep of his skin, his scent, his life. His physicality is a rock to cling to in the swirling tumult of his emotions —joy-fear-guilt-relief-confusion-lust-desire-want-want-want— it is so much, and the force of feeling overwhelms him so his bones begin to shake with it. He chokes on a sob, clawing at the fabric of Jim’s shirt as he buries his guilt in the curve of his body, hiding away from the world.

“Shh… It’s alright. It was just a bad dream. I’m right here. It’s alright.” Jim murmurs softly against the shell of his ear. He is not frightened of him, of his strength. He might have… crushed the delicate bones of his ribcage, collapsed his lungs and wrung him dead in his sleep in a fit of wild madness he—Jim should be terrified. Spock is a beast, a monster of the lowest kind. Instead, he lifts his arms and holds the pieces of him together as he falls apart. 

“Jim…” He whines, humiliatingly, like a child in a fit. His face is wet and salty. He doesn’t understand why but he can’t stop it from happening. The tears fall without his consent. 

“What do you need? Tell me, I…” Jim rocks him in the cradle of his arms, buries his nose in the tangle of his hair and presses his lips to his scalp. “Take it, it’s yours. Whatever you need, Spock. Whatever you want.” 

His emotions ricochet through his skull. He is… He does not know. He is everything all at once. He cannot fixate on any single feeling among the cacophony. He burns— maddening and incomprehensible in its magnitude. It lives in his guts where it wriggles and squirms, contorts his perceptions and narrows his drive where the parasite whispers in his ear, thirsty and hungry and fighting for survival. 

What does he want? Spock has never… He is not in the business of asking himself such questions. It is one thing to know the mind, but the heart? Best not to look in there. He has only instinct, choked out and buried beneath the dirt. But the roots are strong, and even in the darkness at the depths of the parched and barren desert, they know where to seek out water. 

He chases the cooling relief, all trial and error, hunting for an oasis and finds the path marked on Jim’s skin. Mine, my Jim, my mate, he thinks deliriously. He must… He must know him, every bend and curve in the road until he could walk him in darkness and find his way back. And he will—show Jim, yes, that he is known—and would that not be a glorious thing, to be known by another? He will catalog him and tag him and organize him, all of his best features, and Spock will remind him in case he ever forgets why he is perfect.  

Fueled by singular, illogical purpose, he licks a stripe experimentally up the column of his throat and tastes the salty sweat that sticks to his pulse. He gnaws at his neck with his teeth, protracts the angle of his jaw bone and learns the texture of his stubble on his skin. He takes the lobe of his ear between his lips and sucks the soft skin, traces the fascinating oddity of his rounded ear with his tongue.

“Oh god…” Jim moans, and his head tumbles back against the sheets. His hips cant upwards, grinding their bodies together at the groin—There! That’s it! More of that—The heat pools in his sheath where his cock throbs and swells inside him, leaking wet through his clothes. 

Jim is not an inactive, empty vessel; he answers eagerly in kind. His fingers claw their way up his back, digging into the dip of his spine until he grabs him by the hair two-handed and drags their faces together. He parts his lips, and Spock wants to know that too, inside him, where he is wet and warm and the most alive. He tastes the roof of his mouth, his teeth, dips his tongue inside him as far as he can reach before Jim chokes on it. He wants to devour him, to cannibalize him, that he might possess him wholly and fully and make him a home on the inside of his body. Jim belongs on the inside. He rubs their faces together, skin on skin, lips pulled back as he trails his spit along the lick of his cheek so that Jim will scent of him, all over. He will smell of Spock and everyone will know that he is his by rights, his mate, and no one will think to steal him away when he’s not looking—

Spock rocks back against Jim’s thigh, dragging his sheath against the firm muscle and the coarse fabric, eliciting more of that delicious, shivering brightness. He ruts like an animal, stiff and swollen. His vision swims in his field until Jim splits in two and circles him dizzy. He is climbing Mount Seleya in the high summer, closing in on… on… Jim grips his hip, thumb dipping into the bone, and guides the erratic motion into a steady metronome. He cannot breathe, the air is too thin this high. 

He twists, tense, like the wind-up mechanism of a clock, and his hands tighten in the fabric of Jim’s shirt. He pants, uneven and shallow, delirious with anticipation. Jim kisses him again, takes his lip between his teeth and draws back and the spark of his thoughts —desire— reaches him somewhere far away. The current shocks him free with a snap, sparks down his nerves and he is falling, suddenly, as if the ground were ripped from under him. A sound escapes his throat unbidden, hoarse and twisted in a voice not his own as he sinks against Jim. His thighs shake and he melts with the gloriousness of release. His cock leaks, still inside his sheath, dripping spent and wet in his clothes and through to Jim’s thigh. He shivers weakly, panting. He is… cool. For the first time in what feels like a lifetime, the ache subsides to a dull and distant throb. 

He is gone for a time, etheric again, like the drugs. All soft cotton and plugged ears. His heartbeat steadies and he becomes slowly aware of his body. 

“Better?” It’s Jim’s voice. He is stroking his hair back off his face. He is ruffling it out of its style.

Spock is cursed with a moment of clarity as the chain of the fever loosens its grip around his mind. He has… He has soiled himself, his pajamas, and worse he… Jim. Jim was watching all the while, and he has leaked through, on his clothes, too and—Jim’s hair is a wild mess. His perfect skin is mottled with marks on his throat and shimmering with wetness, his lips red and swollen. Spock flushes deeply in humiliation, shoulders couched as though he could hide himself from view with enough effort. 

“I must apologize for my actions, I—” There is no excuse. He wants to hide, under the stairs, where Jim will never find him. Worse, he cannot… He is not in control of his emotions. Jim can no doubt read his despair written on his face. The panic deepens, fed by his inability to contain it, and he is shaking again. He desperately tries to pull away, but Jim catches his wrist. “I have—I am… filthy. I am—”

Disdain with himself bubbles in his chest. He cannot breathe again, eyes darting everywhere, anywhere. He cannot face Jim, he cannot—he… He must hate him now, he is certainly disgusted with his behavior. Illogical, feral, he—

“Oh Spock, don’t be embarrassed,” Jim says, voice soft and gentle. He tugs on his arm, drawing him closer when he should be pushing him away. “It’s just clothes. We can replicate new ones. We’ll throw those in the recyclers—the incinerator, even, if you want.”

Spock still shakes with anxiety, body growing cold and tired. Frightened and exhausted and…. Everything is so much and so loud, it is unbearable. He draws his knees to his chest and endeavors to bury his face between his legs, but Jim will not allow him this escape. He sidles up behind him, draping himself over his back and wedging his frame between his legs, building him a shelter to hide inside. He rests his cheek on the plane of his back, idly running a soothing hand down his arm. Spock wants… what does he want? He wants to cry, but he does not want to be seen crying. Jim is silent. He doesn’t look. 

They sit like that for a long while, pressed together in the silence. The hearth has burned down. It is only embers. It will be hard, he thinks, to coax back to fullness. Spock’s breath is beginning to form small, damp clouds on the air. 

“I must disgust you…” He says softly, after a time. He senses Jim’s lips shaping themselves into a curve where his mouth rests against his shoulder. He chuffs, humorous, and Spock winces.

“No, not even a little,” Jim says. There is a brightness to his tone that he fails to comprehend. “You are the antithesis of disgusting right now, and you don’t even know it. Pretty sure having a hot guy come for me untouched is the best compliment I’ve gotten in years. I should thank you.”

“Jim…” Spock’s face tightens in embarrassment again, and he pulls his knees closer against his face. 

“Sorry. I wasn’t trying to be insensitive.” He draws back, just enough that he isn’t resting his weight over him like a blanket any longer and runs a hand over his back. Spock is grateful, even now, that he does not cease physical contact. He cannot bring himself to admit it allowed, but his body aches for it, their tether is a lifeline and he imagines his heart would stop in his chest now without that mooring. Jim must know it. Perhaps he feels it too, an effect of the fever—folie à deux. “Sometimes it’s easier to joke about something than it is to talk about it. I meant it, though. No one is… It’s just the two of us, and I don’t think you’re weird or gross, and I’m not going to change my mind about that. I promise. You’re… You don’t have to be someone else for me.”

Spock nods. It is easy for Jim to think these things, human as he is. He is accustomed to emotionalism, born into it. It shapes him immutably and he has made a home inside of it. They are not the same. Spock does not have to be someone else for Jim, but perhaps he wishes he were different for himself. Perhaps that is worse. Jim lets the air in his lungs out through his nose after a moment, and pats him on the back.

“Why don’t you get changed? I’ll help.” Jim separates himself so that he can reach for their belongings, though Spock has trouble still finding the will to unfold. He is right, though. He is cold and wet and… He would prefer not to be. Spock does not have a spare set of pajamas and Jim’s are too small to borrow. He does have a set of the grey Starfleet athletics, which are at least more loose fitting than the uniform. He recoils subconsciously at the thought of the tight-fitting fabric of his science uniform compressing his skin.

Jim returns and sets the clothes to the side. He waits patiently for Spock to move of his own volition, and when he fails to do so, his hands find the hem of his shirt and give a small tug.

“Can I?” He asks quietly. Spock dithers for a moment before deciding that the humiliating reminder of his own soiled clothes is worse than enduring undressing. He nods, and Jim starts to draw his shirt up his back. He shivers when the cold air meets his skin.

“I’m going to tell you a secret, one I’ve never even told Bones or Gaila.” Jim talks as he moves, perhaps to fill the silence, perhaps in an effort to draw his attention away from the task at hand. “Back when I left Iowa, my first year at the Academy, I had never been with a guy before. Sexually, I mean.” 

He has to scoot around the blankets to his front. He encourages Spock to unwind his arms so he can draw the shirt over his head and off his body, but doesn’t force him to look him in the eye. Spock complies, weakly and unhelpfully limp.

“I don’t know, I guess when you’re younger you have this fixed image of yourself and you don’t want to question it and realize that maybe you might be wrong. About yourself, about what you want, about what your life is going to look like…” Jim presses down on his knees, and Spock flushes deeply with embarrassment. He is soaked completely through, all down his thighs, and the fabric is dark with the evidence of it. Spock hitches his own thumbs through the waistband, he doesn’t make Jim do that, it’s far too much. He lifts his hips enough to hook them over his rear, and Jim draws them down his legs the rest of the way, swift and clinical. He doesn’t look. “I think I knew, though, even if I didn’t want to admit it. That I liked men, too. But I thought if I did it with a guy, he’d think I was too old to be figuring that kind of shit out, you know? I guess I thought he’d laugh at me for not knowing what I was doing.”

Jim picks up the sweatshirt, rolls up the sleeves and offers it to Spock to put his hands through. He draws it over his head and down his chest, fixes his hair back in place when he’s through.

“I’d been seeing this girl though, nothing serious. Cam was her name. Cameron.” Jim sniffles awkwardly, scrubs his hand across his mouth. He’s blushing slightly. He picks up a new set of undergarments. “And she, uh… Well, she was a bit more adventurous than me, and she offered once to ah… to peg me. So I figured, why not? Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

He holds them out for Spock, and he weaves his feet through delicately. Jim draws the fabric up his calves, and the light touch of his fingers stirs the fever when they reach his thighs. He pauses, and Spock lifts so he can slide the waistband over his hips. He reaches for the pants. 

“It wasn’t her fault, she didn’t really know what she was doing either and I was so nervous, I couldn’t relax. Anyway, uhh…” Jim offers his help again, but Spock figures that would prove more of a liability than anything else. He dresses himself, and Jim pulls back, picking at his fingernails. “She was too rough, and the friction…” He gestures meaninglessly and chews on his lip. His cheeks are stained a bright red. “Long story short I had to go to the campus ER in the middle of the night so the attending could shove a dermal regenerator up my ass.”

Spock is feeling greatly improved now that he is redressed, warm and comfortable. The end of Jim’s story catches him off guard for its vulnerability. He cannot help it when the corner of his mouth quirks up just a touch. Jim smiles, and snorts with humor when he notices.

“Yeah, you can laugh. It’s pretty funny.” He laughs too, mood lighter for having released the weight of his anecdote. 

“Why are you sharing this with me?” Spock asks. It’s not that he minds, or that he is jealous knowing that Jim has been with others before him. It’s that humans have a compulsion to exchange stories, typically in a show of sympathy or empathy, and the moral is not always clear to him.

“Well, I figure now you know my most embarrassing sex story, so that makes us even.” Jim shrugs. He gets up, and as he does so, Spock cannot help but to notice that he has a slight erection. It is, undoubtedly, on account of his nakedness, not his story. Spock flushes again. “I guess this is as good a time as any to mention that I’m, uh… still not a huge fan of bottoming…”

Jim kneels before the hearth and blows gently on the coals, and with a little air they spring to life again almost instantly. He grabs some logs and kindling and arranges them in a tidy structure that any Starfleet wilderness survival instructor would be proud of. The fire catches, and the room undergoes a slow redshift as it lights up again.

“I do not anticipate that will be an issue.” Spock mumbles quietly. He lays back and looks at the ceiling, wringing his hands in his shirt. He is still not accustomed to discussing his desires so openly. Any discussion of The Time is taboo on Vulcan. “That is inline with my own preference.”

“Good. That’s uh… that’s good,” Jim says awkwardly. At least he is not alone in this. It is an effort for Jim, too.

Spock is exhausted and cold. He is perhaps feeling… a touch cranky, as Uhura might phrase it. No one warned him that his emotional state would oscillate so wildly and in so short a time. He knew that he would feel the desire to mate, to sate the fever. He did not realize it would wax and wane this way. He lacks any frame of reference to know if this is the normal progression, or whether the fever exerts a greater toll on his body given his hybrid nature. He supposes it matters little, and he is suddenly too exhausted to ponder it. His eyelids begin to flag, and his breathing starts to level out. 

Jim returns from tending the hearth, and settles himself beside him. Still wary, he does not move to take him in his arms, though he does rest his head close enough to touch his shoulder. He yawns wide, grunts as he adjusts himself in the blankets. Spock remembers that he, too, has slept little in the past two days. Only a few hours perhaps. Spock remains unusually attuned to his mind, but his thoughts are gentle, lazy and viscous. My mate.

“Jim,” He says, for he thinks he should say something, and his voice is far too loud in the quiet. Jim’s eyes slip open, their faces close enough to share breath in the darkness. “You are… a good friend.”

His smile is laced with a touch of quiet melancholy, and when he reaches out to squeeze his hand under the blankets, his emotions flutter through the contact and Spock’s heart feels like it is being torn apart.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “You too.”

☿   ♀   🜨   ♂   ♃   ♄   ⛢   ♆

Spock wakes again with a start. It would seem this is all his body is capable of at the moment, sleeping and mating. The space occupied by lust and exhaustion leaves little room for anything else. But there is something wrong this time, something is… not right. His instincts take over and he places it almost immediately—his mate is gone. Jim has… He has abandoned him, in his sleep, or else something terrible has happened. Yes, he has… He has been taken and he is unsafe, he cannot be safe unless he is right here where Spock can see and touch and smell him and have the confirmation of it held tight in his palms. His mind races with fear and panic, skin doused in boiling oil as his pulse skitters with dangerous rapidity, elevating until it sings in his ears and his head screams in agony at the separation, split open and bleeding out through his eye sockets, right behind his psypoints.

“Jim!” His hands fist in the sheets. Fear takes him like a prey animal, jumpy and wild. He chokes on the hot air in the room.

“Shh, I’m right here. I didn’t go anywhere. You’re alright, you’re okay.” Jim is on him in an instant, hands all over, stroking his arms and his back. 

He kneels down in front of him, coos at him in that tone you might take with a pet that doesn’t comprehend Standard. It is, embarrassingly, quite effective in his semi-lucid state and Spock’s anxieties quiet as soon as the tenor of his thoughts brush against him once again— worry-tenderness-affection —he receives a flash, a simple impression, of himself as seen through Jim’s eyes, how frightfully hot he is to the touch. Jim’s mind skips to a non-sequitur memory of the boiler in the basement of the farmhouse, the red mark on his forearm when he tripped into it. He was pushed. A childhood accident. Spock’s eyes dart down of their own accord to where his sleeves are rucked up his elbows and spy the ghost of a scar, barely there. 

“Christ, you’re running hotter than phaser fire…” Jim presses the back of his hand to his cheek, then to his brow to assess his temperature. Spock lets his eyes flutter closed under the attention, dreamy and pleasant with the cool touch on his skin. “I didn’t leave you.” He sighs in irritation and runs a hand through his hair. Another flash— frustration —but Jim tamps down on it just as quickly. “It’s… I get it. You can’t control it. I just had to talk to M’Benga and the Khione doctors. They wanted to come in and run some tests but I…” His hand shifts to cradle the side of his head, and Spock allows his neck to fall slack, vulnerable and trusting in the palm of his mate's hand. Jim’s emotions stutter delicately, and his forefinger traces the sensitive point of his ear. “I didn’t think you’d like that. I didn’t spill the details, just the essentials. Promise.”

Jim could be saying anything right now, he wouldn’t know. His voice is honey, languid and composed entirely of sweet nothings. Spock is hypersensitive this morning, nerves electric and tuned to every stimulus with high-definition. His psionic sensitivity is enhanced, a symptom of the fever no doubt. Much as his body prepares to copulate, his mind lapses its natural shielding to prepare for bonding. He is not a gifted telepath by Vulcan standards, and he has never been able to receive thoughts so clearly outside of a meld as he is able to read from Jim now. Speech is unnecessary but he favors the sound of his voice all the same. Perhaps soon Spock will not be of a mind to form sentences at all. He swallows the dryness in his mouth, and realizes belatedly that his fingers have torn through the weave of the sheets. He relaxes his grip. 

“The nurses brought some food and water,” Jim flops down in front of him, legs criss-crossed so their knees brush together. He is careful not to break the point of contact when he leans over, pawing at the tray and the pitcher and dragging them to the bedside across the stone floor. “They said you, uh, probably wouldn’t be in the mood to eat but that I should try to force you to anyway. So, sorry about that.” 

Jim is right, his stomach is tight with knots. When he lifts the lid, the Khione have been thoughtful enough to provide them with all of Spock’s favorite dishes from the dinner—root tubers and fresh berries atop their traditional unleavened bread. It all looks positively bland and unappetizing, just the thought of eating makes him queazy. Jim pours them both a glass of water each and Spock watches him raise it to his lips and eyes the bobbing of his throat with interest as he chugs incessantly. Jim smacks his lips and pours another immediately after the first, evidently parched in the dry heat of the room. His whole body is damp with sweat, stinks with it for not having showered, but Spock doesn’t mind. It is not pleasant, no not at all it is… musky. Coats the palette, makes him want to… to… He smacks his lips, scrubs his mouth with the back of his hand where water has dribbled down his chin in a rush. Spock swallows and leaves his own glass untouched.

Jim selects a fruit from the offering on the tray similar in appearance to a Terran pomegranate. A round thing, fat and weighty and too big for his palm. He hikes up a knee and claws at the skin with his fingernails, tongue licked up over his lip with tight focus until he has wounded it and tears it open with a firm, ripe crack. The sanguine juices weep down his wrists with the color and viscosity of human blood and Jim draws his palm to his mouth to lick his it clean. Spock is aware of the fever now, growing hot. His skin itches, heart rate elevating. His breaths come short and shallow. 

He watches without blinking, utterly transfixed. The innards of the fruit resemble a custard apple and there is no elegant way to consume the meat. Jim makes a mess of himself, careless and starving. He squelches the fruit with two fingers, spoons it out and bends forward to shovel it in his mouth. He draws the rind to his lips and scrapes the pulp clean with his front teeth, smearing the juice across his jaw. He looks bruised, like he has taken a punch to the face in the ship’s bar. He makes a pleased, satisfied sound from deep in his throat, hums and swallows it whole. He glances up and catches Spock looking at him, so hot and dizzy. His vision narrows to Jim and Jim alone. He thinks of tearing him open with his fingers. 

“Here. You really should eat something.” Jim’s voice comes from underwater, a meaningless string of words. Spock watches hypnotized as he dips his fingers in the fruit, carving out the fleshy heart of it and holds the bleeding organ out on his fingers for the taking. Jim perhaps means for him to grab it, but he pitches forward unthinking and allows himself to be hand-fed. He wraps his lips around the offering and sucks his fingers into his mouth. He draws his tongue over his fingerprints, igniting a now familiar fire between his legs. He makes a small moan of protest when Jim draws his hand back, quaking slightly.

“Okay… Sure.” Jim licks his lips and sucks in a shaking breath. His eyes are blown open, the golden hazel barely visible. His voice is quiet. “You… want more?”

Spock nods fervently, crawling forward on all fours until he is almost seated in his lap, faces close together. He wants to look at him up close, experience him in fine detail. The world comes through in such sharp clarity, every eyelash and every pore and freckle. It is like seeing him for the first time all over again. Spock cannot resist the compulsion to touch his face, and Jim watches him carefully as his fingers trace the bump on the bridge of his nose—crooked, an old break—the faint beginnings of lines crinkling the corner of his eyes. Beautiful. Fascinating. 

Jim holds out his hand again with more of the fruit and Spock wraps a firm hand around his wrist, taking his fingers in his mouth. He swallows the fruit but doesn’t let go, fixated on licking each digit clean of the sweet juice, then again to be certain his perfect skin will not be stained. He sucks on his fingers, even after the juice is gone and there is no need for it. He hollows his cheeks and tongues at the length of his fingers. Jim is everywhere in his mind now, on the inside, burning bright with the singular focused feeling of arousal. Spock gets drunk on it, feeds on it and it feeds his own in kind. His cock swells, pressing against his sheath. He throbs and aches painfully where there is not enough space in his trousers. He ruts and rocks against the pillows but the friction offers little relief. He moans around Jim’s fingers, grip tightening dangerously around his wrist bone, and his face screws up in frustration. 

“You need to… Again?” Jim says, breathless and strained. Spock opens his eyes and finds him flushed pink in the fullness of his cheeks to the tips of his ears. Jim is hard, too, the stiff line of he cock visible under the fabric of his grey trousers. He desires me—my mate—mine. Spock dives forward, crazed with want, hot, so hot it hurts, and sinks his teeth into his throat, sucking a bruise under the cut of his jaw that is certain to leave a large mark. Jim hisses lightly in pain, his grip tightening on his arm to keep them from bowling over completely. “Spock, hold on. We should…” His thumb trails slow up the inside of his thigh and pinches the fabric with a slight tug. “Let’s take these off first.” 

Yes. Yes, of course. Jim is… he is so smart, his mind is sparkling with brilliance, scintillating over his own. If they are divested of their clothing he will feel more of him, physically, mentally, raw skin on skin. He strips out of his pants in a frenzy, tears the hem at the foot in the rush and kicks them off. He collapses bodily into Jim again, mounting his lap and tries to unhinge his jaw to swallow him whole. He holds his face with his fingers pressed to his temples, the heady flood of Jim’s arousal leaking in and pooling white hot in the pit of his stomach. He licks his brow slick flat, and whines openly at the ache between his thighs. 

“Shh… Yeah, that doesn’t feel great, does it? Just…” Jim squirms to weasel himself free, despite his best efforts to keep them glued together. Spock nips and kisses at his lips as he pulls back with a huff of effort. Jim pushes his sweat mottled hair off his brow with a palm. “Here, like this. Sit down.” 

Jim manhandles him backwards so he is seated between his legs, chest to back. He slides them over the blankets so he can lean back against the cool stone of the wall beside the hearth. Spock immediately attempts to flip himself around again, but Jim bars an arm over his chest and squeezes his thighs over his hips to hold him still. He shushes him softly again, runs his nails over his scalp and draws him back by his hair to lean his head back over his shoulder. He presses his lips to the soft spot where his throat meets his shoulder and Spock keens back into the touch, desperate for more. 

“I’m trying to help, okay? I’ll make it better. I want—I don’t mind.” Jim’s breath is damp on his skin, words punctuated by presses of his mouth to the soft spot behind his ear. He pets his hair back, over and over, and the sensation of his nails on his throbbing skull tingles down to the tips of his fingers. Spock has been touched—he has never been touched like this. “Let me do this for you. Let me help.”

Spock nods mindlessly. Yes, it does not matter, anything Jim would like so long as he doesn’t cease touching him. Every nerve is alight now. The room is so bright it hurts to open his eyes. 

“Okay,” Jim mumbles against his skin. With one hand, he runs it up the line of hair on his heaving stomach, up to his chest to ruck up his sweatshirt. He places his hand steady and warm over the seat of where his heart would be hammering were he entirely human. The other trails down, gentle and hesitant, and traces the seam of his leg where the meat of his thigh rolls over to meet his abdomen. Lower still, between his legs, until Spock snaps them shut. The pressure hurts, and he whines. Pants, but it doesn’t soothe the aching. His face screws up again and he arches against Jim’s hand, but he only presses them tighter. 

“God, Spock, you’re so hot. You know that? You’re… The most incredible thing. The best.” Jim shifts his hips, and hisses through his teeth, breaths labored. The length of his hardness presses against his lower back, and Jim makes a little sound in his throat he doesn’t let out. He brushes his nose down the point of his ear, and when he speaks it’s with great effort. “See? You do that to me. So you don’t have to be embarrassed, okay?”

Desire and shame are warring inside him, but in the end there are no winning battles fought against the fever. Spock surrenders, allows his thighs to fall open and the heady scent of his musk is evident in the air. Spock winces in humiliation, but Jim doesn’t say anything, just kisses him on the neck again and squeezes him tight against his chest. 

Spock jumps with a start when Jim’s fingers find his sheath, running two digits to slick them in his own wetness before dipping them gingerly inside. His breath sticks in his throat and his toes curl against the ground when his touch presses against his cock. He traces the length of it, gentle and exploratory, running the pad of his finger under the ridge. His tender curiosity, his desire to know and to learn, his thrill at something novel sparkles erotic through the contact and Spock chokes on the feeling. Not a… a freak, not an oddity. Guileless and sincere, he cannot lie, not like this. Not with his thoughts bleeding through his skin. 

Spock cock swells, full and heavy, and breaches his sheath to fall open and stiff in Jim’s waiting palm. He wraps his fingers around him and gives an experimental tug, squelching with wetness. Spock cries out overstimulated, a humiliating sound that Jim only seems to take as encouragement. He hums in light amusement against his shoulder, repeats himself, and Spock kicks his leg reflexively. Jim’s hand quickens its strokes, curling indelicately over his ridges in a steady and unforgiving rhythm. He squirms in his hold, breaths coming short. He wants… It’s too much, it’s not enough. Spock brings his hand to his mouth to keep from making more humiliating noises. 

“No, don’t. You’re gonna hurt yourself.” Jim lets his sweatshirt slip to draw his hand out from between his teeth. He squeezes tight and kisses his knuckles, one at a time. “It’s okay. Wanna hear you.”

Spock turns to press his brow into Jim’s cheek to hide his expression, desperate and… not miserable, but…. He is so close… Jim’s hands, his skin are hot everywhere, his cock throbs in his grip. So close now but he can’t seem to get there… The longer it takes the more it hurts. He whines, pleading, lips twisted up. He squirms, cock raw and sensitive, and still bites down on his controls, his dignity, even in this. His jaw locks around it and won’t let go. He has bitten down on himself. 

“You have to let go. You’re not… You can’t control this. Just… Let it happen,” Jim says in his ear. His wrist is growing stiff from stroking, rhythm starting to falter now. “Or if you don’t, I’ll have to make you. And believe me—” Jim’s voice is laced with a hint of self-satisfied mischief, and his lips curl up into a devious smile. “I can make you.” 

It is easier said than done, however. Spock is at the tipping point, but he cannot let himself slip. He wants to come so terribly, to feel that wash of relief, but he can’t, he— Spock groans in pained frustration.

“Okay, if that’s how it’s gonna be…” 

Jim releases his grip on his cock, swipes his fingers through the sticky wetness dripping down his ass and matting in the furs beneath them. Jim adjusts their position slightly, slipping their posture down the wall, flatter, until more of him still is open to the air. His fingers trail lower then, down the seam of his ass until the pad of one digit rests there, teasing at his entrance, pressing and encouraging the tight muscles to relax. He is… Vulcans are possessed of internal testes which can be stimulated via the rectum. Much more sensitive than the human prostate, though he doubts Jim is aware of this fact. Spock tenses in anticipation, but he… He does not wish to stop him. He would like very much for the thrill of completion to wash over him and free him of this pain. He lets out another small, wanton sound and noses into Jim’s cheek shamelessly.

“Shh… Just relax.” Jim draws his hand back to his lips, and then as he feels the first press of his finger inside him, Jim draws Spock’s fingers into his mouth and wraps his tongue around their sensitive tips and sucks. The sensation is indescribable, his entire brain flatlines and empties of all rational thought, boneless and melting down the plain of his chest. Spock quivers, and Jim tightens his thighs around his waist to support his weight. His one finger slips slowly inside him until he finds the sensitive bulge of his swollen glands and presses down. 

“Jim— please!” Spock can’t help but to cry out, keening back and choking on his own release. 

“Checkmate, Mr. Spock.” Jim smiles and nips again at his fingertips, raking the sharp edge of his teeth down the skin and setting him to quaking in the marrow of his bones. It is not like he is used to coming, it is… It is like wetting himself, slow and drawn out where his cock leaks on his stomach. Jim is relentless, does not release him from his torturous grip until tears are streaming down his cheeks and he is begging for the end. Jim presses his lips to his cheek and noses soothingly behind his ear. He curls his fingers again until Spock’s thighs shake and there is nothing left inside of him. He has never felt so full and so empty, paradoxical in his completion. 

Finally, Jim must decide he has exacted enough punishment on easy victims, and carefully withdraws his hand, wiping it carelessly on one of the extra sheets. He grunts with effort, wrapping his arms around Spock’s frame and lifting him bodily, limp and lifeless, until he is leaned upright against his chest. Jim circles his arms about his torso, holding him there between his legs until his breathing once again begins to level out and his ears cease their ringing. 

“I reckon that one will last a while. Don’t you?” Jim teases, easy and light, and his mind sparkles with gentle humor where it licks against the edges of his own. Warmth and affection buzzes around his head, seemingly overflowing out of Jim as if he was not large enough to contain the grandeur of all of it and must make of Spock a vessel to store the golden pieces of himself. Spock nods in ascent, unspeaking, and closes his eyes. Jim chuckles, and he focuses his mind on the sound of it, the sound of his heart in his chest. He is content here, comfortable. He cannot recall another time he has ever felt so easily at peace. 

Jim sighs and presses his lips to the nape of his neck. Spock senses a stirring there, in the heart of his katra, new and unfamiliar. His soul reaches out to catch, but when Jim pulls away it slips through his fingers, like sand through an hourglass. 

Chapter Text

Jim is exhausted, reduced to his baser elements after his skin and bones were crushed by mortar and pestle. The same cannot be said of Spock, however. His body is a runaway nuclear reactor. He remains determined to fuse their very stardust in gravitational collapse until they’re burning out on the main sequence, hydrogen band visible on the Enterprise scanners. Jim reaches out an arm to fumble for the medical tricorder, barely within reach, and Spock’s death grip locks down around his rib cage so tight he is allowed only shallow dizzying breaths. Jim boots the device and presses the scanner against his neck. It beeps, and an emergency warning flashes beside the readout: 45.4 degrees. 

Jim sighs, and tosses the tricorder aside. He didn’t think it was possible for Spock’s fever to get any worse without curdling his milky skin, but it’s been almost 24 hours and still it’s yet to peak. A human would be convulsant by now—dead, most likely—but Jim has been dutifully relaying the scans back to Dr. M’Benga at regular intervals and he assures him this is well within the expected range for a Vulcan experiencing their ‘time.’ Jim scoffs at the polite euphemism. He can only hope that M’Benga is right despite the fact that Spock is only half Vulcan. What if the human part of his physiology cracks under the pressure? Jim’s been on edge since the start, looking for all the signs Spock’s fever might set him tonic-clonic, but all the warning signs they train them to recognize in the first aid classes turn out to be all the symptoms of the Plak Tow. But the tricorder continues to report his biomarkers are all normal under the circumstances, no matter how many tests he runs. He’s beginning to feel like Bones.

Normal my ass Jim thinks to himself ruefully. He lets his head fall back against the sheets and tries to breathe slow and shallow through his nose. It’s hard to strive for anything more than that with Spock’s unconscious weight blanketing his frame. Jim watches the lights dancing in the crystal ceiling, memorizing their patterns, and idly replicates the abstract designs with his fingers in the broad plains of Spock’s back. He’s so hot, must be boiling alive in there, but his skin is smooth and soft. He’s got a few scars—a mean lick from a phaser on the back of his calf, the shoddy work of a bone knitter on his scapula. He could see the aesthetician if he wanted, but most folks in the service don’t bother after a time. No point in enduring the rigamarole for the sake of vanity, at least not for those dedicated to life in the fleet. Phaser burns are a mark of seniority, Jim’s got a few himself. He traces the scars with his fingers, learning his body by touch and committing it to memory. He shouldn’t. He should make every effort to forget. Jim has a bad habit of revisiting such little moments, a kind of self-flagellation, just to feel something even if it’s pain. Jim traces the mark of the serpentine tattoo on his bicep, from his kahs-wan, whatever that means. It resembles a caduceus staff, though he knows the symbolism must hold an entirely different meaning on Vulcan. 

His arm must be sensitive there because Spock shifts in his sleep, rucking his hips up and burying his nose in Jim’s neck with a soft grunt of pleased contentment. Jim winces, screwing his face up with a quiet hiss, desperate not to wake him. He gently, with a calculated and deliberate slowness, shifts his body ever so slightly to resettle Spock in the crook of his arm against his side and sighs when the pressure is relieved from his lungs. And his cock.

Jim woke up rock hard, but it’s no surprise. He’s prone to morning wood even outside such interesting times, but jerking a guy off four and a half times (don’t ask about the other half) and getting no reciprocation for the effort will do dangerous things to a man’s resolve. He’s trying to be chivalrous, really he is. Jim’s always been the sort to revel in taking his lover’s pleasure—there’s probably something about his crooked psychological development in there the folks back at SIPAA could write a whole dissertation about—but he’s not supposed to enjoy this, doesn’t have permission to. He’s been trying to do his duty diligently and with emotional detachment. Spock is… he’s not well, not himself. He’s not trying to be a pervert and take advantage of the situation. It’s for his own good as much as Spock’s dignity. Maybe, he bargains, if he doesn’t allow himself to take pleasure in Spock’s body he can shield his heart from sustaining heavy damage.

Jim has never been adept at coloring inside the lines when it comes to ‘friends with benefits’ arrangements. Contrary to what the rumor mill has managed to convince the fleet, Jim is always the one whose comms wind up ghosted. He has the advantage in this engagement of knowing the outcome is preordained and so can mentally prepare for it, at least in theory. If there is one lesson Jim had to learn the hard way as chief tactical officer back on the Farragut it’s that theory rarely holds up to having its mettle tested in practice. In reality, each time Spock wakes, pleading for his touch all teary and desperate and starry-eyed, Jim’s carefully constructed armor begins to buckle. There are pin-hole cracks in his plating, and Spock’s emotional projection leaks in through every point of skin on skin contact, flooding his mind and drowning his sense of reason. He’s been taking on water from the very start, listing another degree starboard each time their lips connect, hungry and wanting. Spock’s face screws up like he’s fighting off a sneeze, comes on his fingers on Jim’s command, and it ignites the magazine ripping his hull clean in half. He will sink in pieces by the end of this. He’s not sure they’ll be able to float him for refits this time. Maybe his destruction will prove so complete as to leave him permanently shipwrecked. 

If he is going to lose, best to lose to Spock. His ego couldn’t stand defeat at the hands of a lesser adversary. 

Jim shifts his arm so as not to pinch a nerve beneath the gravity of Spock’s lax frame and drapes it instead about his shoulders, tucking Spock’s head under his chin. His face is soft and vulnerable. Open. Trusting. More even than he is used to seeing from him in his sleep. Jim had thought he was not himself, but maybe he’s wrong. Maybe this is the real Spock, the one he keeps hidden behind the mask of logic and stoicism, and Jim has been given something precious to be allowed to see him like this. Jim suspects much of the crew assumes the Vulcan lacks a complex inner life, that they expect there’s nothing but transistors and analog logic gates under the hood. Jim was never possessed of any such misconceptions—he knew there was more to him beneath the surface than that. His human eyes betray him. Still, Jim is endlessly surprised by what he finds as he folds open, his emotions blooming like a flower in the palm of his hand.

Jim inhales and catches the scent of Spock’s hair. He’s gross—objectively, they both are. They dispensed with their clothes hours ago when finally the heat of the hearth and Spock’s fever trumped the shame of nakedness. He smells good to Jim though, irrationally. By now the room stinks of fucking, there’s really no polite way to say it, no point in mincing words. Not one of those cheap Risan whore houses, no. Spock smells like an expensive civet, heady and complex. A clever, sharp-toothed animal in rut. It’s like someone dug around in Jim’s brain and replicated a custom formulation to drive him to madness. Maybe the fever is contagious. 

He tests the waters, carefully trying to extract himself from his iron grip to steal away to the attached bath, but Spock’s possessive instinct has surpassed obsessive to down right enslaving. Jim shifts his weight and his grip tightens around his bicep, twisting the skin in opposite directions til it burns with pins and needles. He lets his breath out through clenched teeth and tries to relax the tension in his shoulders. Jim fancies himself well-practiced in the subtle art of abnegation, perhaps not so much as a Vulcan, but even he has his limits. The ache in his groin can’t be ignored any longer or he’s liable to throw a clot. He wraps his free hand around the base of his cock and squeezes. The pressure offers some modest relief. He’s truly lowered himself if he’s seriously considering this with Spock right here, asleep on top of him. It was bad enough back on the ship, jerking himself off in the sonics, a fist between his teeth and Spock meditating on the other side of the thin aluminum bulkhead. This lacks even the thin veneer of pretense.

He tries a few strokes, quiet and experimental, but the sound of skin slapping is loud in the silence. His pulse hammers in his ears, flighty with the fear of getting caught. It’s been a long time since he was an ensign trying to rub one out under the sheets in a shared bunk situation. It’s fine, he can make this quick and dirty. Utilitarian. Not like he’s going to last long anyway. He’d like to have some mental clarity and his wits about him when next Spock wakes all pouty and stupified, begging for a good fucking. Jim stares up at the ceiling, focusing his gaze on a fixed point and resolutely does not think of a spring green flush on pointed ears, the trail of come dried sticky on his thigh, or the sound of Spock choking on his name. One must imagine Tantalus happy. 

His hand is too dry in the hot, fire-warmed air and so he lifts his palm to spit in it, and finds his skin still ripe with the musky scent of the wetness that leaks from Spock’s sheath each time he gets spun up. Jim is awash with guilty shame when it only serves to make him harder. He keeps his mind on target, and returns to stroking silent as a church mouse, lower lip drawn between his teeth. Under any other circumstances, he might be embarrassed by how quickly he manages to bring himself to the edge, but he’s so desperate for release he reckons section 31 couldn’t concoct a more inhumane torture. His breathing picks up and his motions grow sloppy, irregular. He hikes a knee up, the one Spock’s not draped over all legs akimbo, and curls his toes into the sheets. He’s so close now…

Jim calls to mind an old and well-trodden fantasy and attempts to imagine the same faceless partner. It’s all cheap thrills, one of those corny power fantasies he’d be embarrassed to admit to, but it gets the job done. Pictures himself on the bridge, slouched in the conn with a mop of dark hair between his thighs. When he reaches out to cup his caller’s cheek, there’s three stripes on his gold sleeve. 

“Fuck me…” He grits out between his teeth, fucks his fist til the friction burns.

In his mind, he tilts the head up to meet his gaze, and his imagination fills in the blank without his permission. Spock, face flushed over the bridge of his nose and hair a disheveled mess, a trail of spit dripping from the corner of his swollen lips on his science blues.

“Right now, Captain?” He asks, cheeky, playing at ignorance. He takes the thumb of Jim’s outstretched hand between his lips and— oh god—

“Ashayam…”

The real Spock—not dream Spock—slurs words into his neck, mostly in Vulcan. Jim feels like his body has been dunked in ice water and arrests his frantic motions instantly, hand darting out to fist in the sheets at his side. Shit. Fuck. Damn it…  

“Y-Yeah…” Jim swallows, forces his breathing to slow but his rabbit heart isn’t helping. He freezes, stock still, and waits for the shoe to drop. Spock doesn’t answer, just shifts his weight until the sharp bone of his hip is lodged against his miserable, stone-carved cock and starts lathing his sandpaper tongue up the column of his throat. 

Right. Spock’s so stoned out of his gourd now he can barely hold a conversation, much less notice he was getting up to no good. Small mercies. Jim senses a pearl of that warm, familiar wetness dripping down the inside of his thigh where Spock’s taken the initiative to crawl on top and mount his hips. 

“I don’t suppose you’re uh…” Jim takes a deep breath, willing himself not to come on his stomach when Spock gyrates like a filthy Orion lap dancer right against his hard on. He eyes that same fixed point on the ceiling, and says a prayer to a god he doesn’t believe in just in case someone is listening. “In the mood for checkers?”

He tried that earlier, in Spock’s brief moment of clarity after Jim had brought him to the brink of his third glass-shattering orgasm and he was basking in the soft afterglow. They’d tried to play chess on Jim’s PADD first but it had proved too taxing for him in his state, and so Jim had suggested checkers. They made it through one full game, not that Spock was much of an opponent—Jim was fairly convinced he was more focused on the way Jim’s fingers caressed the screen and imagining his skin in place of the PADD more than formulating any kind of strategy. He passed out before they managed a second. Jim hadn’t realized at the time those were his final moments spent with a semi-lucid Spock. Now, he alternates between sleeping and fucking exclusively—and that’s what it is: fucking. Gone is the coy and reticent Spock he carried home from the san, replaced with some kind of sex-crazed doppelganger Jim’s not sure would be more at home in his wildest wet dreams or worst nightmares.

Spock doesn’t humor his question with a response or any acknowledgment at all, really. He’s a man on a mission, a singular one-track mind chasing orgasm like a heroin addict chasing the dragon. Much the same, he never quite finds the same high as the first time and as his fever continues to climb, the refractory periods where Jim is allowed to catch his breath grow shorter and shorter. They’re building towards the main event now, whatever that is. 

“Yeah. Didn’t think so.” Jim sighs, lets his eyes flutter shut when Spock nips at his pulse, peppering his neck with love bites. He’s only human. He is weak and his resolve is crumbling. 

Jim’s a disgusting, hopeless romantic. When he’d allowed himself the fantasy of bedding Spock, he had—humiliatingly—wished for a soft epilogue to all this . A quiet night back aboard the Enterprise, just the two of them locked away in his quarters. In his most self-indulgent fantasies, Jim imagined that when they returned from Vulcan, Spock might fold his cards and confess that he couldn’t bear the thought of him leaving. Jim would agree. He would whisper sweet promises that it was never the ship but the man aboard whose company he’d suddenly tripped and fallen into. They would come together easily in tender desperation, the fear of parting at last forcing their hand. Jim would have kept him up all night, taken his time with it, spelling his love out explicitly in the gentle exploration of his body. Someone would have to beat down the door, pull them apart, and ship him back to the Farragut against his will.

Stupid. It was never going to happen that way—He personally signed Spock’s death warrant when he stole aboard the Enterprise under false pretenses. Atonement. That’s what this is. The laws of entropy dictate Jim always gets what he deserves, in the end.

This was never what Spock deserved. 

Spock is a good person, as if all the best parts of Starfleet were spliced into his DNA. He’s too kind for this, too loyal, too… precious. He never deserved an arranged marriage to a wife who hated him for all his perfect uniqueness and idiosyncrasies. Never deserved to have this hit him, cold and alone and frightened of dying, lightyears from his home and his family. Never deserved to settle for a cheap fuck with a guy like Jim, hollow and empty, for feeling unloved and undesired. Jim knows what that feels like—all of it. 

Maybe Jim can’t fix everything—he can’t find him a new wife, or fix his relationship with his father, or whisk him off this frozen rock—but he’s not powerless, either. Spock’s not alone, and he is loved, and he is desired. And maybe Jim’s not the guy he wants to hear it from, but he has to try. He can do his best to salvage a shitty situation, to quit putting his own feelings first and try to give Spock what he deserves. 

Spock deserves to go through this with someone who truly loves him. Jim can’t fix everything, but he can give him that. 

His keel cracks under the weight of surrender, and lets Spock’s touch tow him asunder at last. Jim finally allows himself the indulgence of honest reciprocation, trails his hands up Spock’s legs where he’s straddled his midsection. He hooks his hands around the dip of his waist, leverages his own weight against him, and flips them over, pressing him down into the sheets. Spock’s voice escapes him in a wanton little moan against the shell of his ear, and Jim can already feel the hard line of his swollen cock emerging from its sheath and slicked against his thigh. He realigns himself, rocks against Spock’s body and pants blissful into his chest at the sweet relief he finds there.

“You are…” Spock shapes the sounds funny when he speaks, like talking in Standard requires extraordinary mental effort. His hand draws up between their bodies, curious and hesitant, and traces the pads of his finger tips feather-light down the plane of Jim’s chest until it reaches his cock. Spock drags his touch down the hot length of it, so light it’s barely a touch at all. He’s not done this before, touched Jim here, and the force of Spock’s wild arousal projected into him via the delicate contact hits him like a brick wall. Jim chokes on his own spit, doubling over at the waist, has to bury his fingers in Spock’s hair just to keep himself up right. “You are aroused…because of me?”

apprehension-shame-contrition— Jim’s no telepath, but it doesn’t take one to sense Spock at this stage, not with his mental shields dropped like a torpedoed Bird of Prey. It’s bizarre, this sensation of Spock through his skin. Novel. He had always imagined telepathy would work like hearing a voice in his head or watching a holo play out behind his eyes, but the analogy is as hollow as it is false. Like describing color to a blind man, he thinks. 

“Fuck, of course I am,” Jim breathes. His body is a conduit. As their skin slides together, Spock’s mind sparks static where he is psionically broadcasting completely undampened and penetrating Jim’s nervous system like gamma radiation. Not uncomfortable, but indescribable all the same. A sixth sense. “You have no idea—no idea what you do to me…”

Spock preens at the praise. His delight scatters across the dermatome like sunlight on a pond and his lingering wariness echoes out into silence over the water. The pleasant paresthesia scratches an itch at the base of his neck, makes him shiver all over. His body is a tuning fork and Jim’s hums in sync to the tune of a perfect A flat.

Jim’s skin feels… loud that is truly the only word for it. His head’s a galena crystal radio, tuned to modulate Spock’s signals on the airwaves and he attempts to decrypt the foreign messages by passing them through his own circuitry. His neurons fire out of sequence, and Jim translates Spock’s thoughts warped and lensed through the doors of his own perception. Impressions skitter on the edge of discernment, like a familiar yet unplaceable scent with the power to transport the mind to a long forgotten memory.

Spock’s hands worship their way down the plain of his back, drawing him down down down until their lips slip together, and for the first time Jim doesn’t resist the pull, instead allowing himself to be towed under the current of feeling. Their tongues drag, slow and unhurried, and time bends around them entirely unmarked. It’s like the first time all over again, so new and unfamiliar it’s hardly recognizable as a kiss at all. He has to relearn the process from the start. Words are unnecessary, and he understands now why Spock has become so averse to speaking. The smallest details are suddenly very important—the freckles in his eyes, the bow of his lips… 

Jim absently recalls a lazy afternoon on a quiet M-Class planet during his first deep space tour, back when he was still brash and reckless and curiosity had a way of getting the better of him. Some designer phenethylamine, Thelin would have approved. Up the nose and tasted bitter when the dregs of it dripped out his sinuses in the back of his throat. Spock’s thoughts, his emotions, take him back there, sparkling kaleidoscopic. 

Don’t try to fight the come-up, just let it roll.

Spock’s breath sticks in his throat and he rakes his sinewy silhouette down his front chasing friction and pressure. Jim has learned him now, after five tries. Passed the night by taking him apart and studying what makes him tick like a watch mechanism. He’s found his switches and dials, can trip their proper sequence now on muscle memory. His hands know where they’re headed before he does, and he reaches between them to swipe a hand through the slick wetness between Spock’s thighs and coats it lewd and liberal over the tight muscle of his ass. Spock’s body responds to the touch, hot anticipation reverberating back on him in stereo.

Jim is both hyper aware of his own body and all at once derealized, experiencing himself in the third person. He is receding into his own head, how he gets lost between the pages of a good book, only Spock is inexplicably also there. His Vulcan perceptions are incommensurate with the human sensory experience, and Jim’s thalamus kicks into overdrive as it attempts to reconcile the stimuli without an experiential tether. The world is brighter, sharpened and high definition. The blankets have a glimmering, shifting aura where their body heat clings and dissipates, visible to Spock in the infrared and Jim’s brain transliterates the observation into something his human mind can comprehend. Spock opens his mouth on a gasp and the taste of their sweat lingers on the air. 

His fingers slip inside without resistance, still slick loose where Spock’s taken to fucking himself open in his palm all morning. He rocks back, digging his fingernails into his shoulders like he means to carve out a piece of his flesh to keep for himself. His face screws up in anguish, not because it hurts but because it isn’t enough—his last orgasm wasn’t very satisfying, he knows. Spock is beseeching and begging and bargaining, to have him closer, inside him, the tendrils of his mind pulling them together with a force of attraction fundamental to the fabric of the universe. Jim is helpless to deny him now, even if he wanted to, bound by some inviolable law of physics seeking equilibrium. 

He’s heard it said few humans have ever melded with a Vulcan, but those who have describe the experience somewhere between eerie and troubling to sickeningly invasive. He can’t understand. How could anyone be frightened of this? 

Jim grabs his hip and turns his body like a page, flips him over on his stomach and drapes his body over his like slipping a book back on the shelf. He reads the need for touch in his shivering hands and laces their fingers, pressing him still with his wrists beside his head. Spock’s mind fizzes with the sound of his name and something else, something in Vulcan he doesn’t understand, but it rings like a plea he’s desperate to answer. Jim’s lips find the soft spot at the nape of his neck, drawn inexorably to the sensual curve of the tender skin as if tied to it by a spool of golden thread, and the air around them spontaneously combusts when he presses himself inside. 

The pleasure hits him in his head more than his cock, and it takes him several long moments to remember he’s supposed to move. Spock’s presence is enveloping and complete. His mind radiates from within him now, blanketing him in a shroud of warm contentment and affection. He is a home-cooked meal, his favorite worn out Academy hoodie, the crux of an elegant proof. Jim’s so stupid. Why was he so determined to deny Spock this simple feeling? He doesn’t want for much, hardly anything at all, so easy to please. All he wants is to be wanted. It’s such a small ask, a minor luxury—loving Spock is a logical triviality. 

Spock slides under him in polyrhythm and his pleasure chases Jim’s own in a fugue as if he were experiencing it himself. The movement is brief, foreshadowed by too long an overture, and climaxes before hardly beginning at all. Spock snaps like high tension piano wire, sinks his teeth into his lower lip with enough force to draw blood, and Jim tumbles after him all sympathetic vibration, resolving on a chromatic neapolitan. 

Spock shivers bodily, and his pleasure dissipates a niente until at last the ringing in Jim’s head falls still and pastoral. Jim blinks back into his body, like waking from a dream on a lazy Sunday morning back in the farm house. He’s been elsewhere for several minutes, apparently, gone soft inside his ass and his come drips out of him warm and viscous on the sheets. Spock doesn’t flinch when he draws out, his mind throbs muted and dull through his skin. He hums to himself, a pentatonic little motif. When he turns his head on the pillows, it’s the first genuine smile he’s ever earned from him. He wears it so well it makes his chest hurt.

He’s going to kill me, Jim thinks, and I’ve handed him the knife.

☿   ♀   🜨   ♂   ♃   ♄   ⛢   ♆

Spock falls back to sleep. Again. 

Typical guy for you, isn’t that what every girl complains about? Jim’s grown familiar with his attack pattern now. He’s not exactly in the right headspace for pillowtalk, pretty much passes out within a minute or two of climax like he’s been shot with a hypo of pentobarbital, still covered in a fragrant composite of his and Jim’s sweat and come. He doesn’t seem to notice that’s gone from being sexy to admittedly a little disgusting given they’re on day two of this marathon and they haven’t changed the sheets. One of the Khione nurses, blessedly not so foolish as to open the door, was polite enough to leave a fresh set outside with the breakfast tray, but Spock just about had a brain aneurysm at the mere suggestion they might shower or, you know, clean up a bit. Some kind of instinctual drive, he figures. Spock’s vulnerable in a strange place, and that animalistic part of him that’s flying the ship can’t relax how it needs to inorder to pass the fever unless he thinks he’s safe here. Maybe it’d be different if they were on Vulcan or in his quarters back on the ship, but in this place the only familiar comfort is their mingled scent on the repeatedly soiled sheets. 

Spock is the pillow prince for the weekend, and Jim’s not trying to spark an incident by denying his royal highness any request, so filthy they remain. Jim has his personal limits, though, and does make an effort to gently wipe clean Spock’s thighs and ass with the small ice bucket and cloth that was originally intended to help soothe his fever when he’s too boneless to be embarrassed by the gesture. He’s spared the curse of chafing at least by his Vulcan physiology. Jim’s known girls who’d need a good hour to preheat to get half as wet, but Spock remains as well-lubricated as the nacelle mounts lovingly tended by an engineer with a can of WD40. A logical adaptation for a species that, apparently, reproduces by going insane in the membrane and fucking their brains out in the desert sand. Jim cringes at the thought of all that dry roughness… Yeah. Wet’s good. 

Jim’s been granted a necessary reprieve in recognition of good service. Spock might need to sleep to beat the fever, but Jim’s well awake now that it’s late into the morning and finds something to keep himself occupied for the time being. Spock will be awake again shortly, in an hour at most if he’s being generous—he never knocks off for long. He hasn’t tried to leave again, not since the first time when Spock freaked out. He has to give him advanced warning and leave the door open before he so much as takes a piss in the attached sonics or risks Spock going totally, illogically ballistic. So he makes himself comfortable where he is, adjusting the blankets and cushions so he can lounge naked and lazy by the fire. Spock is curled up between his legs, his head pillowed on the meat of his inner thigh and his soft snoring reminds him of the purring of an old barn cat. 

Jim turns the page of his novel, an old paperback he thought to bring with him from the Farragut just in case he needed something to keep him busy in the idle hours. A Room with a View. It’s a favorite, one he’s reached for so often he’s memorized the lines, but can’t help wishing he’d had the foresight to bring something that offered a better distraction from his own circumstances—the Florentine romance reads like a taunt. He absentmindedly tracks the nails of his other hand through Spock’s hair, relishing the sweet sensation that echoes back on him when Spock’s body responds to the pleasant stimulation on his scalp. Jim pauses momentarily to steal a fruit off the platter, one of the juicy red berries he recognizes were draped over the pergolas, and pops it in his mouth before resuming his ministrations. 

I could get used to this, he thinks dangerously. 

‘This’ is, of course, not something he’s going to be allowed to keep, but there is no shame in pretending for a moment. No harm in imagining what that could be like. One day, when he makes captain on his own vessel, Jim will be afforded some say in who he recommends for his crew. He could ask for Spock as his science officer, he’s qualified. He might even agree to sign on for him. It’s so easy to picture himself there, seated at the conn, admiring the shape of Spock’s ass in uniform where he’s bent over the science console rattling off statistics and coordinates in that flat affect of his. Jim would pass the time between pondering astrological anomalies and imagining his first officer’s body under his at the end of the day, made all the more tempting for the lack of instant gratification. He’d return to quarters and find him there waiting, as obedient off duty as he is every day on the bridge. Maybe they’d play a round of chess first, or maybe they would skip straight to the main event. Jim would be given the pleasure, night after night, of stripping him out of his uniform and out of his head until his logic was on the floor with his socks and shirt. And when they were through with their romp he might curl up soft in his lap, just like this, for Jim’s eyes only, a side of himself no one else aboard would get to see. Their precious little secret. Jim would read his books, fall asleep like that when the lights cut out, and wake up the next morning to find Spock still in his arms, whispering lazily about the next strange new world they’re set to venture off to today. 

Perfect. Jim doesn’t think there is anything else that would suit his tastes better. He’s been crafting the fantasy down to the last detail for years, but it was always missing the final touch. Now he realizes it was obvious all along—Spock on the bridge with his diligent perfectionism, Spock over a meal in the mess with his dry sense of humor, Spock in the botanical gardens at the cool of the day, a stolen kiss between the heliamphorae… He has been trying to fill the gap all the while with some girl or another, whoever’s struck his fancy at the time, but their presence is always dissonant with the dream. Jim has to… Shuffle things, has to hand-wave their presence away like an amateurish plot twist in a trashy novel. Spock fits his fantasy like a missing puzzle piece and brings the picture into focus with sudden clarity and fresh perspective. 

“You are indulging a pleasant thought.” Spock is awake again, evidently, and he reaches a hand up between Jim’s chest and the book to paw at his face. His finger finds the psypoint nearest his lip and sparkles with a tinge of gentle curiosity. “I wish to know what you are thinking.”

Spock’s hand widens and starts feeling around for the rest of his meld points, and a small spark of anxiety shivers down Jim’s spine. Spock has been reaching for that a lot now in the past couple hours, Jim’s not even sure he’s aware he’s doing it. He realizes they’ll have to eventually—Spock said he would need to meld deeply to sate the fever before this is all over and done with, but Jim will admit he’s still a bit nervous about that. He’s only just allowed himself to enjoy this for what it is, and he would selfishly like to linger in this pleasant, heavenly stasis for a while longer before smashing the fragility to pieces. Spock… is not going to like what he finds in there, he knows that. Whatever delicate rapport has been growing between them will inevitably shatter once he’s allowed a glimpse behind the carefully constructed persona, and Jim’s still trying to steel himself to endure that loss.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty.” Jim instead grabs his wrist, pulling his hand off track, and presses the pads of his fingers to his lips with a touch of tongue. Spock sighs in pleasure at the feeling, his earlier goal entirely forgotten. “Did you enjoy your nap?” 

Spock nods lazily, and he’s not beating the cat allegations the way he noses his face adorably against his thigh. He would be so embarrassed if he could see himself like this, blissful and strungout, and so Jim will treasure it while he can. He mumbles against his skin, has to try again when Jim doesn’t hear him the first time. “You are reading.”

Ah, so they’re on speaking terms then, at least for the moment. Who knows how long that will last. Jim smiles softly, humors him how you might a small babbling child. 

“Yeah, just some old novel.” He drops his hand and resumes petting through his hair the way Spock is taken with, even if he won’t admit it. His head must be aching, Jim can’t imagine how overwhelming it must be—he’s no expert on Vulcans, but it’s common knowledge their mental discipline is the only thing keeping them sane in off-world society. “They don’t really have novels on Vulcan, do they? I mean, not in the Terran sense of a long-form fictional work of prose?”

“No.” Even in his more lucid moments, Spock’s words are largely short and clipped or entirely non sequitur. He hums and scrunches his face up adorably in thought, like he is thinking so very hard about a complex subspace geometry problem. “My mother read to me as a child.”

Jim chuckles warmly at the thought of a small Spock, tiny with round puffy cheeks on his human mother’s lap being read an ‘illogical’ fairytale. Or maybe she didn’t. Maybe she walked him through Russell’s Principia Mathematica for some light kindergarten-level reading. He is curious, so he asks, “Did you have a favorite?”

“I enjoyed Alice in Wonderland,” he answers dreamily, in and out of awareness. Jim’s not sure what he was expecting, but this is something of a revelation. An insight into his character he’s not sure many are allowed. There’s a lot you can tell about someone from their favorite book, even if they’re ones meant for children.

“Mmm good choice,” Jim says because he knows Spock will like being told he’s done well at something, even if it’s a small silly thing, and is rewarded when he nuzzles further into his touch. Jim scratches his nails in the soft hollow behind his ear. “You want me to read to you?”

He’s not sure why he offers. It’s a sickeningly romantic gesture, and what they’re engaged in is just about as far from ‘romance’ as sex can get. Jim would like to pretend it’s not though, because he is a fool and he makes foolish choices that he will live to regret. He is building a house of cards, how he always does, and will pretend he is shocked when it topples yet again.

Spock nods emphatically, big brown eyes sparkling all glassy on his flushed face from between his legs, and Jim is sick for it. He’s growing hard again. Well. At least he’ll be prepared when Spock inevitably bores of this after a few pages… 

“It’s a uhh… a love story.” Jim says, awkwardly. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. “I’m almost at the end. You see this girl—Miss Lucy—she goes on this trip to Italy. You’ve never been to Italy, but maybe you’ve seen pictures. Funny enough, they say it’s a lot like Romulus, but I guess you’ve never been there, either. Well anyway, her family’s got her life all mapped out for her and she’s under a lot of pressure to be this prim and proper society lady, but while she’s on this trip she meets this guy, George. She’s totally smitten with him cause he’s kinda got this boyish, carefree persona that helps her see how things could be different. And, uh, it’s like they’re drawn to each other—it totally doesn’t make sense, I mean you’d probably say it’s illogical, but they keep running into each other around the city in all these crazy circumstances, like fate wants them to be together.”

Spock watches his lips moving, totally enraptured, and nods along with wide-eyed fascination like every word out of Jim’s mouth is gospel. Jim has this sneaking suspicion that his voice is going in one ear and out the other right now, but it seems like it’s making him happy so who’s he to stop? He lets his free hand trail idly down the curve of his body while he keeps talking, and Spock lounges between his legs like a figure in a baroque painting. 

“But there’s trouble afoot because Miss Lucy keeps getting proposals from this other guy, Cecil, that her family wants her to marry. And sure, he’s the better choice because he’s got money and society connections, but he’s terminally dull and kind of a classist jerk who doesn’t let Lucy have her independence. But she agrees to marry him anyway, even though she loves George, because she thinks it’s the logical thing to do.”

Jim wonders if Spock is smart enough right now to pick up on the obvious connection between the fiance and T’Pring, and hopes that he doesn’t. He hopes that he is so blissfully unaware of such troubles here that the memory of her never even crosses his mind. Perhaps his motivations aren’t so altruistic as he would like to believe. He doubts it though, as Spock gives a big stretch of his muscles, cracking his spine, and runs his own hands sensually down the hair on his chest—just for the joy of touch, not to show off, though it still has that effect. Jim swallows, and tries to focus on recounting the plot.

“When she gets back to England, it turns out by another coincidence that George lives nearby, and he continues to pursue her before the marriage. He tries to convince Miss Lucy that Cecil doesn’t love her, she’s just some trophy to be won, but she can always be her true self with George. She runs away, and he’s heartbroken, and plans to move back to London before he realizes that Miss Lucy has called off her engagement…and that’s where we’re at, you’re all caught up.”

Jim pats his leg. It’s a terrible summary, really. He didn’t even mention the whole murder-in-the-church subplot or George’s tragic backstory, but he doubts Spock really cares all that much, anyway. He seems content just to be the center of Jim’s attention at all times, and it is nice to be the object of Spock’s fixation, too.

“There will be a happy ending.” Spock says, very seriously, like he is imparting some great closely-guarded wisdom when attempting to reassure Jim of this fact, as if he hasn’t read the story half a dozen times at least. Jim can’t stifle a small laugh.

“Yeah, Spock. It’s gonna have a happy ending, don’t worry. It’s a romance, they usually do.” Jim’s face breaks out into a wide smile, and he draws a finger down the curve of Spock’s jaw, pressing his thumb to his soft lower lip. Spock parts his mouth to lick the pad of his finger. He doesn’t have those extra nerve endings, but it still makes him hot all over. “It’s uhh… more about the journey than the destination.”

Jim takes his hand back, licks the spot on his fingers where Spock’s tongue just touched, and turns the page to start reading where he left off. Spock wiggles and makes himself comfortable again, his head still leaned lazy on his thigh where Jim’s legs fall open to accommodate him in the intimate space between. He huffs and puffs, how a human might when sore about something, and Jim hardly makes it through the first few paragraphs or so before Spock reaches down between to start shamelessly working his own cock over to the sound of his voice. Jim’s face flushes a hot pink and he stutters on the words, but dutifully keeps his eyes on the pages. At one point, Spock grabs for his free hand and laces their fingers together, and the heady swamp of arousal hits him through the contact like a hot July heatwave. Jim soldiers on for as long as his mental faculties are capable, but he is drifting into the quixotic whirlpool of Spock’s emotions once again and the words ripple psychedelic across the pages.

“I said: Passion does not blind.” Jim recites the lines, one of his favorites, tries to focus on forming the sounds correctly, but it’s difficult—Spock has tilted his head around, buried it in the juncture of his hip, and means to learn the shape of everything below his navel via the texture of that rough, feline tongue. “No. Passion is sanity, and the one you love, that’s the only person you will ever really understand…”

His head tips back and cracks against the wall with a grunt when Spock licks an experimental stripe up the length of his cock, exploring the taste of his precome beading on the tip with rapt fascination. Jim is ready to dispense with the book entirely until Spock pauses to look up at him through those wet sable lashes and screws his face up in irritation. 

“You are in love with this ‘Miss Lucy.’” Spock accuses. He digs his fingers into Jim’s hips possessively, hard enough to leave Spock-shaped fingerprints in his flesh. It’s really quite cute in a way—his behavior is so… illogical. Jim’s not going to insult him by pointing it out, but the Spock in his right mind would never say something so ridiculous. 

“Ha! She’s a hell of a gal, I’ll give you that, but no. She’s uh…” Jim can’t help but chuckle a small laugh, and Spock’s hands tighten down with his blistering Vulcan strength. He squirms, trying to loosen his choke hold on his femoral artery before his leg goes numb. “The book’s over three hundred years old. She’s just a character in a story.” 

“Why do you say such things to her? Respond.” Spock is beset with a kind of blind, righteous anger. He scrambles upright, into Jim’s lap, running his hands all over his skin and searching his face with a wild fear and desperation. 

“I didn’t! That’s George talking. Come on, you remember how books work.” The whole thing is so comical, Jim struggles not to laugh at him. He places a chaste peck on his cheek, lifts his hips a bit to resettle his weight so it’s not crushing his dick. He continues to tease him a little, entirely harmless. “Why? Are you jealous?”

“You do… You are…” Spock is rapidly becoming inconsolable, and his eyes prick at the corners with wetness and he scrubs at his face with his palms. The term ‘white girl wasted’ comes to mind, and Jim wonders if this is why he was so embarrassed by his behavior at Pike’s last holiday party. He can’t help it when his heart pricks with a tender affection. “You love her!”

Spock works himself up into an irrational tizzy. He clings to his frame, quaking and digging fingers into his arms with the full force of his brutal strength as if trying to keep him from flying away. Jim shushes him gently, pets a hand through his hair how he likes to try and calm him down some, but he keeps shaking his head in a kind of forlorn madness that makes his chest twist up in knots. There’s a lot of things he’d like to say, a lot of promises he’s not sure he can keep that a Spock with his higher brain functions wouldn’t care to hear. He resists the siren’s song with great personal effort. 

“Well, I…” Jim cups Spock’s face in the cradle of his palm, strokes his thumb over the lick of his cheek through the salty tracks, and admires his pretty features with an aching melancholy. “Maybe I do love Miss Lucy,” He confesses softly, painfully, because if he doesn’t say it once he’s liable to crumble under the weight of it. It’s as close to the truth as he can allow and Spock, lost in his simpleminded pleasure stupor, won’t read between the lines. 

This is, predictably, the worst thing he could have said at the moment. 

“No!” Spock yowls, anguished, like a cat who hasn’t been fed in three to six hours. He snatches the book from his hands, snaps the spine in half and begins ripping the pages to shreds until they litter the sheets around them in a sad paper snowfall. 

“Hey, that’s an antique!” Okay now Jim’s angry. He tries to snatch it back, but it’s a waste at this point. The deed is already done. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to find paperbacks?”

Spock tackles him bodily, and the shredded paper crinkles under their weight where they roll around fighting for the upper hand. Jim’s pinned effortlessly by the fierce predator and Spock sinks his teeth into the joint where his neck meets his shoulder deep enough his teeth marks are liable to scar. 

“Fuck you!” Jim howls, kicks at his groin like a dirty bar fight, misses and catches him in the knee instead, but Spock barely reacts. “Are you trying to kill me?” 

MINE–MY JIM–MATE–MINE–T’HY’LA–JIM–JIM–JIM— There’s that word again, the Vulcan one he doesn’t understand. Spock’s mind doesn’t usually broadcast entire, discernable concepts through their physical contact, but it feels like he’s screaming so loud that half the palace could hear him except it’s contained within Jim’s skull. He feels dizzy with it, like he’s going to puke, how you get when a high decibel ringing threatens to blow out the ear drums. Spock keeps him flat on the floor, bites and sucks hot marks all over, staking his claim on his skin incase—god forbid—a fictional Edwardian socialite materializes out of thin air and means to fight him to the death for the prize of Jim’s attention. 

Jim hisses in pleasure-pain. He's gonna need a hot date with the dermal regenerator after this, but it hurts so good. Each sharp snap of his jaw spikes a shock through them both, ping-ponging between their mingled senses and Spock’s frenzied lust colors every touch red. He’s completely delirious, though, and Jim isn’t looking to take a field trip back to the san, but that’s where they're headed if he can’t get a handle on the situation. Spock is strong, but he’s not operating on all cylinders right now, and Jim didn’t ace hand-to-hand combat back at the Academy for nothing.

Spock’s got him beat on weight and wingspan, but Jim’s a scrappy little shit and all's fair in love and war. He hooks him behind the knee and grapples out of his grip. They chase each other through the blankets in a tangle of judo and suus mahna, fur and paper scraps flying like a cat fight and they tumble across the floor and onto the cold stone tiles. Spock rakes his claws down his skin, leaving mean red tracks through the flesh, spitting and growling and biting all wild barbarism. Jim’s not trying to hurt him for real, but he doesn’t make it easy. He finally manages to wrestle him on his stomach, pinned in an arm bar, and Spock bucks around under him like a three-second bull ride, threatening to dislocate his own shoulder in the process.

“You’re mine…” Spock growls, so deep and guttural it rattles Jim’s chest and goes straight to his groin. 

“You’re so fucking stupid, you know that?” Jim pants hot in his ear, settles the bulk of his weight on the small of his back in a futile effort to render him docile. His lip’s split and bloodying his teeth where Spock clipped him with an elbow, and he spits red on the floor. He’s almost caught his breath when Spock sinks those sharp fangs in his forearm and locks his jaw—he should have seen that one coming—and Jim grunts with effort not to release his grip. His resolve breaks first, and when he lets go, Spock scrambles up on all fours.

“Oh I don’t think so…” Jim smudges his lip clean on the ball of his shoulder and snakes his hand out to scruff him by his hair, jerking his head back hard enough to snap his neck. Spock makes a noise in his throat that’s more Klingon than Vulcan. “You want me? Fine. You already had me.”

Jim strokes his hand down the nape of his neck and forces Spock’s cheek down against the stone, face down and ass up. Spock purrs with delight like some kind of jungle cat when he strokes his thumb from the base of his skull over the ball of his spine. His head is empty of all rational thought, just a mindless mantra of Jim-Jim-Jim and fuck-fuck-fuck. His skin burns, a hot iron ready and waiting to be struck. 

Jim rubs his cock against the seam of his ass, and Spock eagerly tries to rut back against him before he’s had the chance to slot them together properly. He grips one cheek to pull him open, there’s hardly anything to hold the way Spock’s built from spindles of bone and wire. His insides are green and swollen, still wet and loose from earlier. Jim slides inside him as far as his body will allow without preamble, and Spock moans all stupid and cross-eyed, drooling on the fine crystal floors. 

He fucks him like this is a rodeo, like he’s a horse in need of breaking, and their knees hit the floor so hard they’ll be black and blue with contusions after. Spock bucks and whines, hiccups like he’s been shot between the ribs when Jim finds the mark under his kidneys and nails him there again and again and again. He fucks him til his cock is raw and mean with it, til he’s gonna find carpet burn on the shaft, and finishes so far up his ass Spock can probably taste it in the back of his throat. He pounds him still, like a punishment, pained and overstimulated, until Spock joins him in his wounded misery, spilling untouched on the floor.

Jim collapses, utterly destroyed, jockeyed and run to death around the track. The doctor’s gonna come round soon enough and announce he needs to be put down. He hasn’t had his ass whipped this thoroughly since Finnegan and the boys roughed him up in the yard back at the Academy. Spock lolls under him, rode hard and put away wet, buzzing happy and placated where he basks against the cooling relief of the stone. Jim claps a hand on his ass and lets it rest over where his own prints are blooming green and yellow in the skin.

He rolls over and stares up at the ceiling spinning clockwise overhead, and dreams about taking a cold shower before passing out.

☿   ♀   🜨   ♂   ♃   ♄   ⛢   ♆

In Hesiod’s Theogony, the Greeks recount in epic meter how the gods conspired to punish man for the gift of Promethean fire with the creation of woman—a beautiful evil crafted of sheer guile that man could never hope to resist. In their cruelty, the gods would inflict upon her head a deep yearning and cares to weary the limbs as much as grace. They shipped her off with a final gift for the mortals—a box, filled to bursting with all the troubles of the world: death and strife and sickness. Pandora, of course, opens the box. Poor girl. It was never her fault. Curiosity is a virtue, not a vice. Nevertheless, she is cursed to bear the yoke of her folly for all eternity. Perhaps, though, she is instead owed gratitude for within the box too were all the joys that make life worth living—the jury remains out on that one, though it matters little now. 

What matters is that Jim is no hypocrite, not above falling prey to the human condition. He has been bewitched and beguiled, whether by woman or Vulcan is ultimately immaterial. He’s opened the box and the lid cannot be replaced. As Spock is fond of saying, kaiidth.

Jim flays Spock open on the sheets and dissects his body with all the wonder of a fresh cadet in his first exobiology class, maneuvers his skeletal structure through a battery of anatomically impossible contortions, fucks him sideways til his eyes go crossed and he starts talking backwards, in pig latin, then stops talking at all. They bone prone on the stone flooring, supine on the linens, orthopneic against the wall with Spock’s femur hooked around his pelvis til he cracks open with a bang that gives birth to entire universes.

Three calls come through on the comm and Jim hangs up on all of them, tosses it in the sonic under a heavy blanket before the fourth so he can’t hear the obnoxious buzzing anymore.

For supper, the Khione bring another sacrifice of fruits for Spock and a bowl of some milky blue liquid for Jim. It tastes of alkaloids, the bitter kind that stop the heart beating, and it makes his head all fuzzy with radio static, gives him a painful erection that lasts for the next four hours. Spock topples the platter all clumsy —that’s okay, I wasn’t hungry— and Jim eats his ass out like that’s the meal, tastes himself there, and Spock flips him on his back and sucks his soul out through a bendy straw. Jim’s inside him more than he’s outside him—physically, mentally, spiritually. The local star’s set again somewhere far away, he wouldn’t know. All that’s real is distilled to the primordial soup between these four walls until it’s impossible to tell where Jim stops and Spock begins. 

They crest and trough how waves do on the open ocean, coming together in sets—one, two, three—where the low, rumbling frequency of the last is always tallest, breaks on the jetty with a thunderous clatter and silty undertow before a brief and fragile glass respite quiets the current. 

They linger in one such liminal impasse, deep in the witching hours. The glittering lights among the crystals have gone out and only the dim light of their dwindling fire remains. The nights on this world are quite long, the chime of silver bells through the halls very sweet. Time passes slow and relativistic, and there is enough of it here for everything. Jim’s hands pass idly through Spock’s hair again, smooth as flowing water, and senses his mind at rest in this place. They are comfortable here, on this distant little world where their troubles can’t reach them. 

Jim forgets himself, a momentary lapse in reason. Spock sneaks up on him like his own shadow in the darkness, steals over his figure silent as a ghost and eyes him from above, ethereal in the firelight. A spell has cast itself over the night, and Jim ponders if he is truly staring at his own reflection, refracted in a scrying pool and gazing upon a portent of his future. Spock doesn’t speak—they haven’t said a word in hours, and his intuition whispers that the imprecision of language has no home in this sacred place. The hearth has burned low, but Spock remains a hot ember, casting them both with enough light to see by in the darkness. Something ancient and tranquil becomes him now, beneath the fire—the dense singularity at the heart of a star—and Jim recognizes the peak as surely as he knows the rising of the sun. 

Spock places a hand on the side of his face—a question.
Jim exhales his breath against his palm—an answer.

He falls like sand through the sieve of Eratosthenes, sorted by trivial divisions into his prime elements. It is not unlike sleeping, or perhaps it is closer to dying, when the soul molts out of its too-small shell and emerges to spread its wings and fly away. Two eyes are closed but a third opens, staring out at the view from the top of the Golden Gate Bridge at a desert that fans out endless in all directions beneath a river of stars running off towards the horizon and damn—what a view. 

Jim turns to admire the landscape and finds Spock there waiting for him, like he has been waiting for some time now, and Jim has been running late for plans he’s only just now remembered he made. The reality of what’s happening creeps up on him, and a 9.7 richter scale anxiety event quakes the ground and snaps the steel girders.

They’re Jim and they’re ten and they’re on the mousetrap at Cedar Point, listening to the chain clang as it catches on the gears and climbs the hill.

I’m afraid. 

The train swoops over the edge and Jim’s stomach jumps to his throat. He’s going to puke. Spock grabs his hand tight on the drop and they’re falling, careening around dark corners in a violent whiplash. 

You piece of shit! Ruth is dumping him two weeks before graduation. You piece of shit! Gary’s drunk, and Gary’s been cheating, and that’s Jim’s fault. You piece of shit! Carol’s hand connects with his cheek on Starbase 8 when she tells him she’s pregnant.

They snap with the tail swing, bodies colliding with the centripetal acceleration.

T’Pring turns her nose up in poorly masked disgust. Too human. Christine’s heart breaks on the bridge with the full complement in attendance. Too Vulcan. It’s a man’s hands, firm and vascular, and when he fidgets with the spectrograph it stirs something in his guts. Why can’t I ever be normal?

The train swoops through a tunnel underwater, deep below the surface. It’s dark, and water leaks through the cracks in the wood, threatening total structural collapse. Spock’s hand grips tighter, and Jim fists his other in his sleeve. 

Winona’s on the phone with the principal in the kitchen. Shut up! Sam slams the bedroom door in his face. Get out!  His father says nothing before turning away. Somehow that’s worse.

The metal rattles and sings like a cold spoon left out on a snow day, and their car lurches and wobbles on the tracks.

He leaves school with a black eye and a busted lip. I’m a failure! I’Chaya bleeds out on the night of his khas-wan. I’m a failure! He picks Starfleet over the VSA. His father turns away. They won’t speak again.

The train bursts out of the tunnel and into the driving rain. It stings their cheeks at this speed. The chains clang again, louder this time.

No, no, no—not here—please—all the rooms in the castle except for this one—

Your continued existence represents a threat to the well-being of society. Your lives mean slow death to the more valued members of the colony. Therefore, I have no alternative but to sentence you to death. Your execution is so ordered.

BANG! Jim blinks, and a starship winks out of existence and his whole world dies along with it. One hundred and fifty souls or two thousand—death doesn’t discriminate. 

The ride stops short and they’re thrown over the safety bar and through the window on the Enterprise observation deck beneath the nebulosity of a Herbig–Haro object, witnessing the labored birth of an infant star. 

I must disgust you.
Jim coughs, and plate glass dislodges from his lungs. 

There as he lay, the heavens with its stars looked down on him with pity, and the voice of Coelus from universal space thus whispered low and solemn in his ear:

You are the antithesis of disgusting, and you don’t even know it.
Spock holds his hair back when he vomits on the floor. 

He’s less sick now. He’s finding his space legs. Spock grabs him by the wrist and hauls him urgently to his feet. There’s three golden stripes on the end of Jim’s sleeve. Spock looks good in uniform—blue really is his color. The doors slide open and the corridor smells like incense and popcorn and the halls are teaming with a school of a thousand shining faces.

Captain! Commander! Captain! Commander!

They sound like a flock of seagulls. Jim tunes out their voices, and keeps his eyes on Spock. The ship is a labyrinth winding back on itself in a logical paradox only possible in dreams. They descend the decks through Escher’s Waterfall and the Penrose triangles are wallpapered with the tessellations found at the Temple of T'Panit. Spock knows the path because he is pulling on the golden thread tied to the nape of Jim’s neck and they feel their way towards the center like Theseus and Ariadne, searching for the minotaur. 

The decks grow emptier and emptier, until they are the only ones remaining. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. In the distance, there is a rushing sound growing louder and louder. When the door to deck five clicks open, the halls are flooded with water and the red alert is blaring. Only the emergency ambers remain lit. Jim stumbles into the flooding, instantly drenched.

Spock! The warpcore!

He doesn’t have to scream to be heard over the water because they are not talking, not in any literal sense. He points down to the bottom of Lake Baikal where some golden light awaits them. Spock checks for sea monsters but it’s nothing but crystal blue persuasion straight to the bottom. He takes the plunge. Beneath the surface, his eyes are squinted shut. Jim has to peel them open for him by force, his thumbs stretching back his double eyelids, and suddenly Spock remembers he was born with gills. 

Damn, it’s hot down here—practically a sauna. This is definitely something he and Spock will need to talk about. They pass a porthole on deck four and Jim observes the ‘highly illogical’ phenomena of snowfall around the Enterprise. They dive deeper. 

They’re swimming, and Jim feels a flush of pride when Spock remembers to kick his feet. The light on his headset blinks amber, and Jim gets the impression that he’s missing something important. Down. Three, two… Spock and Jim’s minds war over whether the decks should be indexed starting from zero or one, and the last door drops them off on deck alpha. 

Ding-dong!

The bell chimes over the intercom and a cheerful, automated woman’s voice comes over the loudspeaker, first in Standard, then Vulcan, Andorian, and Tellaran: prepare to engage matter-antimatter fusion sequence.

The warp core waits on the other side of the glass, glowing bright as the sunrise over Ni’Var, the light of dawn on the desert sands, filling the space with warmth and abundance. This is… Jim. This is where Spock keeps him, locked away at the heart of the only place he’s ever called home. He places his hand on the padd, and the shields slide open for his biometric signature. Spock follows in after him, nervous and hesitant. The red alert is still blaring, but the droning is so far away now it’s hardly noticeable with how it’s distorted through the water. Jim approaches the console, and there is an error readout on the screen.

“Damn, looks like one of the fuel rods is jammed…” He kicks the iridium housing, not that he expects it to help any. Worth a shot. Spock flinches, and pulls him back.

“It has been broken for as long as I can remember…” He says quietly. Jim feels his shame, his fear that Jim will find fault in him for this, washing over him as if it were his own in here, like they’re locked in some sort of weird Socratic dialogue. 

Jim pulls himself free of Spock’s anxious clutches and goes back to have a second look at the error. He fusses with the switches and dials, trips their proper sequence on muscle memory. The console chimes, and opens the log. 

“Huh. The insertion sequence is hung up on a subroutine…” Jim squints at the screen, perplexed. “It says: why is a raven like a writing desk?”

“The hatter vexed me as a child.” Spock says sheepishly, his ears coloring green at the tips. He wrings his hands in the hem of his blue science shirt. “I confess I have visited here numerous times in an attempt to solve the riddle, however no answer I provide ever proves sufficient.”

Jim cocks his head in confusion, looks at Spock like the answer’s obvious and has been written on his face the entire time.

“That’s because it doesn’t have one, Lewis Carroll said so himself—it was always meant to be illogical.”

Ding! Insertion sequence confirmed. Reactor criticality imminent in three… two… one…

Jim has just long enough to watch Spock’s pupils dilate with shock before he is blown wide open with the full force of nuclear fusion. He wakes from the meld like the ground’s ripped out from under him. There is a sudden jolt then—pop—like pressure equalizing in his eardrums during a shuttle sequence and the ecstasy of relief. Every window in the house is thrown open and the wind whips through the curtains on the first warm spring morning, clearing all the stagnant air from within. His head is wide, so wide, like it goes on forever and ever in all directions, but there is no void. Every corner of this new universe is homey and familiar, stuffed with sentimental chintz and scents of incense on the collar. 

“Oh.” Jim breathes. 

Spock looks at him, and he understands. 

Chapter Text

He has fallen asleep in the barn loft at the heat of the day. His mother has warned him against it—he is going to track bugs into his bedsheets. 

Spock has never seen a barn, of course. There are nomads in the pid-eiktra who herd sha’mi or tugno’t for their wool, but the ruminants are hardy to the alpine climate and require no such protective shelters. He had little occasion to depart Shi’Kahr as a child and so has not observed the rural culture himself outside of educational texts and holos. Nevertheless, his mind supplies the memory, and he is warmed by easy nostalgia for high summer on a strange and distant world. He basks in the pleasant euphoria for a time, and when he drifts there is gentle lowing in the distance and the hay tickles his skin. 

In the soft haze of a slow afternoon, he allows his eyes to slip open. He is not in a barn, nor his mother’s garden on Vulcan. Nor is he in his quarters on the Enterprise. How odd. Perhaps he ought to be frightened, waking someplace foreign and unfamiliar, but there is a tranquil hum settled over his mind lulling him into a sense of security. It is easy to trust, and so he does not allow worry to take him. His gaze trails about his surroundings, but he is slow on the uptake. The room was once beautiful, perhaps, but now lies still as the ruins of a fallen empire. Bedclothes and fleet uniform pieces litter the landscape. There are sooty foot and fingerprints painting the fine stone floors. In the corner, a platter of foodstuffs has been overturned and disregarded. His mind is mired as it dances about the answer, but he does eventually find it: He is on Khione—The Pon Farr. Memories of the previous days elude his grasp, and he catches fragments here and there that he pieces together into a cubist amalgam of heat and skin. 

There is a stirring beside him. Perhaps he has been thinking too loudly. 

Jim comes to awareness like a sunrise dawning over his psyche in a halo of crepuscular rays, all dazzling and voluminous. His broad, calloused palm trails languid up the curve of his spine and his blooming consciousness sprouts and twines through his thoughts, taking root there. He brings spring to this icy wasteland as he wakes. 

“Lets sleep in,” he murmurs, voice rough. Spock abides the gentle tug of his desire and lies back in the furs, allowing himself to be wrapped up in his arms. Jim sighs through his nose, contented, and trails his fingers absently through his hair. Spock has never been seduced by the compulsion to forestall the day once he has woken, but he finds he does not mind so much in the moment. This is… nice.

“The fixtures are damaged,” he observes idly, without any purpose behind it. He remains largely unconcerned, distracted by the pleasant tingling at the nape of his neck. He shivers, and Jim’s grip tightens around his torso. 

“Really? That’s your first thought?” Jim snorts lightly, and the spark of his amusement gambols delighted through his nerves. “I wouldn’t worry about that. It’s tradition to break a champagne bottle over the hull when you christen a vessel. It’s good luck.”

Spock has never borne witness to this alleged Terran custom, but he has also never been present for a starship’s maiden voyage. Jim is expressing a sort of sentimentality with which he is unfamiliar, and so he will take him at his word. 

“I am lucky…” He offers nonsensically. There is yet a velvety cowl drawn over him and rational thought continues to elude him, but his words do not. He remembers coming out from under anesthesia after Dr. M’Benga removed shrapnel from his liver, though the pain now is a dull aching thing in his bones and muscles rather than a sharp knife. He is bodily exhausted, entirely liquid, and oozes out against the backdrop of his surroundings.  

“Lucky? No, I think you're miraculous,” Jim chuffs, carding his nails over his scalp, and a small moan escapes him that is nearly a purr. He is so bright, so golden. Spock had thought he had known Jim by now, had allowed his eyes to adjust to the sheer luminosity of his star. His light has grown and become piercing, so intense and amplified. When he touches him, it is like being touched on the inside. Jim feels about the edges of his heart and lungs and somehow it doesn’t hurt. “I think… I think you’re gonna be alright, Spock.”

Yes, he thinks so too. If he never departs this quiet reverie he might be better than okay, in fact. Spock nods slowly, over and over, pleasantly benumbed. He closes his eyes and allows Jim’s fingers to trace the shape of his facial features. He rests a palm to his cheek, then his brow, then his neck.

“Feels like your fever’s finally broken,” Jim reaches behind him and fumbles around in the sheets for the medical tricorder. He presses the scanner to Spock’s throat and it whirrs and beeps softly for a moment, and then Jim sighs. True to his mercurial human nature, a small storm cloud of relief and dolefulness washes over them both. Spock experiences Jim’s emotions nearly indistinguishable from his own now. Some distant thought reaches him, supplies that he will require meditation to repair his mental shielding, and blows over as soon as it rolls in. “You’re still running hot, but nothing like before. Your numbers look good though, otherwise. I’ll call M’Benga when you’ve had a chance to wake up some, but I figure he’s just gonna tell you to sleep it off. A bowl of plomeek and a long nap and you’ll be right as rain.”

Jim’s light flickers and the vivid hues of his happy contentment grow dull and somber. His thoughts rustle and shift about the edges of one another, the sound of fallen leaves in the wind. 

“I’m sorry…” Spock says, though he does not know what he is apologizing for exactly. He only assumes that he has done something to warrant his shift in mood, and perhaps he might rectify it and Jim’s bright aura would return from behind the clouds for him to bask in again.

“What are you sorry about, huh? You haven’t done anything wrong, nothing’s wrong. Don’t worry, just… Everything’s gonna be okay. Promise.” Jim’s voice sounds very certain of himself, all confidence and command when he strokes Spock’s sweat-damp hair back off his brow again, but his emotions tell a different story. He is humming with unease just beneath the surface of his thoughts, and Spock cannot pinpoint what it is that has him troubled. His own mind is too hazy, like he is staring into space through a telescope he cannot seem to clarify—the world is all at once either too large or too small by halves and doubles, and Jim’s thoughts and emotions are a glowing, spinning unidentified object monopolizing the viewscreen. He scrunches his face up, as if squinting will help to bring him into focus, and Jim must notice his dubious expression. “Hey, it’s okay, uh… Maybe we should sit up.”

Jim hooks an arm under his shoulders and lifts, bending him at the midsection. Spock is so exhausted the slight motion leaves him dizzy, and his weight lists inelegantly against his chest. Jim grunts with slight effort and shuffles him around so he can support him one-handed, leans over to reach for something beside the sheets. 

“I need you to do me a favor, okay?” Jim says in a tone that sounds important. Spock nods. Jim’s voice is like the Terran myth of sirens. He is so bodily exhausted, but if Jim asked him to cross the Forge right now he might attempt it even if it killed him. “You haven’t been able to keep food down for a couple days and you’ve been running your body pretty ragged. I’m sure M’Benga is gonna put you on an IV later, but I need you to try to drink some water. Can you do that for me?”

Jim offers him a silver cup, but his hands are shaking too bad to grip it and the water sloshes over the rim. Jim doesn’t comment on it. He simply refills the cup from the pitcher and tries again, and this time Spock allows himself to be fed. He realizes he is terrifically parched the moment the water crosses his lips and he chugs like a man possessed, water running down his chin and onto his lap. Jim pours another and Spock downs that too, so fast he chokes and it nearly comes back through his nose. Jim finds a black undershirt on the floor that’s approximately clean and uses it to scrub the water and crusted saliva from his chapped lips. Spock is filthy and clammy. Now that he is growing cold he is starting to catch chills. Nevertheless, he is grateful Jim shows no outward signs of disgust with him despite his pitiful state. 

“You wanna clean up some? Might help.” Jim offers as if he is better attuned to Spock’s needs and desires than he himself is right now. Yes, he would very much like to be clean again, to be warm. Clothed, perhaps. He nods against his shoulder. “Alright, well… There's no sonics around here and I know how you feel about water, but the bath looks pretty luxurious. I think it’s fed from an underground spring. You wanna investigate?” 

Jim dangles the carrot of scientific curiosity in front of him, but Spock is not quite ready for all that just yet. His mind still trails a few klicks behind his body. It’s true he is not fond of being wet, but the allure of sloughing the grime from his skin is seduction enough.

“I would be amenable.” He allows quietly, and Jim’s lips quirk up at the edges as a soft buzz of tender affection passes through his touch. He delicately leans Spock forward over his knees to keep him from tumbling over and hauls himself to his feet. He reaches out to pull him up, and when their hands connect it is… different, somehow, than before. Just as electric, but lower voltage and higher amperage. The sharp, staggering jolt of potential difference is replaced with a tremendous flux of Jim where his psionic essence carries over the contact entirely uninhibited. Spock attempts to stand, but his mind is overloaded, and his knees buckle as he grows dizzy once again. Jim catches him by the forearms and sets him down before he faints. 

“Maybe we should take it slow,” Jim muses. His hands hover over him with indecision for a moment before he settles on a strategy. “Okay. It’s not that far, I’ll just…”

Jim wraps his arms under his knees and the small of his back like that night in the pool, hauls him up off the ground from a squat with a grunt of effort, and stumbles a bit under his weight before he finds his footing. He breathes hard out his nose. 

“Vulcans possess a higher bone mineral density than humans,” Spock says out of perfunctory habit. He cannot help how limp he feels, and rests his head against Jim’s chest in hopes it will arrest the spinning in the room.

“It’s good to have you back with us, professor.” Jim chuckles, and it’s breathy with how his strength is strained. He stumbles forward towards the bathroom. 

Spock is taken to noticing him now, up close, and finds that his skin is mottled with a colorful assortment of red and purple bruising, the pink tracks of fingernails, and countless bitemarks. His jaw is swollen on one side and his lower lip is fat and scabbed over where it’s been split open. He looks a wreck.

“You are injured.” He runs a light touch over a very deep mark in the curve of his throat where it meets the shoulder, still weeping slightly and as defined as a dental impression. 

“Yeah, no kidding. You uh…” A wisp of Jim’s emotion snags on the pad of his finger— arousal. He clears his throat awkwardly. “Got me pretty good there. Good thing the doctor keeps your shots up to date.”

Spock recalls vaguely, like watching himself in third person. He felt… he is not sure he can put a name to it but he felt. Jim under him, over him, inside him—the all-encompassing desire to possess him. He senses a flicker of it now, a phantom dancing in the shadows of his psyche, and it coaxes him like a criminal returning to the scene of the crime to recapture the thrill. He runs his tongue over the mark and tastes iron. Jim’s breath hitches, and he nearly loses his footing.

“Spock…” He warns, voice hoarse and labored. His grip digs harder into his thighs. “Please. I don’t wanna drop you.”

The lights flicker to life behind the crystal ceiling as they cross the threshold. There’s a pile of blankets on the floor, and when Jim kicks at them to lay them out his communicator comes tumbling out, which he patently continues to ignore. He squats down at the knees, how they instruct in the cargo hold for lifting large items, and wobbles a bit before carefully setting Spock down on the floor atop the discarded sheets. He rubs his lower back and looks around.

“I’ll run us some water, you just sit tight.” Jim leaves him and approaches the large, oblong inset in the floor, pondering it curiously. It is evidently meant to be a soaking tub as there are towels as well as some urns of salts and salves about the edge, however no visible faucet. He considers the stone hollow at length before he finds a handhold in the wall and tugs it free. A long, stone trough resembling a small aqueduct leans forward and hot water cascades forth, filling the cool air with steam and the rushing sound of flowing water. He stands on the rim, peering down for a moment as it fills, perhaps considering how he is meant to cut it off before the water spills over the edge. Spock watches him, all nude and posture contrapposto, and thinks he has seen a similar sight before. Perhaps in a Terran museum, a figure cut from marble hewn with the delicate eye of the old masters. 

Jim approaches again and Spock expects this time he will help him to his feet, but he leans down and scoops him up like a forklift and begins wading into the water up to his thighs. He winces at the sensation, hot on his delicate skin that is already starting to bloom rose and stings his cuts and bruises. When he’s reached the center, he squats down and carefully lowers them both into the water. Spock shivers at the temperature change when it meets his skin. It is pleasantly warm to his Vulcan sensibilities, but that likely means it is boiling for Jim. If so, he doesn’t offer up any complaint. 

“Hope you don’t mind. Didn’t want you to swoon and split your head open on the rocks…” Jim allows his body to sink to the bottom of the pool until the water covers up to his neck and leans back against the rim of the tub with a sigh of relief. He shuffles Spock around slightly until he’s seated between his thighs, chest to back. “Figure there’s enough room for two people.”

He is correct, though perhaps the structure was not engineered with visitors of their stature in mind. If they remain seated in this manner, there is just enough room to submerge their legs, though it would be difficult to arrange themselves face-to-face in the limited space. Jim fumbles a hand out towards one of the salt urns and waves it under his nose. Evidently satisfied with the aroma, he shrugs and upturns a large portion of the contents into the water, lending it an iridescent purple hue. Spock would ordinarily be fascinated with the ion profile that would produce such vivid coloration, but his mind still refuses to stray from the moment. Instead, his eyelids begin to flutter and he feels the tension unwinding from his taut muscles as he falls still and limp against Jim’s chest. He inhales the steam, exhales slowly through the nose, and the moist air begins to clear the dryness in his sinuses. There must be some manner of sensor in the tub because the flow cuts off on its own when the water level is just shy of the rim. The room is suddenly silent, save for Jim’s breathing over his shoulder and the soft dripping metronome from the water channel. 

Jim releases a long sigh as the tension drains from his body and the stiff line of his muscles goes soft and pliant underneath Spock’s weight. They rest for a time like that, unspeaking, and Spock notes it has been quite a while since he has been afforded rest of this nature. He cannot recall the last time he allowed himself an indulgence such as this. Jim is not so adept at sitting still, Spock has noticed he is a fidgeter, and he keeps one hand occupied with trailing his fingers absently down the curve of Spock’s thigh under the water. The sensation is pleasant, and so he does not mention it for fear he might cease. 

Spock allows himself to drift, sinking into the river of his own mind and moored to the present only by the steady rhythm of Jim’s human heartbeat under his ear. He is too exhausted yet for healing meditation, but he begins to assess the condition of his psyche. His head is sore, same as his muscles—a consequence of exercising aspects of his body both physically and psionically long spent in atrophy. A surgery has been performed on the topology of his mind; it remains locally unchanged but structurally recombinant. He feels about the edges where a rift has opened in the walls of his perceptions, and the wound is still quite tender and raw. He has been torn open with a seam ripper and sewn back together with the edges remapped to one another in new and strange orientations. It will require time to scab over and heal properly, but it’s not a deadly wound by any means. He traces the elliptic curve where his thoughts bow outwards, trips down the gradient with the natural flow of entropy, and washes up on the shore of his own subconscious with the taste of Jim in his mouth. His presence is everywhere, diffusing through his mind like a full-bodied perfume. 

Jim has been tied to him from the very start. When first they touched, a small fragile tie spontaneously joined them together—he sensed it in the seat of his katra at the base of his neck. He recognized the feeling at first: a shadow of possibility. The very same sort that had taken the Vulcan mentalists dozens of tries to cement between himself and T’Pring as children. This is different. This is a becoming. 

One innocent, delicate thread has since infinitely self-replicated. The fine strings helix about one another, coalescing in golden braids whose weave now shapes the very fabric of his sense of self. Their fundamental particles have become entangled at the quantum level. To differentiate them would be as futile as sorting grains of sand. His mind twines inexorably with Jim’s coincidentia oppositorum as Spock experiences a kind of ego-death, a period of self-surrender and transition. His mind has already broken ground and gotten underway without his conscious permission. Thoughts, emotions, sense-perception, memory, reason, fantasy, self-representation… All torn to ribbons. This is annihilation. 

Methodically and with the terrifying destructive precision of a hoard of locus, his individuation is deconstructed and reassembled from constituent parts to form a new, more inclusive synthetic consciousness. The priests describe the fanaa as a painful metamorphosis that one must suffer. Death and rebirth—the price of the bond is relinquishing the parts to obtain the greater whole. They teach it is one’s refusal to renounce the need for a separate, self-centered existence that causes the pain. This can require weeks of guided meditation to overcome, and only by disidentifying one's consciousness from itself can a bond be made whole. 

Spock cannot comprehend their meaning.
He feels no pain, only catharsis.

Jim’s thoughts stir, and every point-like particle vibrates around him in perfect harmonics. Spock does not fight the supersymmetry any longer, eases into it like his bed after a long day, and rises back to the surface of his mind. He finds that Jim is much sharper now. His emotions sparkle like a rough diamond cut with the proper facets. His light refracts through the pavilion and stars, exits the table with brilliant clarity. 

“My head feels…” Jim starts quietly. His hand stills for a moment, and then his thumb resumes tracing soothing circles on his inner thigh again. Perhaps he reads Spock’s dissatisfaction without knowing he has done so. “I don’t know. Nevermind. You want me to wash your hair?”

Spock hums in agreement, and allows Jim the space to extricate himself slightly. He selects one of the empty urns from off the ledge and draws water in. He coaxes him into leaning his head back with a gentle touch on his brow and pours warm water over the crown of his head like a baptism. He chases the rivulets with the scratch of nails down his scalp, and Spock shivers at the sensation. His touch soothes the dull throb in his skull how the water leaches the tension from his sore muscles. He sighs when he repeats the action, slower this time, as if savoring the moment. Jim’s emotions are so intense, ablaze with a tender, aching yearning. I am right here. Spock thinks, but Jim isn’t listening. That’s alright. He is not going anywhere. 

He runs a hand up Jim’s shin bone, feels the hair on the pads of his fingers, traces the ball of his knee under the water for the innocent curiosity of it. It is all so new, so much. There is so much of him to feel. He recalls the first time he left Shi’Kahr on a shuttle, his first view of deep space uninhibited by the light pollution of the city. How lovely then, to see the stars for what they are. He never imagined there could be so many. A picture is never comparable to the real thing. 

Jim coats his hands with a peculiar, oily salve and massages the substance through his hair. Spock hums in satisfaction, allowing his body to move with the motions all ragged and doll-like. 

Beautiful. Jim thinks, and Spock catches the word round and fully formed, despite them not sharing a meld. It is most novel a thing. He is not so skilled a telepath for that ordinarily. He has heard some particularly gifted individuals can sense whole thoughts via light contact, though typically not with a species as psy-null as humans. Spock’s touch telepathy is limited to feelings and impressions, baser thoughts and images—rarely anything so complex as language without direct stimulation of the hands or mind. He experiments, tuning out his own thoughts and focusing his attention entirely on Jim’s presence. 

He is distracted by Jim’s wandering hands as he moves from his hair to his shoulders to massage the aching muscles in his neck. His thumbs press into the sore, delicate spot at the nape and he mewls helplessly, humiliatingly, when the shock of the contact sparks down his nerve endings. He clutches at Jim’s legs and curls his toes against the stone. He is so sensitive there, more so than usual even. 

“Sorry,” Jim whispers. He smooths a hand over the spot in gentle apology, and a wave of raw feeling pools in his stomach, waking the desire that he thought had fallen back to sleep.

Want him. Want him so bad. Shit. Fuck me, fuck my life… 

Jim’s thoughts are more colorful and less refined than anything he deigns to reveal outwardly. It’s erotic as a Vulcan, the taboo of being privy to another’s carefully hidden emotionalism, the dichotomy between what he wears on his face versus what remains privately guarded, revealed only to Spock in the privacy of their tangled minds. But they are alone here, and he does not understand why Jim remains so intent on masking his desire.

Spock conjures the mental image of a finger tracing the pointed tip of his ear and Jim answers, mirroring the action subconsciously. Perhaps he could encourage Jim in this way via their connection. He might plant the seeds of an idea, tempt him into cracking his control. A provocative inception. He is growing hard again in his sheath despite his exhaustion, but his curiosity has only been wet and he is again hungry to sate it. Touch me, he thinks, touch me again.

Jim complies, in his own way. He soaps his hands again and begins working the salve into his skin this time. The firm press of his fingers tracks deep into his back muscles, careful to avoid the worst of the bruising, and Spock arches into his touch like a cat desperate to be pet. His breathing is starting to catch, pulse elevating and loud in his ears. Jim wraps his strong hands around his biceps, draws them down the length of his arm before lacing their fingers together to wash between the digits. He presses his thumbs into the meat of his palm, and a small groan of pleasure escapes Spock’s throat. Everywhere their skin makes contact bristles with potential energy. Arousal raises easy now, in a way he never knew he could experience before the Pon Farr. Jim calls his bet, and he feels his cock harden against the small of his back under the water.

Stupid. I’m so fucking stupid. Playing with fire… Gonna get burned…

Yes! Burn me! Spock thinks, deliriously. The nature of the fire is different this time, no longer a quick flash in the pan but a deep, low smoldering ember in the heart of him that can be quieted but never quenched. It burns, and it burns for Jim. His thoughts caress that tender, vulnerable place within his katra and fan the flames of desire back to life. Jim shifts, reseating himself to hide his erection from Spock’s notice, but he follows him backwards. He slots their bodies back together and is rewarded with a choked sound Jim doesn’t manage to swallow before it leaves his mouth. Spock is down several games in their chess rivalry, but there are other games to play. Perhaps he can best his opponent yet. 

I can’t—whatever this was, it’s over now. He’s getting better. Won’t do something I’m gonna regret. 

Yes, Spock is feeling quite rejuvenated now, much more aware. He is eager to have Jim again while he is still light with this heady euphoria but cognizant enough to commit every touch to his eidetic memory. What could there possibly be to regret? He cannot know, cannot think so hard about such pointless trivialities now. All he knows is that he wants Jim to continue to trail his broad hands over every inch of his skin, perhaps lower this time—but he does not. Instead, Jim sucks in a harsh breath, steadies himself. He reaches for the urn and fills it with water. He spills the contents over his body, rinsing the evidence of his touch from his flesh. The feeling is thorny and unpleasant. The water grows cold, and Spock bores of this irritating game. He tires of Jim’s reticence. 

Stop. Doesn’t matter what I want, have to stop—

Spock whips around to straddle his waist, knocking the urn out of his hand and splashing water all over the stone floors. Jim’s eyes go wide with surprise, his bruised lips parted and face flushed pink over the bridge of his crooked nose. His hair is wet and disheveled, dripping in his hazel eyes. Spock is entirely besotted, mad for him—the fever abates, but his desire for Jim doesn’t recede. He wants. Still, he wants. Jim desires him also, he can feel it mingling with his own, rising steady as the tide. Jim is his and he is Jim’s—his mate, his t’hy’la —parted from him and never parted, always touching and touched. If he would have Spock, he is his by rights. No one has the authority to stop him but Spock himself, and he would not deny him this. 

“You are behaving illogically,” Spock snaps. 

He bends forward to capture his mouth with his own and pours over him like the water, through the fabric that weaves them together. He will flood Jim with his desire until his mind has room for nothing but Spock Spock Spock as it is meant to be. He will claim him, he will make him understand. It is very important, suddenly, for Jim to understand that he is wanted, unconditionally. Spock does not know why—it is an instinctual itch, an anxiety formicating under his skin that he recognizes is not his own. He does not understand, and he is frustrated by it. Jim’s human emotionalism is a complex problem that he cannot solve for he is missing some obvious, elegant trick that would reveal his secrets. 

Jim responds, and their lips drag slowly over one another, like stringing molasses in the cold. Jim kisses him like this is the end, like this is a funeral march, like this is the last binary sunset before he boards the shuttle off his homeworld. His skin turns to ash beneath his touch, his mind pained and wilted. It hurts Spock in kind. It is a knife in his side, piercing his psipoints with barbed thorns. He winces. 

Don’t be a fool. He doesn’t want you, could never want someone like you. Too good, too perfect. Don’t deserve him.

“Jim,” Spock begs. He has never heard the sound in his mouth before, and it is terrifically undignified. He is shaking. He is not in control of his emotions. He rides them, like a wave in the surf, desperately battered about and unable to surface for air. Is this how humans always feel? It is a terrible thing. 

He doesn’t understand. Spock despises this emotion most of all, always has—frustration with his own inability to comprehend others. His logic fails him, and he is made to look a fool. He cannot rationalize in his weary mind why Jim believes these things. He is angry to the point of being overwhelmed by it. Tears of frustration well at the corners of his eyes. He grips hard around Jim’s shoulders, hard enough to bruise. He thinks, irrationally, about squeezing until the bones break in his fists as if that might communicate his desperation. He would shake him brutally just to feel him go limp in his arms.

“I desire you,” he pleads. He has never been good with words, but more so than ever in this moment. What can he say, in the limits of the Standard language, that could possibly hope to communicate the magnitude of his feelings for Jim? Nothing. 

Jim smiles at him sadly, and the expression doesn’t reach his eyes. He trails a hand down his side, counting his ribs with his thumb on the road to his hip. Jim’s breath leaves his nose like a white flag of surrender. He nods to himself carefully, and licks his lips. He does not look Spock in the eye when he speaks.

“You need to… ah…” Jim swallows and jerks his chin meaningfully between their bodies. He grips hard and the bone of Spock’s pelvis cuts painfully into the heel of his palm. When he completes the thought, his words leave him in a whisper. “Again? Before it’s over?”

Spock nods fiercely, desperately. Yes, perhaps that is the answer. Words fail him, but he can show Jim with his body. Prove to him that he is wanted, that he is Spock’s to possess and be possessed in kind, that they belong and the matter is not one for debate. He claws at his skin, as if they are simply operating on a different set of facts and his touch can build a large enough body of evidence to sway his reason. Jim captures one of his wandering hands and brings it to his lips, kissing each knuckle individually with a sense of finality. 

This is going to kill me. He’s going to be the death of me.

“Okay,” Jim says at last. He squeezes his hand tightly, and the splintering pain in his chest bleeds over through the touch. It is enough to tear his heart in two. “One last time.”

Jim wraps him in a towel how you might wrap the body of a lost lover for burial, all somber reverence. He dries his skin with the soft fabric with care, dries his hair as much as he is able because he knows Spock doesn’t enjoy being wet. He dries the inside of his ears, and Spock allows himself to be attended without speaking, lost in thought. He is trying to parse Jim’s emotions, to wade through the miasma of his sullen thoughts so he might choke out the heart of his infection. Jim doesn’t bother with himself, and the cool air of the room pricks gooseflesh on his skin. He lifts him from the floor again, and Spock runs a finger through the downy hair standing on edge on his arm. Every time he touches, Jim’s heart twists with painful longing, but he is at a loss for what else to do. 

Jim lays him on his back beside the fire where the sheets remain tangled and scent of their union. He unwraps him slowly, like a present. One you might take care not to tear the paper, fold it up with the ribbon and save it for the sentiment. He lays his body down between his legs with a kind of sorrowful resignation that doesn’t become him, wraps his hands around his thighs and draws his legs apart. Spock finds he cannot bear to look at his face like this, and so fixes his gaze on the lights in the ceiling instead. 

“Just relax. I’ll make it feel good, okay?” Jim trails one hand up the sheets, searching for something, and when he finds Spock’s hand at his side he weaves their fingers together tightly. It hurts. Spock has known lesser pain when he was shot. “Promise.”

Spock lets out a slight gasp when his warm, wet mouth finds his sheath and his face flushes hot. His fingers tighten their grip around Jim’s hand, but his surprise doesn’t dissuade him from his goal. The sensation of Jim’s smooth human tongue is unusual but not unwelcome. He is growing wet now, and Jim does not seem to mind that, either. He opens him up, with fine attention to detail, has learned him so thoroughly now that he leaves no stone unturned. He wraps his tongue around his length and coaxes his cock out of his body, drawing the head into his mouth. Spock shivers. The sensation is pleasing, objectively, and his body responds accordingly with arousal—but then why does his chest feel so tight? He is having trouble breathing, from more than just pleasure, and fists the sheets in one hand and Jim’s hand with the other when Jim slides a finger inside him. His thighs clamp down around his ears.

I can’t… I don’t want this to end. Please, I… He’s… He doesn’t—Why Me? Why like this? 

Jim’s thoughts are loud and stinging, rattling through his skull and distracting from their mutual pleasure. Jim is a thorough lover, Spock has learned this of him, but his mind is far away. He floats just out of reach, like fumbling for a lightswitch in the darkness and he cannot find the goal. He is unable to become fully erect, despite Jim’s worthy efforts. He can’t—not like this. He requires psionic contact, needs Jim inside him cerebrally more so than physically. Spock wraps a hand through his hair, pulls his mouth off his cock and up his body, desperate to touch his face. Jim complies languidly but without protest, drawing up his frame obediently and trailing gentle kisses in every dip and groove along the way. 

Spock places a hand over his psy points as he guides their lips together, and Jim winces as if he’s been burned. The rejection hits him bodily, an ugly thing and his heart cries out, gnawing at him from the inside. The pain is terrific, and Spock agrees with Jim now—this holds the power to kill him. The kiss does not last, not for long. Jim’s lips make only light, chaste contact with his own. His breaths come sharp and shallow, and he pulls away, burying his face in Spock’s neck. There is a wetness, he can sense it on his skin. Jim’s mind is dark and mired, seeping over them both like a choking poison. He grips him close, tight enough to crush his lungs. Spock is helpless, he doesn’t understand, he—

I can’t do this—I can’t—hate myself—piece of shit—kill me—kill myself—wanna fucking die—

Jim’s thoughts pierce his katra like a knife, a hot anguish both physical and mental, and Spock cries out in pain. Jim is a wounded animal, a cat curled up in the corner of the barn and waiting to die. Spock is—

“I’m sorry, I can’t—” Jim’s voice is tight, and it is obvious now that he is fighting tears. His grip on his shoulders tightens and his nails dig into his skin. Jim’s chest shakes, and he chokes on a small sob as he tries to hide the sound in his skin. “I can’t do this again. I’m sorry.”

I love him—love him so fucking much—Spock—love him—I love him—love him, love him, love—

Oh. Spock’s breath leaves him in a gasp as the truth of those words echo through him, warm and welcoming and golden. Realization dawns on him with a sudden clarity. He loves Jim, has loved him from the start. Before they ever met, his katra waited for him. He was blind for having missed it before. It seems so trivial now, in retrospect, as the most fundamental truths often do. 

“Jim… T’hy’la…” Spock says carefully. He draws his head back and cradles a gentle hand on the side of his face. His features are wet and blotchy, lip warbling. Jim parts his mouth and inhales, shaking with fear. “You do not know how to shield your thoughts…”

Jim’s expression shatters entirely at this revelation, fragmented with paroxysms of terror, and Spock experiences the five stages of grief pass between their skin in the course of a single moment. He watches, helpless, as Jim comes apart in pieces on top of him, shaking his head in desperate denial. 

“Spock, please, I—” He tries to look away, but Spock holds him in place with his face framed by his hands with nowhere to escape. He is stricken and frightened. Tears are streaming down his face now unbidden. His emotions are a flooded pit of sorrowful regret and self-hatred, swallowing them both.

“I can teach you to be more intentional.” Spock tries once more, laying a hand over Jim’s psy points, not to take but only to give. He demonstrates his meaning, summoning every positive memory of Jim from the moment they met and passing them through their connection, pleading with him to accept the call. “Do not be afraid…”

Spock watches Jim’s expression carefully as his mind opens to receive him. Jim’s first brilliant smile, that night on the call—that first hunter’s snare, when he tripped and fell over him. Jim’s voice, his sparkling laughter filling the emptiness on the ship, in his quarters, that he never knew was there until it was filled. The small golden thread taking shape between them, nurtured by every small touch on the shoulder, every quiet night passed watching the stars. Jim’s mind, calling out to his in the darkness, the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. Those feelings of comfort and acceptance he’d never felt with anyone else. Spock did not know what love was, had never felt it, but he thinks of Jim and knows it like the long road home.

Jim’s eyes widen, here and now, still pricked with the touch of salt water, but he blooms open under his touch slowly, growing golden once again. 

Spock recalls Uhura’s face, smiling at him deviously over a drink —do you want to kiss him? 

“Yes,” Spock whispers. 

Jim pitches forward then, wild and unrestrained, and they come together like the collision of stars when their lips meet. 

“I didn’t know…” He mumbles against his skin, between kisses, some of which find his mouth while others pepper his nose, his cheeks, his eyes. Jim’s hands fist in his hair, holding him in place with a kind of feverish desperation while he works over his features. He rubs their faces together, and his psy points sparkle with the sensation. “I had no idea… No idea.”

His favor is repaid in kind as Jim’s mind winds backwards through his memories of Spock, projecting them subconsciously with the force of his euphoria as he continues to ravage his way down Spock’s body with his mouth. Spock asleep in his lap at the height of the fever, Jim asleep in his robes while he worried for his safety, his desire to kiss him alone in his quarters. His mind spins endlessly—Spock at the science station, in their bed, over the chess board, in the mess, under the stars, flushed in the cold, in the turbolift, on the SIPAA call—an infinite highlight reel of himself, reframed in the golden light of a lover’s gaze. Jim loves him, not in spite of who he is, but because of it. Unconditional.

“I wish you could always see yourself the way I see you,” Jim confesses softly, places a kiss where his ear meets his jaw and Spock melts. 

He desires him now, in this moment, the consummation of the bond solidifying between them. More than a want, it tops the hierarchy of need. He does not have to ask, only to think it, and Jim is already slotting their bodies together at the waist and rutting the hard line of his cock over his abdomen. Spock is impatient—he has waited his whole life to have Jim, and now that he has found him the thought of dallying any longer is stupefying. 

“Wanna feel you inside me again… In my head.” Jim picks up his hand and puts it back on his face, spreads his fingers and puts the pads to his psy points all cattywampus in his haste. He arranges his cock against the seat of his ass, takes Spock’s other hand and laces their fingers together and pins it to the sheets. He leans over him, panting and wild with anticipation, faces inches apart. Spock can smell himself on his breath.

Jim enters his body as Spock enters his mind.

They do not, in fact, make love—not in the Terran sense. Jim slides his hips until they are as close as is physically achievable, but the sensation of mental penetration proves immediately overwhelming for him. Spock admires how his features screw up in pleasure, memorizes how his face wrinkles as he moans like the air is being torn from his lungs. He keeps his eyes open when he comes moments later, rocked by the force of his orgasm. Spock experiences his pleasure in both the first and second person, looped through the relay of their bond so raw and new, untested and entirely unshielded, and chases the rabbit until he is tumbling too, through a brilliant wonderland. 

When Jim feels his orgasm, much more intense than a human’s and still overstimulated from his own completion, he releases a sound that to any observer beyond the door would suggest Spock is in the midst of committing a homicide. He whines and convulses, his limbs going gelatinous and sinking not with a thunderous clatter but the slow and painful groaning of a great vessel claimed at last by the sea. His destruction is inelegant and complete, and Spock almost feels perverse for being allowed to observe it. Jim’s hands wring his fingers until he has bruised even Vulcan bones, makes noises until his voice goes hoarse in his throat, and quakes and leaks until he is dry and exhausted, settling quietly over his chest as if lying to final rest. 

Jim lies still for a time, save the twitching in his muscles, and Spock senses his cock slowly going limp, still inside him. When he has returned to his own mind he wonders, with a mild apprehension, if he has perhaps been careless and broken him in some way. But no—his presence is unspoiled and his buzzing euphoria fills their shared headspace with a golden warmth and Spock is content to bask in him for as long as he is allowed.

Damn, Gaila was right.  

Jim experiences an illogical, intrusive thought as he comes back to himself, and Spock lifts a single eyebrow in curiosity as it passes between them. He cannot help but find his telepathic naivety endearing.

“You said something about ‘intentional’ before…” Jim cringes with embarrassment. “How do I do that?”

☿   ♀   🜨   ♂   ♃   ♄   ⛢   ♆

Dr. M’Benga demands that they return to the sanatorium for medical evaluation as soon as he receives Jim’s comm relaying that Spock’s fever has abated and that he is no longer experiencing an altered state of consciousness. Spock has not quite achieved his usual homeostasis—that will require a significant period of deep healing meditation—but he is once again possessed of his higher brain functions and rational mind. Jim has assured him that none among the crew save for himself, the doctor, and to a certain extent Captain Pike were privy to the nature of his… illness and for that he can only be grateful. He is not sure he could swallow his pride and set foot on the bridge again if that were the case. He supposes Jim’s absence did not go without notice, but they might write that off as a devoted partner worried for his lover’s health. The lie is unlikely to prove convincing, but he knows the crew is equally unlikely to pry if they are aware it pertains to his Vulcan heritage. 

He was lucky to survive. Lucky to be on Khione, lucky to have Jim—The sobering thought strikes him without warning, and a small note of fear rises in his throat before he is able to silence it. He came very close to dying. But he did not. He did not, and now he must learn to live again in the aftermath of that. He is not sure where to even begin.

Jim turns to face him when he senses his mounting anxiety through their connection, still wide open and raw between them. He flashes him a worried look from over his shoulder as he redresses for the first time in days. Jim finishes pulling his shirt over his head before approaching.

“You okay?” Jim lightly touches his pulse point on the wrist and stands close enough to whisper in his ear. 

“Jim…” He starts. Spock’s expression furrows slightly, and he wrings the shirt in his hands. It’s one of Jim’s—none of his own are clean enough to wear even for the short walk to the san. 

“If this is another apology, I already told you there’s nothing to be sorry about,” Jim says quietly, trailing a single finger up the inside of his forearm, across the hollow of his elbow. The touch sparks electric—the bond—and Jim feels it, too, even if he does not grasp its meaning. Spock has noticed his rapt fascination, this compulsion to experiment with touch, has not dulled since this morning. “You should know I’m not. Sorry, I mean. For any of it. I know that’s a terrible thing to say but I…” Jim’s touch trails higher and traces his collarbone. Spock shivers when their eyes meet. “I’m a selfish person.”

Jim’s touch lingers, resting on his shoulder. He watches Spock’s face, perhaps waiting for him to finish his earlier thought or perhaps simply for the pleasure of looking. There is much he needs to say—they have not discussed the bond between them, what they will tell his parents when they arrive on Vulcan, contingencies for Jim’s return to the Farragut. 

“I love you.” He blurts out. 

It is perhaps the most important thing to say, for he has not yet said it allowed and Jim has a right to know, though he knows he has felt it through the bond. Spock worried that when they left this place and the spell broke as reality reasserted itself, he would lose his nerve. But it did not prove so difficult a thing to say after all. It is not in a Vulcan’s nature to be dishonest.

“I love you, too.” Jim’s words come easy and his face brightens, all golden sunlight. Spock will say the words a thousand times if it will always provoke this response. Jim’s thumb trails along his jaw, and he looks at Spock for a long moment, like he is contemplating a pleasant view of a vast nebula. He presses his lips to his temple, right on the psy point, and rests their foreheads together with a sigh. “But I think I’m ready to go home now, if you are.”

Home. Spock catches a flash of his quarters back on the Enterprise passing through Jim’s mind before flitting away. Spock has never thought of any place as ‘home’ in the sentimental Terran sense, but now he thinks he understands. Home is wherever he will find Jim waiting at the close of the day. 

“Yes. Let's go home.”

Dr. M’Benga splits him and Jim up for their medical examination, and Spock does not protest even though he is instinctually compelled to remain in Jim’s constant proximity for the time being. Perhaps the feeling is mutual, as Jim offers him a meaningful glance and his touch lingers on his back for a moment as they are led to opposite ends of the sanatorium. Spock is grateful that Christine is not planetside for the mission, and so he is spared the discomfort of requesting an alternative medical assistant for his examination. Instead, he is attended by Dr. M’Benga and two Khionian physicians, who buzz about the room setting up the medical equipment and something familiar to a biobed, where they invite him to have a seat.

“I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you looking well, Spock.” M’Benga smiles with obvious relief when he steps into the exam room and closes the door behind him. “You had me worried. I’d thought I’d seen it all, but if I’m being honest, this one took a few years off my life.” 

Spock understands he means to say the ordeal caused him significant stress that will perhaps exert lasting effects on his physical health, and has a mind to feel ashamed. A deeper, more selfish part of himself is only experiencing relief. He can admit to that now, as he becomes increasingly removed from the desperate circumstances surrounding his near-death experience. If his Time had overwhelmed him even a few days later, it is possible they would have been in range of Vulcan. Spock calculates had he been on his homeworld at the onset of his Pon Farr, there would be a 94.5% chance that his parents would have rejected Jim in favor of a suitor of their own choosing, a 73.2% chance that Spock would prove psionically incompatible with their chosen bondmate, and, furthermore, a 63.7% chance in his fever resolving with his own untimely death. A shiver courses down his spine again.

Lucky. 
But that is Jim’s word, and Spock has never believed in luck.

“How did you discern that I was experiencing the effects of the Plak Tow?” Spock asks while the Khione are busy taking his vital signs. While he has recovered many vague and emotional memories of his many, many, many rounds of copulation with Jim—heat rises to his ears at the thought alone, and the heart rate monitor spikes in response—he recalls nothing at all from the onset of his condition. The last thing he remembers is the tram ride back from the laboratory complex. He remembers noting his discomfort with the freezing temperatures, but everything after that is a feverish haze of Jim.

“I didn’t. You can thank the Khione for that. Lady Elektra alerted medical when you collapsed after dinner, and their critical care unit was able to stabilize your condition before I could give a positive diagnosis.” M’Benga shines a flashlight in his eyes and checks his reflexes. “I would say you owe our hosts and Jim both a debt of gratitude.”

Spock nods, and decides that he would prefer to remain ignorant of any further personal indignities he was subjected to at the outset of his ordeal. Given they remain on Khione and the medical staff show no outward signs of hostility towards them, he can only assume any potentially rude or uncharacteristic behavior he may have displayed was overlooked in the diplomatic proceedings. He is relieved his untimely medical incident appears to have minimally impacted the mission. 

“Physically, you appear to be in good health, all things considered.” M’Benga says as yet another tricorder reading whirrs and beeps. “I’m going to prescribe you some muscle relaxants and you’ll need to see me for a dermal regeneration session when we return to the ship, but your blood work looks good. That’s the important thing. I just need to complete a brain scan and if that comes up clean, I’ll discharge you on temporary medical leave. I know the Captain is anxious to see you and Jim both. I promised him you were still breathing in there, but he won’t believe it til he sees you with his own eyes. He cares about you, Spock.”

The thought of the Captain’s concern strikes a chord in him. He does not desire to cause anyone aboard the ship distress, but perhaps it is gratifying to have people who value his welfare. Spock is not sure he has ever been the subject of anyone’s worry before, save his mother’s. It is… nice, to belong somewhere. He is busy indulging this line of thought when the psionic tricorder pings in the middle of a scan. The doctor freezes, eyes fixed on the screen. Spock knows then that the evidence of his bond with Jim is spelled out in excruciating clarity on the screen. He had wondered idly if he was mistaken about what transpired between them, the fanatical delusion of a fever dream and nothing more, but there can be no further denial in the face of the facts. The bond is there, and it is very real. 

“Spock…” M’Benga says, so very gently. This would be a delicate conversation for any Vulcan, and the subject is only exacerbated by the elephant in the room that is his unique heritage and the fact that M’Benga himself is human. “The scanner has detected a signal in your caudate nucleus that wasn’t present on your last medical exam.” He broaches the subject carefully, the way you might a snake coiled to strike. Spock swallows the stone in his throat. “Can you confirm for me that… That this occurred during your Pon Farr? That this is…with Jim?”

“Yes,” Spock says softly. He doesn’t look him in the eye, only wrings his hands in his slacks. He can sense his heart rate spiking again, and wishes, illogically, that the doctor would leave it at this, though he knows that he cannot. M’Benga pauses for a long, uncomfortable moment before he sighs and finds his resolve.

“I know that this subject is deeply personal for you, but you are a scientific professional and so I’m going to talk to you like one.” He starts, and already Spock knows he isn’t going to like where this conversation is headed. “I’m not trying to be gauche, you know that. But I know you’re aware that your mother and father’s bonding was… difficult, and has been the subject of several influential case studies in the field of xenosexual medicine.”

Calling his mother and father’s bonding ‘difficult’ is a politeness. The process took nearly as long and required nearly as many doctors as Spock’s conception. The entire process was monitored and controlled, every careful interaction measured out in coffee spoons, every minor success studied, observed, cataloged, reported upon, and published in prestigious medical journals, subjected to peer reviews and the dissenting opinions of strangers in the form of editorials and letters. It was a struggle. Failure after failure. His mother experienced immense psionic fatigue, and all the while half the Federation observed their union under a microscope. 

“I am aware, doctor.” He sets his jaw behind his cheek, willing his face into an expressionless façade. 

“Then you know that it didn’t happen spontaneously. It was a miracle of medical intervention and modern science. Your own bonding with T’Pring was not without its difficulties either.” M’Benga reminds him of things he would rather forget. 

“I do not wish to be the subject of further experimentation and ridicule,” Spock snaps. He endeavors to keep his tone even and his emotions under control, but he has not had time yet to meditate and the task proves difficult. The subject is emotionally charged. It calls to mind his worst childhood memories, of being poked and prodded, of being toted about and held up for display. As if he were little more than a science project, not a sentient being. Some individuals were superficially enamored by the novelty of his birth, and others still were far less accepting. An abomination, they called him, the hubris of playing god. Spock has tried to silence the memories and very few have followed him into Starfleet, but not all words are so easy to forget. “Nor do I intend for my bondmate to be the target of bigotry and harassment.”

“I would never betray your trust like that. I’m not suggesting I was going to write this up in a case study. This matter will be held in the strictest confidence—just you, me, and your Starfleet medical record if I can help it.” M’Benga sighs, and he can hear the caveat before he speaks it into existence. “But I need you to be honest with me. Does Jim know?”

For the first time in his life, he considers lying. Not by necessity or omission or implication, but outright. But he knows that he will be caught, and that it can only make the situation worse. He surrenders to his unavoidable fate.

“No,” he admits quietly.

M’Benga places a hand on his shoulder, and it feels like an apology. He considers his words carefully before he speaks.

“Sometimes… things happen when we don’t intend for them to. That doesn’t make us bad people, but it does mean we have to make difficult choices. This path wasn’t easy for your mother, but she made that choice in full knowledge of what it would mean. Jim deserves the same respect.” He squeezes his shoulder, but it provides little comfort. “I'm worried about him. Your mother experienced a number of health complications during her bonding. I’m not saying he will, but if Jim starts displaying signs of psionic injury, it will be beyond my ability to treat him. I will be obligated to transfer him to the care of a specialist on Vulcan… You understand what I’m saying, don’t you?”

Spock does. This is not his secret to keep, as much as he would like to.

“I would not fault you for doing so.” He would never consider placing his fear of exposure above the price of Jim’s life, and is gratified M’Benga feels the same. It does not make acceptance any easier. He has only one request, and he hopes the doctor will at least grant him that much. “If you are amenable, I would prefer to inform Jim myself.”

“Of course you can, that was never a question.” M’Benga removes his hand from his shoulder, and forces Spock to look him in the eye. His expression is deeply disquieting. “But this bond, Spock, it’s… I haven’t treated anything this deep since the war, couples who had been bonded for decades… If you decide to sever it, it will have to be soon. The process will involve significant psionic trauma.” 

The if it doesn’t kill you remains unspoken, but hangs in the air between them nevertheless. 

“I understand.”

Chapter Text

Greetings participants and welcome to the fifth and final phase of the SIPAA Starcrossed 2.3 Beta Program! We would like to extend our warmest thanks and well wishes to all of our matches who have made it to this phase of the study. Your ongoing commitment to participation is a mark of your dedication not only to the program but also to each other. We understand the previous month may have been uniquely challenging at times, but it is our hope that you have also found the experience to be both enlightening and rewarding. As Phase IV of the study will be coming to a close next week, it will soon be time to return to your regular assignment. At this time, we ask that you begin to assess your intentions regarding the future of your partnership beyond the end of the study and honestly and openly communicate those intentions with your SIPAA match.

Some of our participants may decide not to pursue a relationship further and that is okay! We understand that not all SIPAA matches result in a permanent partnership. If you feel this applies to you at this time, we stress the importance of communicating those intentions to your partner even if those feelings are difficult to express. Here at SIPAA, it is our mission to forge lifelong, happy partnerships that are built on strong foundations of trust and respect. We kindly ask that you demonstrate this respect by leaving no ambiguity regarding your intentions at the conclusion of the study.

For those of you who intend to pursue a relationship with your match, congratulations! We are thrilled to have played a part in helping our valued Starfleet service members find companionship among the stars. Even for those partners who see one another in their future, we encourage an open and honest discussion about what shape that will take and your next steps going forward. While we at SIPAA pride ourselves on arranging matches we feel possess synergistic goals and lifestyles, it is important that you and your partner have aligned your expectations. Please bear in mind that following your departure from your temporary posting, your day-to-day life will begin to look a bit different as many of you will be stationed apart. If you intend to initiate a formal civil union through the Federation or any Federation-recognized cultural tradition and will be establishing joint domicile, SIPAA is able to assist in submission of necessary paperwork pursuant to Starfleet Regulation 1123.4(B) Joint Station Initiative (JSI). While JSI enrollment does not guarantee a joint assignment as personnel needs within Starfleet are always shifting, it does ensure that service members will be considered for joint assignments in the future. However, please be prepared for the possibility that you may need to be flexible.

Phase V of the SIPAA Starcrossed 2.3 Beta Program will be conducted following your return to regular orders. This final phase will consist of a debriefing with study staff regarding your thoughts and experiences both within the SIPAA program and with regards to your partner. All contents of the interview will remain strictly confidential and will only be used for the purposes of optimizing our matching parameters with the goal of establishing more happy partnerships. Thank you once again for your continued participation and a heartfelt congratulations to all of our successful matches!

Jim lets himself relax and enjoy the moment for what it is, leaning back on his hands to admire the scenery. The Khione delegation has prepared another night of festivities to celebrate the signing of the new Federation treaty and to wish the crew of the Enterprise safe travels before their departure. It’s hard to believe they were in this same hall not three days ago before the onset of Spock’s little episode. That feels like a lifetime ago now. The great hall of the palace is decorated in grand form with roaring fires in the hearth, long streaming garlands fashioned from the brilliant red-maroon of the local foliage and lit with candelabras in place of the artificial lights, casting the evening in the perpetual warm haze of the golden hour. The effect is mesmerizing. Uhura had mentioned at the briefing that their visit was aligned with the Khionian high holidays, a relic of their ancient creation myth he saw depicted in the tapestries in their capital galleries. 

The crew are enjoying themselves, all mingling with their hosts with sparkling laughter and conversation. It looks like Pike’s let a few more crewmen beam down to enjoy the festivities now that the weather’s quieted some. To be honest, Jim isn’t quite in the mood for all the pomp and circumstance right now, as nice as it is. This is the good stuff, what he went out into the black for, but he’s exhausted, and no doubt Spock is feeling the same. He almost thinks he can sense it leaking out of him through the cracks in his stoic facade. He hardly had a chance for any meditation, only a few hours while Jim yoked the burden of debriefing with Pike and getting brought up to speed on what they missed of the mission proceedings, which turned out to be everything save the closing ceremonies. Jim had tried to persuade Pike into letting them beam up early to no avail.

“I’m sorry, Jim.” Pike lamented. “I don’t really know what you’ve been up to the last few days, and frankly I’d be grateful to be spared the details. But our delightful hosts are possessed of the idea that you two have been—and these are their words, not mine—‘joined under the light of The Seven’ which is a very sacred time for them and they want to ‘honor your union,’ whatever that means.”

Once Spock had gotten his wits about him, he’d been overly concerned that his behavior at their arrival dinner would have thrown a wrench into the already tense negotiations process. Jim would have been inclined to agree, considering he remembered a lot more of the unfortunate details than Spock and had admittedly been pretty pissed with his behavior in the moment. He’s avoided mentioning it. There’s no point in making him feel any guiltier about something ultimately outside his control. 

As it turns out, though, Spock’s Pon Farr was allegedly a real bargaining chip in a strange way. Sometimes, the hardest part of negotiating with a First Contact species is convincing the locals to see you as something a little less… well, alien. Witnessing how they care for their own, refuse to abandon the sick or injured to their fates, and seeing first hand that their own mating practices wouldn’t be treated as aberrant within the Federation went a pretty long way in humanizing the crew to the locals and defrosting tensions, apparently. 

So here they remain. Being honored. 

The Khione have dressed them in the local fashion, a masculine version of their draping robes that’s somewhere between a chiton and a sari that falls resolutely short of both. It’s comfortable at least, certainly preferable to a tuxedo, and it’s warm enough in here with all the body heat and the fires lit that poor Spock isn’t shivering with his legs and feet bare. They’ve already forced them through a number of esoteric rituals for their own joyous amusement, which included drinking from a shared cup, a crowning of laurels woven from that same bright red foliage endemic to the planet, and some sort of libation ceremony he’s still not sure whether was about fertility or honoring your ancestors. They wanted to bind their hands together with this red jute rope that honestly looked like a terrific way to get rug burn, but they relented at Spock’s mortified expression. Jim almost wishes they hadn’t. 

The party’s starting to wind down now, gratefully, reduced largely to enjoying food and drink and good conversation. They’ve got this really smooth wine, more of a port or a brandy, made by fermenting one of their several varieties of berries. It’s definitely got more kick than just ethanol cause it’s making him pleasantly care-free and loose-lipped. Must be something that even gets under the skin of Vulcans cause Spock’s flushed a little green across the bridge of his nose and his microexpressions linger a fraction of a second longer than usual on his features.

Jim picks through the odds and ends that they’ve been gifted by the Khione in honor of their union—lots of food, some bits and bobs of indeterminate functionality, a noticeable absence of stand mixers—there’s a beautiful tapestry depicting the Khione’s First Contact with local dyes in their traditional weaving style. 

“This is gorgeous. We should hang it above the log console.” He holds it out for Spock to see, and he accepts it reverently. 

“You said you wished that I would have had the opportunity to view the artwork with you…” It’s adorable how his eyes light up as he traces his hands over the delicate craftsmanship, fingers probably itching to grab the tricorder. The piece depicts a human locked hand-over-hand with a Khionian, with a Starfleet vessel and the Seven Sister moons hanging in the sky above them. It’s exactly the type of folkcraft to fit in with his collection back on the Enterprise. “I am grateful for this gift, despite the illogic of the gesture.”

“What, Vulcans don’t give gifts?” Jim reaches out for the crown of laurels on Spock’s head to straighten it where it’s fallen low on his brow. If his fingers linger for a moment over the shell of his ear… There’s no reason to deny himself anymore. It’s a curious reversal of fortunes, that the Khione expect them to behave as loving mates as they’ve been playing at since the start. Only now, Jim doesn’t have to pretend he isn’t enjoying himself. “Or is it only logical if it’s utilitarian? ‘Here, baby, I saw these all-weather socks at the replimat and thought of you. Happy Surak Day.’”

Spock’s got their legs draped together at the calves, all Khione a la mode, and Jim pinches his knee just to see if Vulcans have that reflex. They do. He smiles deviously when Spock squirms and shoots him a filthy look.

“Vulcans do not have a day set aside to honor Surak. This would be illogical, as we honor his memory every day through our devotion to his teachings.” Spock rolls up the tapestry carefully so as not to damage the weaving before placing it in his bag. “However, gifts are occasionally presented in acknowledgement of an indebtedness that cannot be repaid through reciprocation. However, I only meant that such gifts are illogical as we have not been… joined in accordance with the local custom.”

Spock lingers a beat too long on the word ‘joined’ like he’s put some careful consideration into that choice. Jim suspects he might be embarrassed about being subjected to such wanton displays of public affection before the crew if it wasn’t for the fact a proper Vulcan is incapable of experiencing that emotion. Jim knows better. He’s been adorably flustered all night. 

“You know, it’s a little ironic. All that work those desk jockeys back at SIPAA did to mathematically compute a more perfect union, but here we are—getting fake-married on a backwater planet for the good of the mission. I’m sure that’ll skew the data. Actually…” Jim has a devilish stroke of tactical genius. He leans forward to throw an arm over Spock’s shoulder and whisper conspiratorially in his ear. “Technically, as of this morning, Khione is a Federation member world and technically that means they have to legally honor our union as a recognized cultural tradition. That means your parents can’t pull a forced marriage on you when we get to Vulcan. I’m just saying—you’ve got an air-tight alibi, if it comes to that.” 

“Jim…” Spock flushes so hard the tips of his ears change color. 

He can’t help it. Maneuvering Spock into a position where he can catch a flash of his emotionalism on display for his eyes only is a game that’s becoming an addiction. Jim moves his palm to the base of his neck just to watch the shiver spark down his spine. God, he wants to go back to the ship already. At least these clothes are loose fitting enough to hide his traitorous hard-on. He’s not even sure how he’s horny again already after the last couple days they’ve had, but something about touching Spock’s skin… It’s almost… He can’t describe it. The sensation was stronger before, when his Pon Farr had only just faded. It feels duller now, somehow. Perhaps it was a lingering effect of the meld that’s fading away. Jim finds the thought saddens him more than it has a right to. His head pulses painfully, right behind his psypoints. He takes another stiff sip of the wine. 

“From everything you’ve said your dad sounds like a real prick.” Jim runs his fingers up the base of his skull and through his hair. Because he can, because no one is looking, because it doesn’t matter if they get caught. “I bet it’d send him to an early grave if you come home, more suitors waiting for you than Penelope, all ‘hello father whom I haven’t spoken to in years, I’d like you to meet my illogical human husband. We had a shotgun wedding on an ice planet a couple days ago. Yeah, Vegas was too—’” Jim’s hand freezes when he senses the anxiety radiating off Spock in waves, so strong it’s as if it were leaking into his own brain through his skin. “What’s the matter?”

“Jim…” Spock’s throat bobs when he swallows. His voice is quiet and level. He won’t look him in the eye. “There is a matter we must discuss before our arrival on Vulcan.”

We need to talk. Never did a string of four simple words hold the power to strike more fear in the hearts of even the bravest men. It’s not what he thinks it means, it can’t be. Only just this morning Spock had said… He wouldn’t change his mind that fast… Would he? No. He’s letting his insecurities get the better of him. He’s probably just worried about confronting his parents, that’s all. 

Jim sighs through his nose and fights the urge to run his hands through his hair. He shouldn’t have mentioned Vulcan or his parents. They’ve been building up to this event since his arrival, and now with the Enterprise scheduled to rendezvous in the Vulcan system in two days he’s got to be on edge, even if his Vulcan sensibilities won’t let him admit it. He glances around the room, but no one from the crew has their eyes on them anymore, all distracted with their own conversations.

“Hey, look at me…” Jim says quietly, hand still resting in his hair. Spock looks, albeit with reluctance. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I didn't mean to get you all worked up, I just… I want you to know I’m not going to let that happen. Whatever happens on Vulcan, you’re coming back to Starfleet. Okay?”

Spock nods once, and Jim can’t resist the temptation to lean in for a short, chaste peck. The contact swoons despite the brevity, and Jim senses Spock’s anxiety receding like a tide. When he pulls away, Spock licks his lips.

“That’s a problem for tomorrow. Let’s try to enjoy tonight.” Jim endeavors to take his own advice even as his fingers tighten in Spock’s hair, faces still close together. There’s a lot of desires beneath the surface he can’t indulge in polite company, and he’s desperately trying not to resent the Khione for their good will. “I promised I wouldn’t take you swimming on Risa for our honeymoon. So here we are, not a drop of water in sight. Don’t say I never did nothing for you.”

“That is because all of this planet’s freshwater stores are frozen,” Spock says flatly, but his one raised brow betrays a hint of humor. “And this is not, as you say, a ‘honeymoon’ per my understanding of the Terran tradition. That would typically come after the wedding.”

“Yeah, well,” Jim throws back his head with laughter. “I don’t think there’s anything ‘typical’ about either of us.” 

☿   ♀   🜨   ♂   ♃   ♄   ⛢   ♆

Spock’s skull connects with the bulkhead the moment the pneumatic door seals their quarters shut. 

“God, I thought they’d never shut up.” Jim pins him against the wall and Spock’s starbase snowglobe collection rattles on the shelf with the force of the impact. 

Their lips connect after a long night of public restraint and that more than the return to the ship feels like a homecoming. Jim lets his fingers trace a path up the column of Spock’s throat and into his hair, holding him still so he can lick the remnants of wine from his mouth. Spock’s hands find his hips like a set of tesla-coil super magnets, lining their bodies up pole-to-pole. Jim draws his neck back by his hair so he can lick a hot stripe up his pulse and Spock’s laurel headpiece tumbles forgotten to the floor.

Jim’s had this mean cluster headache all night, feels like someone’s driving an awl through his eye socket, but no amount of pleading with Pike and Number One was going to get them off the transport platform any faster. It’s a dull, throbbing ache that started not long after he and Spock split up for a couple hours back in medical, though it’s abated minutely now that they're well on their way to engaging in enough skin-on-skin contact to make an Orion blush. Must be some kind of mind meld hangover, though M’Benga didn’t mention anything like that.

His train of thought is broken when Spock’s teeth find his collarbone and Jim gasps, the taste of a memory on the tip of his tongue. The mark on his neck hasn’t fully healed over; it will need a second round under the dermal regenerators. The whole crew caught a glimpse of it poking out from under the fabric in this outfit, no doubt. At least Ortegas was too preoccupied with the sorrowful parting from her harem to make any smart comments. He senses a flicker of Spock’s emotions, how he could at the height of his fever —amusement. 

Jim had made the incorrect assumption that once his fever had quieted and Spock’s Vulcan composure returned that his libido would once again be swept under the rug along with all those pesky emotions, but he’s pleased to find that isn’t the case—at least behind the privacy of closed doors. He chuckles lightly, slipping a hand down the lean meat of Spock’s thigh and feeling around for the hem of his robe. He finds it just above the knee. 

“You’re such a tease, you know that?” Jim hooks his chin over his shoulder and pants in his ear, already out of breath. He trails a thumb up under his skirts, a slow strategic advance. “I guess I can tell you that now. That I spent all those mornings fetching coffee on the bridge staring at your ass bent over the science station, thinking about having you like this.” 

“T-That is unprofessional,” Spock chastises, but it falls short of any grit the way it sighs out his mouth when Jim’s fingers find the wet evidence of his arousal already dripping down his thighs. His grip is busy tearing at the drapes of fabric to expose Jim’s back to the dry heat of the room.

“It’s your own fault for looking like that, not like I can help it.” Jim takes the lobe of his ear between his teeth, and Spock arches his body against the hard line of his cock. He jumps when his hand finds his sheath, and Jim can already feel him growing stiff between the folds when he slips a slick finger inside. “It’s cause you’re so prim. I want to ruffle your feathers, take you apart and figure out what makes you tick. You… fascinate me, Mr. Spock.” Jim teases. He curls his finger around the swollen ridges of his cock and Spock kicks his head back against the bulkhead hard enough to shake picture frames off the wall in their neighbor’s cabin. 

Spock draws his hands up to cradle Jim’s face between his palms and his fingers brush over the lick of his brow, the curve of his lips, right over the psy-points. The wave of relief is dizzying as the piercing pain behind his eyes at last recedes, giving way to the heady flow of Spock’s affection and desire. 

“Yes.” Jim slurs like a drunk, going weak in the knees as an undignified moan rises from deep in his chest. Yes, fuck, more of that. His eyes roll back as he turns his head to kiss the hollow of his palm. The pleasure that accompanies Spock slipping into his mind is unlike any sex he’s ever experienced, more sensual than erotic. So much more intimate, so much closer than anything physically achievable between two bodies. The psionic contact is teasing and superficial, Jim suspects unintentional even, but he’s liable to come on the spot if Spock drifts any deeper.

“We must stop this.” Spock’s presence spoils to vinegar, Jim catches the impression of it before his hand jerks away, breaking the contact like a snapped rubber band. It hurts, worse than if he’d slapped him, and sears white hot at his psy-point where a moment ago his touch was a cool breeze beneath autumn starlight. 

“Why, what’s wrong?” Jim resists the urge to bring his hand to the splitting pain in his head and pulls back to meet Spock’s gaze. 

His posture has gone rigid all of a sudden. His hair is a disheveled mess, eyes blown so wide they’re almost black in this light. He’s a touch wild, his hands jittering almost imperceptibly with nerves. Jim is dragged backwards to that night after the party and his mood sours, too. 

We need to talk.

“Look, I…” Jim’s heart sinks like a stone in the pit of his stomach. He sighs, utterly defeated, and takes a step back, though he can’t retreat far with Spock’s arms still snaking around his frame. Jim chews his lip and strokes the soft spot behind Spock’s ear with his thumb as he finishes the thought. “I don’t mean to take things too fast.” 

Spock’s hands haven’t moved from where they’re clutching at his robes a little too desperately, but he doesn't say anything at all. Fine. That’s alright, it’s not like he has to. 

Jim can already sense where this conversation is going, he’s had them before. It’s rare anyone comes back for seconds of him in the first place, but when they do it usually goes a little something like this. He knows the script. He takes a deep breath and prepares his lines. He can’t bear to watch Spock’s placid expression for this, so he stares at their bare feet instead.

“I’m sorry. For joking about the marriage stuff earlier. I had a really nice night with you, and I just…  I forgot that it’s not… That we’re not… Well, not really…” Jim tightens his hand in Spock’s hair. He doesn’t look up. If he looks up, he’ll lose his nerve. He can see the iceberg a mile out, but he’s not coward enough to swerve. It’s a captain’s duty to go down with his ship. “...but I wasn’t thinking. And maybe that hit a little too close to home for you, in context. You’ve been under a lot of pressure with the broken engagement and your parents and the Pon Farr…”

“Jim—” Spock tries to cut him off, but he has to say this. He’s not going to get another chance. 

“No, please—” Jim winces, begging. It’s debasing. He’s a grown man for god’s sake, but he’s panicking. “Please. I’ve been thinking about this all night just… Let me say my piece.” 

He forces himself to look up at Spock. He only nods, all polite Vulcan stoicism. He’s watching him intently, but he’s retreated now behind that emotionless mask which gives nothing away. Jim takes an unsteady breath, swipes his sleeve under his nose. 

“I’m not trying to put you on the spot to make a decision about us right now, that's not fair. I’m sure you’ve noticed I can be a little… intense sometimes, and it scares a lot of people off. But Spock I…” Jim is not going to cry. He’s bigger than that. He’s not going to earn any respect from Spock with that. “I’ve never believed in doing anything by halves. I meant what I said: I love you. I love you, and I’m trying to do this right because I really don’t want to fuck this one up, and I’m always fucking up. So if you need time to think… about us… You have it. I’ll back off, and I’ll give you space. We can start over, take things as slow as you want just… Please. I don’t want to do this because you feel like you owe me or… or maybe you’ve started thinking about things logically and you realize you don’t want a relationship, or that you don’t want one with me—”

“Jim. Ashayam. You are babbling.” Spock’s grip tightens around his arms, hard enough to bruise. His gaze is so intense Jim’s sure it could bore holes straight through him if he stands here long enough. “There is something I must tell you.”

This is it, then. It’s been eating him alive all night ever since those words left his mouth over dinner. He’s been feeding himself convenient truths, but Jim’s no fool. Those words are the antecedent to one thing and one thing only. If Spock is going to walk away from this then that’s his choice, he can respect that. Jim’s got no one to blame but himself. He knew right from the start, he just didn’t want to believe it. He broke his own heart. The handwriting was on the wall and he walked right into this one like he was illiterate. He takes a deep breath, and braces himself for disaster.

Spock, again, doesn’t speak. Jim wishes if he was gonna shoot him, he’d at least have the common decency to take him out behind the barn and get it over with. But no—he’s far too gentle for that, too tender. Jim watches when Spock lifts one hand in slow motion to cradle the weight of his jaw. He flinches on reflex when he spreads his fingers, and regrets it immediately when a flash of guilt crosses Spock’s face. He ghosts his touch feather-light across the mark of his psy-points, hesitates for a moment, before he must settle his mind on something and closes the circuit like leads on a battery. 

It’s that same sensation again, like coming out of that first deep meld with the bends. The pressure releases from his skull like the relief valve on a diving bell, and his mind explodes outward into the open air. A cool, soothing breeze whips through his psyche, carrying the pain pulsing in his head away on the wind. It’s the strangest thing. He hadn’t realized Spock had become so… muted and foggy, almost as if he’d been replaced with a Spock-shaped mannequin, until he sees him now, sparkling in sharp technicolor clarity. 

“Oh…” Jim lets the air pass through parted lips, eyelids fluttering involuntarily. He reaches up to grab Spock’s wrist to stop him from drawing his hand away. “I don’t know what you did. My head's been killing me all day, but I think you fixed it so… thanks.” 

Spock’s fingers tighten down on his psy-points and he cocks his head in confusion. His composure falters more than he’d ever allow in mixed company and concern is spelled out plainly on his face. 

“I have simply removed the mental barrier I constructed between our minds.” Spock doesn’t elaborate on what that means, nor does he offer any context clues for what this has to do with anything. Maybe this is the Vulcan idea of closure. He’s trying to be chivalrous by clearing the sore, lingering reminder of their time together before this is over. As if it makes any difference when his teeth are still tattooed on Jim’s neck. “Are you experiencing psionic discomfort?” 

“I wouldn’t know. If you mean feeling like someone drove a rebar spike through my eye socket then yeah, I guess so.” Jim’s voice holds an edge of frustration. M’Benga never would have cleared him for duty if it was anything serious. If Spock is trying to dodge the subject, this is a shitty way to go about it. “I feel fine now, though. Better than fine, actually, I feel great.”

Spock’s face passes through a battery of indiscernible microexpressions at this revelation, too quick to parse for anything meaningful. Jim is itching with anxiety all of a sudden. Not that he wasn’t before, but this is something else entirely. If ‘anxiety’ is the cheap well swill, this is the triple distilled variety, decanted and full-bodied until the stench of it coats the palette and claws at the throat. When he looks at Spock, his spine is glued to the bulkhead ramrod straight like a specimen on a pinboard. 

“You’re scared.” Jim says softly. The puzzle slowly comes together, one piece at a time, revealing the whole picture. “Wait… You’re scared.” 

Jim’s not feeling afraid—Spock is. Not just scared, he’s terrified. Spock’s gaze darts around the room—the bed, the porthole, the log console—anywhere but his face. His fingers slip away and his hand falls to his side. Even without the touch, Spock’s panic sings through his nerves with overwhelming intensity. 

“This isn’t just some mind meld hangover… is it?” Jim whispers. His fear is running hot now, too, or maybe that’s Spock, or maybe it’s both of them together in a wild, dysregulated feedback loop. It’s hard to know where Jim ends and Spock begins like this. The line is starting to blur. “Spock, what’s going on?”

“It appears a… mental link has formed between us,” Spock says, strategically passive voice. 

Bond. Jim catches the word, echoing over and over through a strange, liminal headspace. The echoes ricochet between a series of nonsensical impressions—a holo of a young George and Winona on the farmhouse mantle—a severe little Vulcan girl with her hair done up in plaits—Bones throwing up on his feet in the shuttle off Dramia—Michael Burnham, the mutineer. It’s disorienting.

“A bond? What kind of bond?” Jim tries to shake his head clear, face scrunched up in confusion. “Bond as in… bondmates?”

“Yes. Among my people such a bond is legally equivalent to the Terran concept of marriage. However, while yours is a purely symbolic union ours is not,” Spock says, as if it were a damning confession of guilt. “It is a joining of the minds, a fusion of consciousness. It is by its very nature indescribable, but surely you feel it.”

Whatever Spock meant by ‘removing the mental barrier’ is rapidly becoming apparent, insofar as such a thing is comprehensible to the human mind. Spock is present here, in his head. Not inside him completely, not like the meld. He simply knows that he’s there, the same instinct that tells you someone’s watching when your back’s turned, as if Spock were milling about in the next room where the white noise of his presence filters through beneath the doorjamb. Jim is not alone in his own head. The concept itself is entirely foreign. It’s violating in the highest order, or rather Jim knows it should be.

“Yeah, I… I feel it.” Jim swallows the stone in his throat. “I don’t understand. How did this happen? You didn’t… not on purpose?”

“No!” Spock’s expression finally yields to his panic— guilt–shame–revulsion–remorse— the disgust roils in Jim’s gut as surely as Spock conjures it. He thinks he’s going to hurl, right on the deck. “I would never deliberately violate your mind. Such a crime would be unconscionable to my people.”

Every emotion Spock passes inadvertently through their newly opened connection is blistering in its ferocity. Jim’s heard that fabricated excuse, that Vulcans don’t feel. That’s a lie. Spock feels everything with a devastating, paralyzing purity. Jim thinks of their shared pleasure that final night on Khione—he should have known the sword had two edges. He is beginning to understand why Vulcans suppress their emotions. 

“I wasn’t accusing you of anything, I didn’t think you did.” Jim reaches out to take his forearm, tracing his thumb in small, soothing circles over the skin. Spock’s spooked like a racehorse and he’s liable to turn an ankle if he doesn’t calm down. It’s making it hard to think straight. “But if this happens during the Pon Farr, if this is how Vulcans bond… Why didn’t M’Benga warn me this would happen? I’m not saying it would have changed anything. It was your life on the line but I…” Jim’s grip tightens involuntarily, his own guilt rising to mingle with Spock’s. “It’s not your fault, Spock. You weren’t yourself. It was my responsibility. If I’d known, I could have been more careful. I could have stopped you from melding with me, I—”

“Oh, so you think I wanted your fucking bastard?” Carol whips around, spitting venom, and her open palm connects with his cheek. She shakes her hand out, eyes stung red with tears. “You narcissistic piece of shit…”

“Goddamnit!” Jim slams his fist against the steel bulkhead. He knows that Spock knows even before he startles at the sound. This connection… There’s no hiding anything. He pinches the bridge of his nose, takes a deep breath to calm himself. “...I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to see that.”

“You know if you don’t tell us we’re still going to find out anyway.” Ortegas flashes a cheeky grin, fidgeting with a switch on the arm of the conn. The slight ticking sound is grating. “No secrets on a starship.” 

It takes Jim a moment to realize the memory is not his own. Spock is merciful. He doesn’t twist the knife. Instead, he looks away, fixing his gaze on the streaks of starlight beyond the cabin porthole. 

Jim sighs. He puts some space between them and retreats to the floor, sitting down on ‘his’ side of Spock’s tea service table. Their chess board sits at the center, frozen in the middle game. It’s Jim’s turn to play black. Spock is still waiting for his move.

“It is not so simple as… what you imagine. The doctor could not have predicted this outcome.” Spock shows him the dignity of talking around the elephant, but his expression remains far away as he watches the warp streams dancing in the ether. “Spontaneous bond formation was once commonplace among Vulcans, before the Time of Awakening. This is no longer the case. As a consequence of our emotional repression, the process has become far more complex.”

“Didn’t seem too complicated to me…” Jim steals the black king from the board, still stuck in check, and turns it over in his palm to give his hands something to do.

“You must understand, we do not ordinarily speak of such things to outworlders.” Spock surrenders. He drags himself off the bulkhead with great reluctance before joining Jim on the floor with the table between them. He keeps his gaze fixed straight ahead, and Jim is reminded of their first night together when Spock wouldn’t look him in the eye. His face is partially obscured by the silhouette of the board. “A bond may only be established by fully relinquishing one’s emotional control. It is most challenging for an adult Vulcan to surrender oneself so completely, even during the Plak Tow. It is for this reason we uphold the tradition of koon-ut-la. A child’s mind is yet undisciplined, and the bonding center remains active during the development of familial bonds. With the aid of a skilled mentalist, the telan t'kanlar may establish a link between compatible minds. This link is expected to strengthen and mature with age, easing the bond consummation during one’s Time. Despite this, it is not uncommon for a bond to require further guided meditation under the care of a trained healer to settle properly.”

“So your ex…” Jim has seen her now, through Spock’s eyes. A classical Vulcan beauty, that’s undeniable, all severe, hooded eyes and sunkissed desert complexion. Her memory is tinted with the cold haze of indifference. “Your parents picked her for you as a kid. And you had one of these links with her, but she broke it?”

“That is correct,” Spock offers quietly. “However, ‘broke’ is perhaps imprecise.” 

“Okay…” Jim draws his legs to his chest and rests his chin on his knees, contemplative. He squeezes the piece in his hand until the crown cuts into his skin. “Do you think your mind could be… reaching out for a replacement? You know, trying to fill the gap she left behind, and mine was just the first thing to come along?”

It hurts to consider that maybe Spock doesn’t love him. That this could all be a fabrication his troubled mind seeking what once was lost, and any suitable substitute would suffice under the circumstances. Maybe Jim was never special at all. Maybe being useful is an approximation of being loved.

Spock’s thoughts weave through his doubts in counterpoint, chewing on that word again, the one he doesn’t recognize —t’hy’la . He turns it over in his thoughts with delicate reverence, a fragile, precious treasure that purrs when he strokes it. The creature nests in the nape of his neck.

“While I appreciate that you are attempting to rationalize the situation by providing your insights, you lack the necessary frame of reference to contextualize the gravity of our predicament.” Spock is staring intently at his own palms as if he might divine his answers in the lines written there. “My kan-telan with T’Pring was not without difficulty. For a time, the geneticists responsible for my conception feared my telepathic disposition would prove insufficient to support a bond entirely, and I would likely perish during the onset of my Plak Tow. My mother and father share a bond, however this required years of dedicated medical intervention to achieve. Theirs is the only successful Human-Vulcan bond on record.”

“Until now, you mean,” Jim offers. He unfurls his hand, returning his king to the board. Pinned by Spock’s queen. 

“Yes...” Spock’s expression screws up minutely with a sorrow that aches in Jim’s bones, deep in the marrow. “I fear that this is a result of my hybrid status and the recurrent failure of my mental discipline. I have done something unforgivable to you as a consequence of that failure. I am deeply ashamed, and I do not expect your forgiveness.”

This defeatist version of Spock is a total stranger, a frightened child who has been told he is biologically unfit for love and is destined to die because of it. Jim has always harbored a deep resentment for that brand of fatalism, and is sick on Spock’s behalf.

“Come on, don’t say something like that. You know that isn’t true. You wanna know what I think?” He reaches across the table to take Spock’s hand in his. The intimate contact only serves to enhance the emotional transference, and the thick miasma of Spock’s self-hatred rises like bile in the back of his throat. He squeezes harder, attempting to keep a foothold in the traitorous, fluttering hope still perched in his chest and clumsily channels affection against the waves of despair. “I think maybe that 98.7% compatibility number from SIPPA wasn’t complete bullshit afterall. I was so sure it was, but then I met you. From the first moment I saw you I just… I had this feeling I couldn’t explain. That has to count for something, right? Maybe we get along like a house on fire and the bond was inevitable. You said it happened to Vulcans in the olden days, so why can’t it happen to us?”

“I implore you to be serious,” Spock bites. His wallowing pit of self-flagellation is threatening to swallow them both. 

“I am! So we’re bonded, shit happens.” He wishes he could snap him out of it, but Spock’s dark aura is dominant and overpowering and Jim is insignificant beside the sheer magnitude of feeling. “There’s nothing to be gained by lingering on our mistakes now. Let’s just… try to be solution oriented, alright?”

“That would be prudent.” Spock allows this minor concession, and Jim takes that as a victory. He laces their fingers together and leans back against the table, trying to think.

“You said your betrothal link broke before. Does that mean we could do it with ours, too?” Jim starts, and the splintering desperation that passes between their fingers sprouts thorns out of the flesh, the evidence of Spock’s subconscious repugnance at the notion. Jim runs his thumb in gentle, placating circles about his knuckles. “I wasn’t suggesting it. I’m just saying we should lay our cards on the table and assess our options.”

Spock untangles their fingers and draws his hand away, cradling it against his stomach how one might an injury. The weight of his presence recedes from his mind, though not completely. Jim still hears his incomprehensible Golic soliloquy buzzing in his periphery like a radio tuned between stations.

“P'pil'la'ai may yet be a possibility,” Spock says quietly, as though he were handing over the keys to his self-destruct sequence. “But Jim… Do not misunderstand. Vulcans mate for life. You must decide how you wish for us to proceed. Do not do so lightly.” 

“What do you mean how you wish to proceed?” Jim shoots him a look of disbelief from across the table, but Spock continues to feign the same placid outward composure. It’s infuriating. “We’re going to work through this together. I’m not going to make some unilateral decision for the both of us—”

“This is not so trivial a matter as human divorce.” Spock cuts him off, words sharp and stern. “Our bond is… uniquely robust, given the brief timeframe since its inception. Its severance will prove a complex and delicate process. The extrication would necessitate the intervention of a skilled Vulcan healer as soon as possible to minimize the risk of permanent psionic injury. However, as humans are a psy-null species, it is unlikely your regular neurological functions would be impaired by any damage sustained to that region of your caudate nucleus.”

“And what will happen to you?” Jim asks softly. He didn’t fail to notice his strategic avoidance of that critical detail. Spock bows his head and the lines of defeat are legible in his sullen posture. “There’s something else, isn’t there? Something you’re not telling me…”

He doesn’t offer an answer. Spock closes his eyes, lids fluttering lightly how a human might when lost in a dream. Jim has spied on his meditation exercises often enough now to recognize what he’s doing. The sensation in his mind is disquieting as he retreats back into himself. He is not reconstructing the barrier between their minds he is… becoming nothing. With a well-ordered, methodical precision, the frantic cacophony of Spock’s emotional turmoil is snuffed out. 

When the process is complete, Spock has gone somewhere far away and Jim is momentarily alone in his mind. There is no tranquility in it. The stillness is unsettling, like a forest when the birds and insects fall silent. His eyes open again, but his vacant gaze hangs a thousand yards out in the distance.

“...Spock?” It’s useless, he knows that. Jim is beginning to appreciate the necessity of these Vulcan rituals of control. Spock experiences the world with such raw acuity, it’s enough to drive any man to madness if left unchecked. Spock is no pacifistic pushover—he is a predator on a short leash. 

Jim allows him the space to pull himself back together, and steps over to the replicator to put on a pot of spice tea.

As with any Vulcan tradition, the process requires delicate precision and attention to detail. His first attempt was a disaster. Jim was, admittedly, trying too hard to get on Spock’s good side in those early days. He’d been working late in the labs—avoiding Jim, no doubt—and he’d hoped a pot of tea and a chess invitation might be enough to defrost the tensions in their tentative detente. He was trying to be nice. Any human would have suffered the gesture on the grounds that ‘it’s the thought that counts,’ but Spock had pulled no punches detailing the precise nature of the incorrect timing and temperature and pH imbalances that rendered the brew patently uningestible. 

It is a root not a leaf, Jim, which must first be ground to the consistency of table salt to maximize available surface area and solubility of the distinctive polyphenol profile while maintaining an optimal ninety-six degree centigrade water temperature and three bars of steam pressure to minimize the presence of slower eluting compounds such as bitter alkaloids and pigmented melanoidins which detract from the nuanced flavor profile… 

Jim replays the memory of Spock’s deep, soothing monotone he adopts whenever he’s detailing anything procedural or scientific with the appropriately Vulcan degree of precision and rigor. He walks through the steps, which is its own kind of meditation. Jim prefers to keep his hands busy, it helps him calm down. When he’s finished, the final product is a flawless frothy syrup consistency with a rich ochre hue. Spock has a modest collection of fine Vulcan flatware, but Jim chooses the pair of ceramic cups with little tribbles painted under the glaze he knows are his favorite. When he returns to the table, he sets the cup to the outside of his right hand, in the proper custom.

The tea has nearly cooled to room temperature before Spock comes back to himself. He lifts a single finger to trace the image of the tiny puffball, and the crickets pick up their song in the cornfields.

“Thank you.” 

Jim finishes his own cup. He doesn’t speak until the drink is sipped down to the lees. 

“I know we haven’t known each other for long but… This isn’t the first difficult choice I’ve had to make, I think you know that,” Jim starts quietly. He turns the empty cup through his palm. “Not all of them I’m proud of, but I made them. And I don’t have any regrets about that.” —all the rooms in the castle— ”I can make this one too, for both of us. If you can’t. If that’s really what you want, I will make the choice. But I don’t like operating without all the facts. And I don’t like having my back against the wall.” 

“I need you to be honest with me, Spock.” He turns to face him over the chessboard, and Spock has finally found the composure he needs to look him in the eye.

“If you choose to remain bonded, we shall become as one. I will be privy to your every thought, every emotion. There is no distance you could place between us that would silence it completely. Even in death, the echo of my katra would haunt you.” Spock doesn’t falter. He speaks as if this were simply another dry accounting of facts that do not concern himself. Perhaps he requires that kind of emotional distance to approach this conversation pragmatically. “Should you come one day to find my companionship lacking and decide to sever our bond, my death is assured. Yours, however, I cannot say.”

“...And if we break it now?” 

“My survival is… probable.” His loaded pause implies it's not so sure a thing as he’d like Jim to believe. “But I am Vulcan. My katra calls to you, and only you can answer. There can be no other for me. If you are parted from me now, I will never bond again.”

“Can’t?” Jim swallows. “Or won’t?”

“Does it matter?” Spock’s voice remains flat, but they’re inside each other’s heads. No amount of practiced emotional repression can mask the sharp stab of pain that courses through him as he says it. “Jim. I would not force you to remain bonded to me. I have not told you this to coerce you, only because you have asked me for honesty and I would not deny you that. But you must not take my circumstances into consideration—you must ask yourself what you want, and you must be certain of it.”

“You’re telling me breaking the bond could kill you! Of course I’m taking your death under consideration, who the hell do you think I am! How could you expect me to live with myself, with that on my conscience?” Now Jim is the one struggling to keep his emotionalism in check. “No.” He spits, and his tone doesn’t invite any argument. “We’re staying bonded. End of story.”

He’s not sure what kind of selfabsorbed, mastabatory martyr complex would even lead him to suggest that’s an option worth entertaining. As if Jim hadn’t already made his stance on this particular moral dilemma crystal clear three days ago. 

“You do me no justice should you stay when you cannot!” Spock is a lid rattling on a boiling pot, but Jim’s never been one to back down from a real screamer. 

“And what makes you so sure I can’t? That I can’t what, exactly? Can’t handle commitment?” Jim fires back, loud enough his voice is likely carrying through the bulkheads. “Is it cause Sam told you I’m a piece of shit who sleeps around, or cause I knocked up my ex-girlfriend? Were you even listening to anything I said before?” He gesticulates wildly, knocking a few pieces off the third level. “None of that matters, okay! I can be better than that, I am better than that, that’s not… That’s not me! And I just thought that you of all people saw that… Please… Spock, I love you!”

“It is not enough that you love me now, that is not the question.” Spock stares him down from across the board, dark eyes fixed on his face. “You must ask yourself if you can love me always.” 

“How the fuck am I supposed to answer that? No one can! It’s not fair!” Jim is ready to tear his hair out in frustration. For someone who claims to walk the path of logic, Spock can be insufferably irrational. He can’t believe they’re even picking this stupid fight. “ Of course I want to feel this way forever, you know that—but I—that’s not how it works!”

“I am not asking you to predict the future. That is impossible.” Spock’s voice is all level and controlled, and it just makes Jim look like a fool. It’s pissing him off more. “All I ask is that you consider the reality of what you are proposing.”

“Spock…” Jim is practically begging with him. He loves this person, even if right now, in this specific moment, he doesn’t like him all that much he loves him. He is going to love him for a long, long time. He can’t give him any proof of that when all he has is a simple, human feeling. “I’ve been imagining our life together practically since I met you, and it’s everything I could ever ask for. I’m not even sure I can picture a future without you in it anymore…”

“Have you? Truly? I do not speak of idle fantasy.” Spock looks at him, really looks, and Jim feels the somber exchange of deep loneliness passing between them whizzing by like a train past an empty platform. It is entirely too sobering. “I have often been reminded that I am not an ideal choice of bondmate. I will not be easy to love. Our relationship will be the target of prejudice and the subject of idle gossip wherever we go. It may negatively influence your bid for a captaincy. I may be separated from you by lightyears of space, possibly for years at a time if we are stationed apart, and you will feel the ache of my absence through our bond as fresh as the day we parted. If we should serve together, there may come a time our difference of professional opinion comes between us, but we cannot allow our personal lives on the bridge. You will be my captain first and my bondmate second. I will place duty above our bond, above my life and yours. I will show you no quarter—I would not hesitate to challenge your command.”

He’s right. Jim isn’t so proud he can’t admit that. His version of the future has been a fiction viewed through rose tinted glasses. Spock isn’t the villain. He’s only trying to keep him grounded in reality.

“You are human and I am Vulcan. My mother suffered great pain and illness due to her bond with my father, and I cannot promise you will be spared the same. You may come to find my companionship does not meet your emotional needs, and you may grow to resent me for it. If you tire of my company and take comfort in the body of another, I will feel every touch. We will never grow old together. Your body will age at a rate that outstrips my own and someday you will wake to find yourself in the bed of a man far younger than yourself. And when you are gone, I will survive you, perhaps for a century or more. I will think of you always and I will burn for you still, just as I do now.” Spock pauses to slip a hand across the table, brushing their fingers together with shivering hesitation. His touch is so light it would be imperceptible if it didn’t tug on the thread at the nape of his neck. When he continues, his words are very quiet. “And will you endure it? Will you choose even this when you choose me?”

Jim’s chest tightens at the thought that Spock would even have to ask such a thing. But he’s right to do so. He’s not sure he has an answer anymore.

“And what would you have me do, Spock?” Jim grazes two fingers in a slow advance down the ridge of his hand. “What would you do, if you were me?”

Spock turns his palm up, deepening the contact, and even now Jim relishes the caress of his mind against his own.

“It is not my choice to make. If you leave me, I will die or I will undergo the rites of the Kolinahr. This has always been my fate, long before I met you, and I have made peace with that.” Spock speaks with a sense of finality. “That is my choice, and you will honor it. If you choose to remain with me out of pity, I will never forgive you. You will wake every morning with the taste of my hatred in the back of your throat and fall asleep every night in the arms of my anger.”

Spock’s ultimatum lingers heavy in the air between them, and Jim allows his words to go unanswered for a long moment.

“How long?” Jim arranges their hands palm to palm on the table. “How long do I have to decide?”

“Until our arrival on Vulcan. I will require time to gather my affairs, in either event.”

Two days.

Chapter Text

The vacancy on the observation deck lends itself to a strange loneliness where the void beyond the transparent aluminum leaks through and chokes the silence. The ship is separated from the nearest starfield by lightyears of space, and even the thin pricks of starlight are far enough away not to leave warp trails at this distance. It is easy to forget the cold darkness of space, but she has a way of reminding you of the truth of it when you need it least. 

Jim is, gratefully, the only one here tonight. He doesn’t bother to cut on the lights, content to chew on his thoughts by the thin glow of the emergency ambers and chart familiar stars from unfamiliar perspectives. It’s late by all accounts ship’s time—the better part of the crew complement is tucked in to sleep and it’s only gamma shift left, carrying them out of the Khione system towards their next destination at a lazy warp three. 

Towards Vulcan. The roiling red marble will be in view within 48 hours, for better or for worse. Jim’s never been himself, though he’s heard the harsh and unforgiving landscape is as beautiful and unyielding as her people. It will likely take his breath away just the same. 

Spock is here, too. Not physically, of course. Somewhere, in the corner of his mind. Tangible, but as distant now as the stars dotting Orion’s belt. Not the same muffled cotton as the mental barrier he’d constructed while they were on Khione. It’s as if he has his back turned to afford Jim the polite illusion of privacy. Jim recognizes already the flatlining of his thought patterns that mark his meditations. It seems he’s not the only one who can’t sleep.

Jim draws his knees to his chest and charts the constellations again. He supposes they are more the same than different. 

He wonders idly if his mind is a distraction, if Spock can detect his thoughts as clearly as if he were speaking. It’s not been like that for Jim, not exactly. Spock’s mind is less an internal monologue than it is a non sequitur amalgam of sensations and associations. He is still struggling to parse coherent ideas through the aphantasiac cacophony. Ten years on a starship and Spock still dreams in High Golic. Jim’s no trained telepath—hell, he has an ESPER rating on par with most rocks. He’d always naively assumed that having access to someone’s mind would ease communication, but he should have known, in retrospect, that it wouldn’t be so simple. Spock is an enigma. For as much as it feels like he has known him all his life, truth is he’s barely scratched the surface of all his rich nuance. 

Maybe he will get used to this. Jim might learn his algorithms and decrypt his thought patterns after a time, come to know his mind as naturally and intimately as if it were his own. Maybe Jim’s human mind is ill-equipped to accept something so alien, as it was for Spock’s mother, and he will spend a lifetime rejecting the intrusion of Spock’s mind like a failed organ transplant. 

Maybe Spock, born to this, has already mastered Jim’s pathetically simple mind and put him at a disadvantage. Or maybe not. Maybe this is not so easy for him either, half-human as he is. He admitted his bond to T’Pring had not come so easily. That his difficulty bonding was just another in a long line of differences that marks him as aberrant in Vulcan culture.

Jim pauses, before he says —thinks— something he might regret. Should he make an effort to mind his thoughts, in case Spock overhears them? He briefly entertains the idea and rationalizes that the constant effort to suppress his thoughts would ultimately prove futile. It’s fundamentally unsustainable in the long run.

In the long run. As in, forever. 

Spock will know everything, just as he was unable to hide the truth of his relationship with Carol. Everything he’d be driven to say in anger, even if he holds his tongue. All the bullies and bar fights, the reckless stupidity. Every time Jim admires the rack on an alien diplomat, every head he turns after the midshipmen in the port bars. Every time he’s scared shitless of what they’ve unearthed in the darkness. Every memory of Tarsus. 

Poor Spock. Getting permanently saddled with his emotional baggage is something he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemies, least of all someone he loves. Jim is the Marianas Trench of terrible memories, and there are things sunk so deep in there not even Bones has been able to fish them out. 

That’s right—Jim still hasn’t had a chance to call Bones back. 

He slips his comm begrudgingly from his pocket and finds dozens of missed calls and messages. He sighs. He’d been a little too… preoccupied back on Khione to remember to delete the unsent messages and recordings and his panicked stream of consciousness made it through the minute his comm pinged the ship’s subspace relay. Bones had called back only minutes later, and Jim had only a moment to fire off a message telling him everything was fine now and that he’d call him later. He kisses his teeth, wringing the casing in his hand with indecision, flipping it open and shut, open and shut.

Bones picks up as soon as the switchboard operator on the Farragut cuts the call over. 

“Jim!” He covers the receiver, but he can still hear when he yells back to the nurses before slamming the clinic doors behind him. “First you had my phone ringing off the hook, then I couldn’t get a hold of you. Christ, I thought you were dead!”

“No… No, I’m okay,” Jim mumbles into his comm, checking over his shoulder even though he knows the deck is empty at this time of night. “I shouldn’t have called so many times. I’m sorry.”

“Well, I reckon you damn near cost me one of my nine lives.” Bones sighs, and the sounds of sickbay finally peter out in the background. All the fleet’s ships are synced to time in San Francisco so the hour’s ungodly wherever they are too. Jim hopes Bones isn’t on the midnight shift cause he’s given him too many nerves to sleep. He doesn’t ask. “What the hell happened?”

“Spock was really sick.” Jim lets a stiff breath out through his nose and scrubs his eyes  with the heel of one hand. There’s only so much he can actually say to Bones without betraying Spock’s confidence. At least the doctor understands the concept of medical confidentiality—he’s not going to press where he shouldn’t. “We were on an away mission on an L-class planet. I thought maybe he’d contracted some foreign contagion or maybe the locals… Shit, Bones… I was so sure he was going to die.” 

Jim runs a sleeve under his nose, heart racing in his chest and hand shaking where the comm sits pressed to his ear. The last several days have been chaos, he hasn’t had a spare moment to unpack the gravity of that, of his own response. Inappropriate. Emotionally compromised—Pike hadn’t pulled any punches about telling him so that night in the sanatorium. Jim’s no stranger to death, least of all out here, but it turns out everyone has their blind spots.

“Is he stable?” Bones asks carefully. Jim lets out a sigh of relief he feels like he’s been holding in for days.

“Yeah, he’s fine. He’s gonna be fine, I think.” Jim swallows around the stone of the white lie. “It’s… A Vulcan condition. But he’s better now, according to Dr. M’Benga.”

Bones doesn’t say anything, not at first. He’s too acutely aware of the dangers in this line of work for empty platitudes and breakable promises. Tomorrow they might wake up and a solar flare could cook them in their seats. One tiny crack in the hull and their blood boils in thirteen seconds. Twenty-three millimeters of alloy plating separating them from darkness and silence. 

He hears the punch of a coffee code in the replicator on the other end of the line, thin bean water trickling into a cheap paper cup. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, finally. Jim has lost count of how many times he’s heard that line in his life. I’m sorry for you, sorry that happened, sorry you lived here, sorry for your loss… At least, coming from Bones, it doesn’t sound so plastic. And people have the gall to criticize his bedside manner.

“Yeah. Me too.” 

The replicator dings, and Jim’s stomach grumbles with a Pavlovian kind of hunger. He wonders absently if Spock can feel it too.

Jim listens to Bones milling about the ship on the other end of the line, the quiet kind of unintrusive company he tends to keep back aboard the Farragut when he can tell Jim’s having one of his turns. He knows what he’s doing. Bones has a knack for knowing when he’s too spun up to be left to his own devices, but he knows better than to drag dogs still licking their wounds out from under the sofa. Maybe that’s how he manages to wrestle more out of Jim over a glass of brandy than any fleet therapist ever could. 

Bones doesn’t pry but he doesn’t hang up, either. Minutes pass in silence, Jim watching the stars drifting past in slow relativistic motion. Eventually, he hears the sound of typing on the log console. Probably writing up charts and medical reports before shift change. Jim chews his lip, drawing his knees to his chest. He keeps the comm cradled in the crook of his shoulder and traces lines in his palms.

“Can I ask you something?” He starts, mumbling into the receiver. “About Jocelyn, I mean.”

The clacking over the keyboard stops and Bones breath sticks on the other end of the line.

“Course you can,” he says. Jim thinks he might hear him rooting around in his desk drawers, and he might have a good guess what for. “Doesn’t mean I’ll have a mind to answer.”

“You got married, before you had Joanna…” Jim treads carefully. The subject of his ex-wife isn’t typically a topic of conversation outside the mauldin variety of drunken candor that anesthetizes the spirit enough to blunt the pain of old wounds. “You must have loved her, at some point. In the beginning…”

Bones hums, contemplative. He doesn’t prompt Jim to finish the thought.

“So then…” Jim swallows. “How did you know you didn’t anymore?”

“Now why you wanna know a thing like that?” Bones says softly with a depressing kind of tenderness, devoid of his usual bite. “Jim, did something happen while—”

“No—” Jim lies, doesn’t mean to lie. He hides his face from the viewport, how dogs do when they don’t want to be seen. “Yes. I don’t know. Just… Answer the question. Please.”

Bones sighs, and Jim thinks he’s not going to get anything out of him save an interrogation or moralizing until he hears the decanter connect with the lip of the glass and a few cuss words under his breath. 

“Hell if I know. Reckon it’s the same how you wind up there in the first place.” He pauses for a while, chewing on his thoughts. “It don’t come all at once. Creeps up on you real quiet when you least expect it. Might be easier if it didn’t. When I heard she’d been seeing the Treadway boy behind my back… I found myself wishing I didn’t love her. But it doesn’t work that way.”

Jim isn’t so sure he agrees with his assessment. Jocelyn’s parents had been friends of the McCoys for years, and she and Bones orbited the inevitability of each other for the better part of their childhoods. He had confessed once to the sentiment he’d always felt he’d been settled for, and that did nothing good for a man’s ego. Jim can’t relate. Falling for Spock had come at an inopportune moment and arrived with all the tact and subtlety of a punch in the face. 

“Folks aren’t perfect, and we’re good at forgiving the big things. It’s the sum of the little troubles that gets you. Death by a thousand papercuts… Doesn’t matter if they’re your friend or you’re fucking, reckon the ones who stick around are the ones who can stand your irritations. Problem is, most of us don’t know ourselves well enough to know what drives us crazy.” Bones sighs through his teeth and he can hear him pour himself another finger of liquor. Guess he’s clocking off shift for the night after this. “Way I see it, it ain’t about what you love but what you don’t. You can find something good in everybody if you know where to look, but we’ve each of us got a certain kind of fool we’re willing to suffer.”

“And you suffer me?” Jim says.

“You’re a fool, sure as anything, but you’re my fool.” 

“Good to know…” Jim smiles to himself, and a hint of his teasing slips into his tone. 

“Don’t go getting any bright ideas now. Just cause you’re cute don’t mean you’re gone get away with it,” Bones sounds exasperated with his antics, but he laughs and Jim does too. It lightens the heavy mood that’s settled over the evening and he feels better for it. The doctor’s got a way of tricking you into taking his medicines, and Jim’s always one to fall for it. 

“So you haven’t left for Georgia yet then?” Jim knows he goes home most years to see Joanna, but selfishly he hopes he’ll be waiting for him on the Farragut when this mess is through. 

“Nah, wasn’t worth the fight…” Bones won’t come out and say it, but the demographics on the Farragut are overwhelmingly human. Jim knows he offered to stay on as attending over the break so the other staff could go home to their own families. It’s just how he is. “Besides, her birthday’s in a month. It ain’t right to skimp cause it’s close to the holidays and I know her mother ain’t gonna do shit for it. I’ll take my leave then.”

“Well, we’re on our way to Vulcan now. Shouldn’t be there too long. I’ll try to scavenge some non-replicated eggnog on the way back to the ship,” Jim offers. Just about the only exotic thing Bones’ palette can stomach is liquor, but he’s got a soft spot for the old Terran staples.  

“Only if it’s made from chicken eggs, don’t go getting crazy on me.” Bones sounds tired, and he hears him milling around and packing up for the night. He feels a bit guilty for keeping him up so late. He ought to let him go to sleep. “The atmosphere’s awful thin down there. Make sure to have medical order you a tri-ox course and an allergen panel before you beam out.”

“Yes, doctor, I’ll be a good patient.” He rolls his eyes.

“No you won’t.” He doesn’t have to see him to know he’s shaking his head. “But Jim? Try to take care of yourself, alright? I’ll see you soon.”

The comm cuts back to the operator on the Farragut, and Jim hears the subspace dial tone before the call disconnects, leaving him alone again with just the hum of the nacelles whirring in his periphery for company. The small screen glows in his palm, indicator light slow flashing with more missed messages. He might as well check them—he’s still fishing for excuses not to go back to Spock’s quarters quite yet. He needs to put some space between them, as much as is achievable in their current predicament. 

There’s a slew of practically hundreds in the group chat with Gaila and Sulu and the others, leftovers from the Farragut’s holiday party. It’s ship’s tradition throughout the fleet to host one at the end of the year and a universal invariant that they’re doomed to degenerate into drunken anarchy. He stops trying to backread when the messages devolve into incomprehensible dionysian mysteries.

There’s another waiting, this one’s from Sam. Jim can tell he’s worried cause he can read the first couple words on the notification before it trails off. He sighs, and rips off the bandaid.

SAM: Saw the comm forwarding memo that Spock’s out on medical leave, someone said he got sick on Khione? Must be pretty bad, I’ve known that slave driving bastard five years and he’s never taken a day off. Hope you guys are alright. 

It’s not the only message. He reads back through the ones he missed while he was down on Khione. Sam must have arrived on Deneva before the storm blew over. It just reads Merry Christmas! but there’s a small photo attached of Sam, Aurelan, and the boys squeezed into frame at the foot of a great red conifer, the kind they have out there instead of pines, bedecked in Winona’s tinsel treatment and vintage glass ornament collection. It was clearly snapped between official poses. Behind the boys scrambling to put bunny ears over each other’s heads, Aurelan is laughing brightly with crinkled eyes and Sam’s caught mooning over her like she hung the damn stars herself. They look happy, and something ugly he lacks the word for twists in the pit of Jim’s stomach. 

Jim’s a glutton for punishment, and so he opens their messages and scrolls back through the photos they’ve exchanged over the years. They don’t talk much, their conversations are reduced to common pleasantries on birthdays and holidays, the sort of hello-goodbyes exchanged to be sure the other’s still breathing and they haven’t missed the wrong obituary in the fleet memorandums. Taken in on the whole, the juxtaposition of their exchanges forms a stark contrast Jim’s not sure how he managed to overlook before now.

Jim sends a picture of a dazzling trinary sunset in the TIC Cygnus system, predicted to only remain in stable gravity for a decade or two more at most. Sam sends a picture of Peter crying on his first day of kindergarten. Jim takes a picture of a bar on the moons of Risa, ostensibly modeled after a midwestern dive, that humorously misses the mark. Sam takes Aurelan to see Twelfth Night in the park for their anniversary. Bones films Jim’s best cliff dive into the pink seas of Altair, the doctor’s screaming so loud you can’t hear him hit the water. Aurelan records Sam reading a bedtime story through the door jamb on a quiet evening, and he and the boys are both snoring by the end of the clip. It goes on and on like that, reeling backwards through the years…

Sam is a good man. He’s around enough the boys will probably call him ‘dad’ instead of ‘father.’ He makes the effort. He doesn’t blow weekends and credits on skeezy portbar layovers or trips to pleasure planets or sight seeing in exotic alien tourist destinations. Sam takes every day of leave he’s granted and spends the better part of it on shuttles back to Deneva. He doesn’t go home because he has to, but because at the end of the day, that’s where he truly wants to be. He’s a far cry from the ever-absent Captain Kirk who raised the two of them, and Jim knows the thought is never far from Sam’s mind. He wonders if he knows he’s doing a good job, that he has nothing to feel guilty for. 

Peter is going to have a normal childhood with a real education and genuine opportunities—not the fleet brat indoctrination that funnels generational lines back into the service. He’ll stay in one place long enough to know what it’s like to have a best friend. He’ll study French and guitar instead of Klingon creoles and warp core physics. He’s never going to know a hell like Tarsus. Peter and Heph will be real brothers instead of the sorry approximation of the idea that passes for Jim’s relationship with Sam.

Jim keeps scrolling through Sam’s capsule of memories, frozen in a series of beloved moments, and tries to picture himself in his place. A small house on a lazy colony world, flowers Terran and exotic sprouting in the front garden. Growing fat on home cooked meals at the holidays. A wife handing him a fragile, swaddled little bundle, still wet behind the ears, with a tiny beating heart and her eyes and his breakable nose. 

It’s never gonna make you happy. Us Kirks, we've never been a traditional family, nothing nuclear about us. You’d make a terrible father.

If Jim commits to this thing with Spock, the door to that dream will be closed forever. It’s an uncomfortable thought to feel about the edges of. Jim had always assumed he’d get there one day—not today, not tomorrow—but someday. In the future. Even captains have to retire, and what will he do then, if he doesn’t have that waiting for him? It’s just what you do, afterall. It's what his father did. The golden image of the fleet captain ideal—the ship, the commendations, the perfect family waiting for you to dock in the home port… Can he really make the choice to give that up?

I do not speak of idle fantasy. 

Spock is right. Jim has always been an idealist, a hopeless romantic to the core. He is prone to focusing on the optics of the thing, from the perspective of the outsider. He pictures the future like he’s watching a holo of his own life with the highlights painted over and recycled to something beautiful and the ugliness hidden beyond the edges of the frame. He is not approaching the reality of it with any sort of logic or pragmatism. He’s not sure if this shift in perspective comes from himself, or is a kind of inception born of the inexorable twining of their thought patterns, but it hardly matters now. The surface sheen has already begun to dull.

I have often been reminded that I am not an ideal choice of bondmate. I will not be easy to love.

Jim thinks of his childhood, seeing George once a year on the occasional liberties on deployment, cut short when he was inevitably recalled to duty. Remembers his mother, alone in Riverside, all those fights over the comms in the farm house. Is old enough now, to reflect on how she had to sacrifice her own dreams for their father to pursue his. It wasn’t fair, not to any of them. Sam says he’s trying too hard to live up to their father’s expectations, and perhaps it’s not far from the truth. Up to this point, looking at his father’s trajectory is like staring into a mirror. Even their commissioning photos are nearly indistinguishable from one another save the era of uniform. He has spent the better part of the last decade chasing something with such blind ferocity he’s never even slowed down long enough to ask himself the important question—is that really who he wants to be?

Way I see it, it ain’t about what you love but what you don’t.

Jim tries to be honest with himself. For once in his life, tries to  imagine the future as it is rather than the idealized version he’s carefully crafted in his mind. 

He has always hated the colonies, ever since Tarsus. He’d never find peaceful rest there, the sting of cruel memories would never be far from his mind. He thinks of trading mountaineering for sports games, cultural exchanges for middle school theatre productions, complex subspace geometry problems for calculus homework at the kitchen table… He thinks of Carol, and the mistakes he’s been too proud to confront. He was terrified. He felt trapped. In the end, he wasn’t even man enough to take leave for the birth of his own child. She’d be right to hate him. The fact that she doesn’t, that she never expected he’d be anything other than what he is, stings more. 

Spock’s not gonna ask you for any of that. He’s gonna die on this damned ship, I think he knows that.

And what of Jim? His disposition mixes with the idea of traditional family life about as well as oil and water. There’s got to be a wire that got crossed somewhere in his youth or on Tarsus that makes him allergic to happiness and stability. He’s drawn to strife like a moth to a flame, burning himself over and over again, and dragging whoever has the misfortune to latch onto him into the fire too. He has failed to present any other version of himself at every opportunity. He is never going to change. Not because he can’t but because he won’t. Because he is broken. A terrible person, a selfish person. And he hates himself for it.

Jim realizes he has been idly flipping through old photographs without paying attention, and those from Sam have shifted to his own from the Farragut. There are hundreds of them—dressed in the local style for first contact missions, covered in grease in the Jefferies tubes, on the bridge, in his quarters, drunk in the port bars, cresting the summits of alien mountains… Never alone, always together, surrounded by a diverse and ever-shifting sea of smiling faces. 

Is he really so selfish, for choosing Starfleet over a traditional family? Maybe the ship is its own kind of family. Are those friendships really worth less because they were chosen instead of born from blood? 

Jim reaches the end, one from Erika she took down on Khione. It’s blurry, shot between shifting bodies, of himself and Spock locked hand in hand in some foreign dance. She’s managed to catch him in the rare act of the Vulcan approximation of a smile. Jim smiles, too, at the memory. He’s happier there than he’d be in any of Sam’s photos. 

Spock has made a far more difficult choice by comparison, leaving his entire culture and homeworld behind to be a part of Starfleet. It couldn’t have been easy. Perhaps he was afraid, too. What has Jim to sacrifice but his ego and a vision of himself that never existed at all? 

We’ve each of us got a certain kind of fool we’re willing to suffer.

Jim is a freak, an anathema, a perversion of an ideal. But maybe Spock’s no better, in the end. Maybe he and Spock are possessed of the same breed of madness, and are well-crafted to suffer each other. He would like to suffer him, he thinks. He might even be good at it. 

He told La’an that he didn’t believe in pre-ordained destinies. As all propositions are reducible to either tautologies or contradictions, perhaps deviancy was the only logical outcome commensurate with his temperament. Perhaps it shouldn’t surprise him at all.

Jim groans, pitching forward to cradle his head between his knees. Pondering the existential quandaries of his own fatally human nature in terms of formal logic only serves to underscore the bizarre, shifting center of his sense of self. He’s starting to think like Spock, even if his thoughts are still his own. Pretty soon he’s gonna inherit a taste for plomeek soup and Spock’s gonna develop a preoccupation with Charles Dickens. The ridiculousness of the thought teases a soft smile out of him against his will. That wouldn’t really be so bad… would it?

The chrono chimes three times over the shipwide comms, always with a strange eeriness at this time of night. The ghost of a smile slips back into a frown. It’s probably for the best to sleep out here tonight, on one of the benches by the viewport. He should give Spock some space. He could wake up before the start of alpha, it's unlikely anyone would catch him. Resistance though is utterly futile, and Jim finds himself on his feet anyway, pulled backwards into the winding corridors of the ship like some kind of obedient automaton. He’s slipping into a gravity well centered on the officer’s wing, and he’s far too tired to claw his way back out. 

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Jim is both surprised and unsurprised to find himself standing at the threshold of Spock’s quarters, punching in the actual access code instead of his temporary guest code out of years of muscle memory he can’t remember forging. When the doors slip open, the lights are already off and he can sense Spock more than see him where he lies under the covers, lingering at the edge of unconsciousness. Maybe Jim has been thinking too loudly, and has inadvertently kept him up. 

He doesn’t bother with the performative song and dance of dressing in the long-sleeved pajamas. He can’t imagine Spock’s going to pick up any radio waves off his skin he’s not already getting with his brain forcibly tuned in to the 24/7 Jim Kirk Podcast. He strips down to his boxers and kicks his uniform into the recycler shoot before dialing the thermostat up a few degrees. He’s feeling, paradoxically, too hot and too cold simultaneously—presumably because the environmentals are sitting outside Spock’s comfort zone. Jim approaches Spock’s sleeping figure on autopilot, only pausing when he hears the sharp inhale of breath from under the blankets. Spock’s got his back turned, face to the wall, but Jim can sense from the canto of his buzzing mind that he’s still awake. He doesn’t say anything though, and so when the moment begins to grow uncomfortable, Jim yields to the subconscious yearning that dragged him back here and lifts the sheets, sliding up behind him.

“Sorry. I just…” Jim trails off, lost in thought. He what? Needed to be near you, needed to touch you…

Jim places his hand over the naked curve of Spock’s spine, walks the slow path up the notches of bone and sinew until the hollow of his palm rests over the nape of his neck. Spock shivers at the touch.

“Is this okay?” Jim whispers. He nods, barely visible in the thin orange lights of the cabin, but he doesn’t have to say anything at all. Spock understands the urge implicitly. He abides the pull, smooth as water circling the drain, and wraps them together, skin on skin. Spock’s barely conscious mind hums with pleased contentment, and Jim’s own anxieties slow to match the resonance. 

Jim rests the crown of his brow to the base of his neck, inhales the familiar scent of meditation incense clinging to his skin. Spock’s mind laps over his own with the gentle, steady metronome of the tide rolling up the beach, and slowly washes over him as he drifts to sleep.

He’s on a strange bridge, one he hasn’t seen in a while. It takes him a moment to place it: the command simulation chamber back at the Academy. He recognizes the setup like an old flame. How could he forget—it’s the one they run for the Kobayashi Maru. Jim looks down, and he is dressed in cadet reds. The simulation is already running, the red alert blaring so loud he can barely hear the crew shouting over it. The decks are shaking on every level, and the ship’s hull strains against the pull of gravity. They’re bleeding altitude fast.

“But I’ve already beaten this module…” Jim looks around at the crew, confused. They’re frantically screaming orders at one another. 

This is not his team from back at the Academy. No, his command is an amalgam of faces he’s met on the Enterprise and the Farragut. Uhura’s on comms. Sulu’s at the helm. The navcomp’s Vulcan, hardly more than a girl, and the phaser tech is cussing in Russian, both looking too young to be on the bridge. Others he can’t place but he feels like he knows them, or that he’s supposed to. 

Jim is a rock in a hurricane, facing forward at the rail. There’s no time to think. It can’t wait. They’re all looking at him, looking for orders. He has to make the call. 

“What’s our status?” He hears himself say automatically. It’s like he’s watching himself in third person. 

“Sporadic energy readings, port side aft. Could be an impulse turn.” “Warp drive remains inoperable. Scotty’s doing what he can, but we’ve taken heavy damage.” “Sir, we've got to take the mains offline, it's the radiation…” “We’re never going to escape the nebula on impulse power.”

The crew relays back to him all at once in a shotgun spray. This isn’t right. The civilian cruiser isn’t pinging on the scanners. They’re nowhere near the neutral zone.

Jim turns around to face the balcony, the one where the professors overseeing the exam observe from. There’s only one here today, though. Captain Pike looks different somehow. Older, maybe—reminds him too much of his father. 

“I don’t understand!” He screams up at him, to Pike’s apparent amusement. It’s pissing him off. “What did you do? This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen!”

The red alert flashes, and the light catches his smile. It’s grotesque. It makes him want to vomit. 

“You like it?” Pike leans over the balcony rail, too relaxed and casual, entirely immune to the fear and panic gripping the crew. “It’s brand new! I had Spock reprogram it, just for you.” 

“Shut up!” He screams. He needs to block him out, needs to think. They can’t raise shields to buy themselves time. Somehow he knows that. Somehow he knows it’s his fault. “Spock…” Jim says quietly, mostly to himself. “But why? Why would he do this to me?”

This isn’t the first difficult choice I’ve had to make, I think you know that. 

Jim’s own words rattle back at him in his skull, and they sting like a taunt. He grips his head and tries to focus—focus! There has to be something he can do. There’s always another move to be played.

“Because…” Pike sighs deeply, and it sounds like an apology. He leaves the balcony and starts making his way down the stairs and onto the bridge. Jim hears him walking up behind him, but he’s trying not to listen. 

Not all of them I’m proud of, but I made them. I don’t have any regrets about that.

Jim turns to the science station—left field, eight o’clock—a compulsive habit, looking for some kind of guidance. But the chair is empty. Why is it empty? It’s not making any sense. Where’s—

I can make this one too, for both of us. If you can’t. 

His head is pounding now, screaming louder than the alert sirens. It hurts, and Jim expects blood to start coming out his eyes next.

“You of all people should know, Cadet Kirk.” He hears Spock’s voice, but when he whips around to meet it, he finds only Pike. Spock’s voice is coming out of his mouth. His body is ravaged with radiation damage nearly beyond recognition, skin sloughing off in sheets. “A captain cannot cheat death.”

I will make the choice.

“Captain, we have warp!” 

Jim hears Sulu’s voice from the helm as if from underwater in one moment and in the next he begins to tear. The pain is excruciating, incalculable, indescribable. His entire psyche is gutted with a dull knife. Something is ripped brutally from his mind, the very fabric of his consciousness is being severed—

Jim screams like he is dying—he thinks he might be dying—and wakes himself with the sound. His eyes bolt open in the low light of the emergency ambers. The Enterprise. 

“What the fuck!” He kicks off the sheets, rolling over and holding his face in his hands. “What the… what the actual fuck!” 

He’s shaking, heart hammering, drenched in a cold sweat. The ghost of a splintering pain still dances at the base of his skull.

“Computer, lights ten percent.” A smooth voice. The lights come up, and there’s movement from beside him. Jim is still shaking too hard to look. A moment later a warm body is draped over him, pulling his hands away from his face. “Jim?”

Wide brown eyes catch the orange glow of the sodium lamps, their expression flooded with concern. Seeing him here—alive—sends a rush of relief through him that he can’t explain.

“Spock…?” Jim realizes, suddenly, that he’s crying. 

“You experienced a nightmare.” He places a hand on his cheek, thumb dragging through the single wet streak. “Forgive me. Emotional transference is an effect of the bond. I believe your subconscious is attempting to reconcile my own inner turmoil.”

A logical explanation. Occam’s razor. Jim’s on edge, he’s been up most the night grappling with a difficult decision. He hasn’t slept more than a few hours at a time in days. Of course his mind would take him back there of all places. But… God, it felt so real. 

“Yeah. Yeah, of course…” Jim runs his sleeve under his nose. He pulls Spock down on top of his chest tightly, buries his face in his hair. Wrings his arms around his ribcage tight enough to bruise. He blinks blurry against the harsh lights of the cabin. “It was only a dream.”

Chapter Text

Subject Log Stardate 2394.91: The Enterprise is scheduled to enter the Vulcan system at 1100 hours, at which time the lieutenant and myself are to be granted liberty planetside while the remainder of the crew oversees a supply drop on a nearby Starfleet research station orbiting the 8th magnitude subgiant star HD18742. As my father is not currently on diplomatic assignment to Terra, both he and my mother will be waiting to receive us at the family estate. We… have not spoken since the dissolution of my betrothal and my decision to remain in Starfleet despite the evident danger posed to a Vulcan of unbonded status. I do not anticipate news of recent events will be well received. 

I have found meditation to be both necessary and difficult in the time since our departure from the Khione system. Surak dismisses preoccupation with matters outside one’s sphere of influence as illogical, however I find myself frequently returning to the matter of my future as it concerns the lieutenant. The recent logs have prompted reflection on my personal desires following study closure, however my wants are immaterial. It is not my choice to make. In the interest of compliance with data collection procedures should my outcome be included in further case reports and sub analyses [pause] I do not dare allow myself to hope that Jim should stay. 

I have prepared my formal statement of request for discharge from service in the event that I [pause] Whatever happens, I do wish to return to the ship. 

Surak teaches that perfect tranquility within stems from a well-ordered mind, which begins with the well-ordering of one's environment. In keeping with this ethic, Spock has always placed a high value on maintaining a tidy and organized personal space, even as he adheres less strictly to minimalism than would suit the tastes of a more traditional Vulcan. His space is not cluttered as his father has often accused. Spock merely favors decor that honors craftsmanship, and he honors the labor of the artisan by ensuring every piece in his collection is thoughtfully displayed and regularly dusted. 

Spock runs a delicate touch over the Khionian tapestry now hanging above the log console. It is woven of a rare and fascinating textile, a thiocellulose derivative unique to flora grown in regions of the planet with sulfur-rich soil composition and a peculiar lightfast hold on the vivid, metallic dyes whose colors cannot be accurately replicated via viewscreen. A remarkable piece of fine art despite its scale, one he is not truly worthy of and nevertheless possesses. Jim was correct in his assessment of the folkcraft’s merits. Spock had offered him the piece given how thoroughly taken he had been with the art himself, but he had insisted it could only find a proper home among his other wares and took care in choosing a spot to display it. Perhaps he intended to leave an indelible mark on the space, as from here it is in clear view of the turbodoor and is now the first thing he sees when he returns to his quarters after shift. Perhaps Jim knew as much when he hung it. 

The other marks of his presence have already been swept away. Gone are the day-old coffee mugs self-replicating at the bedside, once again replaced with the vase of Edosian orchids. Jim’s leather jacket is no longer draped over the back of his desk chair, nor do his boots lie discarded beside the entryway. There are no dog-earred paperbacks by the log console, no shaving kit on the sonic vanity, no duffle stuffed with gold command jerseys in disarray at the foot of the bed. The chessboard has been replaced on the shelf and the pieces stowed in the drawer beneath the tea table. 

Jim had apologized profusely for making a mess of his space during his stay and insisted on picking up even as he packed his belongings ahead of their departure. Spock does not mean to seem ungrateful for his thoughtfulness, but the space has lost a subtle sense of character. As he stands here now he finds himself feeling strangely… bereft. Jim has only been here for 3.56 standard weeks, and already he has grown accustomed to the mark of his presence. Without it, his quarters are once again nothing more than a cabin. Not a home. 

They are due at the Vulcan spaceport in only a few hours, and Jim is scheduled to return to the Farragut at the conclusion of their visit. At the moment, he is three decks down in port galley bidding his farewells to the crew, most of whom will be departing for their own leave on Terra shortly enough. It is bittersweet; Spock can taste his emotions in the back of his throat like the lees of an oversteeped tea. He knew that Jim favored the Enterprise, but humans are an extroverted species—Jim more so than most—and he has carved out a space for himself during his time here. Spock is not the only one who will be sorry to see him go. 

He would like to believe that their parting will prove only temporary. That Jim will return to the Enterprise, that their wonted routine will simply resume as if he never left at all. 

There are many things he would like to believe, but it’s not in a Vulcan’s nature to reside in ignorance or self-deceit. The truth of the matter is Jim has yet to provide an answer to the question of their future, and he dare not ask because he is frightened of the answer. Spock masks his own cowardice behind the excuse of respect. He should be ashamed.

For days, Jim’s thoughts have been a tumultuous menagerie of warring outcomes altogether difficult to dissect. His limber mind is adept at entertaining a multitude of conflicting viewpoints simultaneously, taking their measure and tipping scales to weigh their merits. Spock finds his predisposition towards synthetic reasoning frustratingly alien to his own analytic tendencies. This is undoubtedly what has earned him his reputation as a prodigy in tactical command, but he is at a loss attempting to parse the logic of his mystic. Jim is a skilled architect of unrealities, fashioned from nothing with the same sharp clarity of Spock’s own eidetic memory. Spock has always had perfect recall, but he cannot imagine that which he has not first seen. 

Jim’s thoughts are in perpetual motion, skipping from one idea to the next like a smooth stone over the water. Spock hears, but he does not understand. At times, he cannot discern truth from fiction. It is disorienting. He does not doubt the depth of Jim’s regard for him as, ironically, it seems emotion is all that passes between them which is not lost in translation. Knowing Jim will prove a difficult skill to master. He can only hope he will be afforded the opportunity. 

And so there is nothing else for it. He must endeavor to be patient a while longer. 

There is an idle pull as if someone were tugging at the hem of his shirts which his subconscious has come to reconcile as Jim wondering after him. He has been lingering, stewing in his thoughts, but it is illogical to procrastinate the inevitable. He takes one final look out the porthole, eyes the shimmering ion trails behind the nacelles against a backdrop of starlight, and hopes it will not be for the last time as an officer of the fleet. 

“A word, Captain?” Spock is sure to buzz the turbodoor, but Pike jumps slightly as he enters the ready room all the same. “My apologies. It was not my intention to startle you.”

“No, that’s alright. I just thought you’d have beamed out already, that’s all. Come on in.” Pike sets his PADD down where he is currently working through signing off on the season’s leave requests and shuffling schedules for the remaining skeleton crew. Spock cannot help but feel a bit guilty. The captain has relied on him to hold command of the bridge during the Terran holidays for the past several years. Now, he is inconvenienced with finding substitute coverage. “Jim stopped by earlier, on his way out. Kiss my ass, thank me profusely and all that. Told him there’s no need to keep up appearances, that we both know it’s not the boat he’s so damn interested in.” Pike chuckles to himself in light amusement, eyes sparkling with a hint of mirth. “He didn’t like that too much, I don’t think.”

“You are mistaken. The lieutenant is grateful for the opportunity to shadow Commander Chin-Riley and to serve aboard the ship. I assure you his interest in the Enterprise is genuine.” Spock is compelled to come to Jim’s defense on the matter despite himself. It’s a cruel reminder of his current predicament. Jim, afterall, was quite forthright in stating he was never here to pursue a relationship with Spock at all. His hands tighten around the PADD where his resignation paperwork is still open behind the locked screen, waiting for signature. “It has very little to do with me…” 

“I might be dumb, but I’m not stupid.” The captain employs this strange Terran contradiction often, and Spock still isn’t sure what it’s meant to communicate. “I see how he gets when he’s up on the bridge. Like a kid in a candy shop. He’s not as subtle as he thinks he is.” Pike sighs, wistful. He watches Spock like he’s considering something novel that has only just come to mind. “Doesn’t hold a candle to how he gets around you, though.”

“Captain?” He shifts uneasily under his scrutiny.

Spock tries to recall when Pike would’ve had the opportunity to gauge their interactions at all. Despite their ruse at the outset of his arrival (and his later musings concerning the appeal of Spock’s ass when viewed from a number of different angles on the bridge) Jim was never anything but a consummate professional during work hours. But he remembers now, a moment back on Khione which he previously overlooked as inconsequential. Pike had pulled Jim aside briefly, just before the closing ceremonies, for a word in private. Spock had watched them from across the room, well out of earshot, noting their rapport seemed a bit… tense. They glanced pointedly in his direction more than once. At the time, Spock merely assumed they were discussing matters relating to their hosts, perhaps something in regards to the ceremony itself. Now, he isn’t so sure. 

“Like I said—not subtle.” Pike smiles at him with humor, like he knows something Spock doesn’t. “And would it kill you to call me Chris, for once? You’re officially on vacation as of 0800 hours this morning.”

“I would not term my return to Vulcan a ‘vacation’ as I understand the concept implies some manner of relaxation,” Spock says dryly. He recognizes Pike’s request for first names as the appeal to familiarity it is. The Terran crew often lament their own anxieties about returning home during the holidays, and in this Spock finds he can finally relate. 

“Now that I’ve met your parents, I can’t say I don’t understand.” Pike kisses his teeth. “God bless Mrs. Sarek. Jesus loves her more than she’ll ever know, that’s for sure… But it’s only three days. I think you’ll survive.”

“My mother is Jewish,” Spock says. “She also holds a doctorate, and did not take my father’s name.”

“Right, sorry…” Pike looks at him for a moment, perplexed. Shakes his head. “Well anyway, I think you had something for me?”

That’s right. Spock had almost allowed himself to forget what brought him up here in the first place. He swallows the dryness that’s sprung up in his mouth and unlocks the PADD with great personal difficulty. It is illogical to procrastinate. It cannot stem the tide of the inevitable. Spock stares at the words swimming on the page: DD214 Discharge Papers and Separation Documents. He has not had such trouble making out the letters and their meaning since he was still a boy struggling with l’tak terai.¹

“I… As you are my superior officer…” He takes a deep, stuttering breath. Pike must notice something is amiss because he stops idly twisting in his chair to look at him, suddenly serious. “I require your signature in the event I must resign my commission.” 

Pike gingerly accepts the documents from his hands and stares at the records with blank disbelief, evidently blindsided by this request.

“Spock…” He thumbs through the first few pages, like he’s checking they’re real, that he’s gotten the gist of it and he’s going to call his bluff in a moment. “You don’t mean this. You can’t possibly ask me to sign this.”

“Do understand, Captain. I have every intention of keeping my post. I only prepare contingencies in the event I should… If I must…” Spock pauses to maintain his faltering composure. He stares out the viewport at the familiar field of Vulcan constellations crowning her red horizon. He does not think he can maintain his controls if he has to watch the captain’s face. His human emotionalism will make it far too difficult to maintain his own impartiality. “If I should not return.”

Pike disregards the PADD, tossing it aside on the table, and leans back into his chair. Out of the corner of one eye, Spock watches him turn to contemplate the view of Vulcan with him. He does not say anything at all for quite some time. 

“This has something to do with Kirk, doesn’t it?” Pike spits, accusatory. 

While the le-matya is a solitary predator by nature, there are regions of the L’Iangon foothills within The Forge where all-male bands have been observed to cooperatively hunt large game. There is strategic advantage in this, of course, as higher-ranking individuals enjoy better and larger kills than could be taken on their own. The social hierarchy carefully observed during the harvest of their quarry has been the subject of much zoological study within the VSA. But invariably, intraspecific competition for limited resources triggers the collapse of this loose cooperative dynamic. Once a dominant elder perceives a younger, more subordinate male as a threat, physical altercation ensues. It is rare for both individuals to survive the encounter.

“This does not concern the lieutenant. He is at liberty to determine his future as he sees fit.” Spock chooses his words carefully, lest he show too much of his hand. Pike cares for him, he knows this, perhaps more than is becoming of his station. Like a father, maybe, if Spock had a better frame of reference for comparison. No matter the outcome, he does not wish for his personal regard for Spock to reflect negatively on Jim’s career progression. “But I am Vulcan. It is not the same for me.” 

Pike lets out a long, heavy sigh. He appears to be warring with himself over something, Spock is familiar enough with the expression on his face by now, though what it is he cannot be sure. Eventually he surrenders the fight and settles on an answer.

“I’m not signing it,” he says finally, with a sense of great resignation. “You’re not staying on Vulcan, Spock, and that’s final.”

“Captain,” Spock protests. He does not wish to have this conversation, does not wish to be called upon to justify himself or reveal the true nature of the circumstances. “You cannot possibly make such assertions—”

“You trust me, don’t you?” Pike says quietly. Spock gets the impression he does not wish to be overheard, despite the room being empty. 

“Implicitly.” 

“Then drop it,” he says, in a tone which brokers no argument. Pike has that strange aura about him that he’s favored often since the events on the Discovery, and Spock understands that it is not his place to pry. The captain lifts himself by his knees from the chair, looking far too old for his years, and crosses to the other side of the table. He sets his hand on Spock’s shoulder, but he still cannot bring himself to look him in the eye. “You’re a good officer, Spock. A good man. And I know that being here… it hasn’t always been easy for you. That your father has expectations that you can’t possibly live up to.”

Pike wraps an arm about his shoulder and pulls him close to his chest, and Spock allows this very human display of affection, even if he can’t bring himself to return the gesture.

“But there’s not a single day out here that you haven’t exceeded all of mine. And you’re gonna do it again. God, you really have no idea. Sometimes I wish I could tell you…” Pike stops himself before he says something he shouldn’t. “You’re going to be incredible, Spock. You already are. I’m so proud of you, the man you’ve become and the man you’re going to be.”

Spock cannot recall a single instance in which Sarek was proud of his accomplishments. 

“Thank you, Chris.” His eyes do not sting with the threat of excessive emotion when he rests a hand over the captain’s sleeve. 

☿   ♀   🜨   ♂   ♃   ♄   ⛢   ♆

The familiar chill of the Enterprise transport deck fades out as his molecular anatomy deconstructs and reassembles itself on the wide, open tarmac of Shi’Khar terminal. For the first time in recent memory, Spock is at last liberated of the perpetual discomfort of existing in a world too cold for comfort. He resents how easily the arid air of the city cradles his frame in the warmth of her embrace. It reads far too much like a homecoming when it has been a long time since he ceased identifying himself with this place. He has not seen the light of the Nevasi in seven years, and his eyes have grown unaccustomed to the brilliance of the sister stars. He squints despite himself, and hopes the shift in his expression does not show so readily on his face.

“Christ it’s hot…” Jim sucks in a stiff, surprised breath as the temperature catches him off guard, and the dry air inspires a coughing fit. His eyes water, but the fluid evaporates from his lashes before it has a chance to roll down his cheeks. He reaches up a hand to shield his face from the intensity of the sunlight. Already, his breathing is beginning to labor.

“Did you administer the tri-ox compound as instructed?” Spock asks, despite already knowing the answer. He can sense the constriction of Jim’s trachea as surely as if it were his own. He kneels down to begin fishing through his belongings. He had the foresight to request some additional hypos from M’Benga. He is intimately familiar now with Jim’s selective memory when it comes to heeding medical advice.

“Shit, we were down in port galley for a while. Totally spaced it…” Jim trails off, lifting his chin to admire their surroundings. The transport terminal is located at the heart of the city, a great metallic ring with a roof open and exposed to the sunlight above with a massive forcefield to keep visitors in and sandstorms out. Outside, the dust kicks up in the wind, tinting the sky a russet brown—never so blue as you’d find on Terra. There is little that is blue or green in this place. High Golic lacks the precision of language to mark the distinction between the hues.

Blast doors to seal off the tarmac for emergency quarantine. Can’t blow off the roof if there’s no roof in the first place… Clever.

Spock catches the thread of Jim’s observations, passing idly in the space between his ears. He is correct, of course. Spock has never noticed how efficiently the spaceport is designed with threat in mind, their apprehension of outworlders written plainly in the lines of the very architecture with which they deign to greet them. The juxtaposition is stark when weighed against the neon and souvenirs and viewscreens one is bombarded with when beaming into San Francisco. There is nothing like that here. Their Vulcan counterparts materialize in silence, whispering faintly to one another as they file out the identical exits flanking the arrival decks in orderly lines without needing instruction. 

Spock lifts the hypo to Jim’s throat while his gaze trails an entourage of researchers from the VSA, dressed in their ubiquitous grey robes, and triggers the plunger before he can flinch away. He hisses, slaps his palm to the vein like swatting a mosquito. 

“You’re gonna be great friends with Bones…” He grumbles. Spock cocks his head in question. “Nothing, nevermind.”

Jim manages to catch his breath after a moment, when the drugs take hold and open his airway. He sighs heavily, slouching under the weight of his duffel. A thin sheen of perspiration tickles the hair at the base of his neck. It is too dry for the sweat to linger anywhere else. Jim is dehydrating rapidly. He will require water within the hour. He is not dressed properly for the climate—far too much skin exposed. He will have already begun to burn, even as the forcefield above shields them from the worst of the stellar radiation. Vulcan has a thinner ozone layer, and ultraviolet flux at the planet’s surface is nearly twice that of Terra. 

“Uhh…” Jim squints at the exits and frowns. Starbases typically have signage posted in the ten most common Federation languages for accessibility, but here there is only High and Low Golic, neither of which Jim is proficient in. It is not necessary. There are no visitors to Vulcan who arrive without an escort. “I’m gonna let you take point on this one.”

He smiles and gestures for Spock to lead the way. It is jarring to hear Jim’s loud and colorful speech patterns, to witness his expressive and gregarious movements here. It feels gauche somehow, though Jim has done nothing that could be immediately classed as impolite. Spock can already sense himself regressing to old patterns of behavior, hyper aware of the posture with which he carries himself and the discipline necessary to maintain a placid, neutral affect. He nods, almost imperceptibly, and they make for customs. 

The interior of the port is only marginally cooler than the exterior. Environmental controls are not standard in the buildings here—such an exorbitant resource expenditure would be illogical. The weather is considered mild and fair by Vulcan standards, and shifts little between seasons. Jim, of course, does not find the climate so amenable to his physiology, and Spock catches him rolling up the sleeves of his command jersey as they walk.

“Do you have anything to declare?” Spock reads the posted list of contraband, racking his brain for anything Jim might have on his person.

“What do you mean, I thought travel was unrestricted on Federation core worlds?” Jim balks in confusion. Spock cannot help but feel self-conscious at the unwanted attention they are attracting. Jim is the only human in the entire terminal, and he talks louder than the common etiquette for public spaces. Spock resists the implicit urge to shush him into quieting down. Heads turn to ogle them curiously as they pass, and Spock shifts his posture to hide Jim from scrutiny. 

“You will not be denied entry as a Federation citizen,” Spock says, which isn’t an answer, not exactly. “However, the visa class you are granted will determine the allowable duration of your stay. Vulcan immigration policy differs from Terra. Permanent residency is rarely granted to outworlders. As you are…” He shuffles uncomfortably, looking at his feet. “Bonded to a Vulcan citizen, yours is a special case with a rather narrow precedent.”

Jim turns over his shoulder to look at the planetary entry desk where a steely eyed Vulcan is watching their conversation with interest. He turns back.

“Should I mention that, you think?” He wrings his Starfleet ID badge in one hand, grip tightening on the strap of his duffel with the other. He chews his lip, and Spock catches an undercurrent of anxiety passing through their connection, though cannot definitively place the source.

“It would be prudent to avoid scrutiny of the subject unless queried directly…” Spock lowers his voice, tilts his head to hide the movement of his lips from the security agent. He does not mean for Jim to think he is ashamed to have him as a mate, that is not the issue. “You may inform them you are here on invitation of House Surak. As we will not be here long, a holiday visa will be sufficient.” 

“Okay, sounds good.” Jim offers a tight smile, and reaches out to clap Spock on the arm before making his way to the desk. He winces involuntarily at the contact, turns his head to see if anyone has noticed the casual display of over familiarity, and disappoints himself.

Vulcan holds great sway in the arena of broader Federation politics, and as a founding member world is allotted rather sweeping liberties with regard to the terms of their inclusion within the alliance. As such, they maintain a uniquely robust immigration policy under the guise of cultural preservation. The High Council fears the degradation of their way of life under the degenerate influence of outworlders, though they will never state it in such plain terms. The guidelines dictating what is allowed to be taken on and off world, the number of individuals granted entry at any one time, the duration of their stays and the regions of the planet they are allowed access are heavily restricted even in comparison to Tellar and Andoria, to say little of those worlds which hold lesser influence. 

As a Vulcan citizen, Spock is allowed planetary entry without fanfare. Jim, however, is indisposed for a further 93 minutes. 

Spock experiences Jim’s impatience with the overwrought ordeal secondhand, irritation buzzing through his cortex as he dutifully awaits just beyond the gates at the mouth of Tarhana Square. He is subjected to a blood work panel for a number of offworld diseases. He is asked to disclose his vaccination status and a list of planets and starbases he has visited in the previous twelve months. They ask if he has been to places where certain fungal infections are common or if he has recently engaged in interspecies sexual relations (Spock is gratified that they do not press his affirmative answer to the latter). They interrogate him on the purpose of his visit, the intended duration of his stay, where he will be going and with whom he will be staying. He is asked to confirm his departure date and offworld transport arrangements. He is pressed on the matter of his Starfleet commission, and answers a number of queries regarding his political opinion on Federation relations with the Romulan Star Empire. They dissect his belongings and catalogue the items.

They bring up two arrests—never charged—involving drunk and disorderly conduct, misdemeanor battery, and public indecency from nearly ten years prior to which even Spock had been unaware. Jim only laughs, and asks if they’d like a polygraph and a litany of ex-girlfriends, too. The entry agents do not see the humor in his remarks. 

Finally, he is released. 

“You know, I think they asked less questions last time I went up for my security clearance…” Jim complains as Spock hands him a bottle of electrolyte enriched water, encouraging him to drink. He grimaces at the taste. He gravitates subconsciously to the shade of the grand colonnade and lets a breath out through his lips, taking in his first glimpse of the city. “Damn, the pictures don’t do it justice, huh?” 

Spock takes a moment to bask in the light of Jim’s wonder, experiencing the sight of his homeworld through the gaze of both nostalgia and novelty simultaneously. Shi’Khar, or occasionally Os’Khar —The Old City—is more ancient even than Jericho or Catalhoyuk, and millennia of overbuilding are evident in her bone structure. Her towering spires rival the breadth of her sprawl and the precipices of the neighboring Seleyan highlands, visible on the horizon. She moves with the desert, molded by the winds as rock by water, and gambols through the valley with a logic all her own. She is the keeper of memories, of a Time Before Awakening, and bears the scars of antiquity proudly on her countenance. She has no rigid identity, and quarters of a forgotten aesthete era mingle seamlessly with contemporary design. A jewel of civilization in the crown of a wasteland. 

“It’s beautiful. I want to see everything,” Jim says, punctuated by another dry cough. His body doesn’t agree with his lofty ambitions.  

Jim is still dressed in his command uniform out of necessity. The limited civilian attire he brought with him from the Farragut— he harbors a peculiar fascination with an old-fashioned form of warp-faced cotton pants dyed with indigo known as ‘jeans’ that were once commonplace in the ‘American’ region—are not suited to the temperatures. It is high noon, and the bridge of his nose and the lick of his cheek bones are stung red with sunburn already. He breathes through his mouth and pants like a dog. 

It is uncouth to touch in public, but Spock cannot resist the draw. He reaches up to trail one finger down the fat curve of his cheek, and his discomfort is loud through the point of contact. Jim is nearly feverish from the short time they have been outdoors. He feigns composure with remarkable cogence, but he is liable to succumb to heat stroke before they reach the grounds of the estate. Spock finds he is not opposed to the thought of a minor detour. He is definitely not procrastinating. 

His touch pauses its advance when the pad of his finger reaches the corner of his lips. He draws his hand back inside the sleeve of his robes and Jim shivers despite the heat.

“We should first acquire you a garment better suited to the environment,” he says, after a moment. Jim blinks, like he has woken from a trance. 

“Yeah, good idea. I feel like I’m gonna pass out…” Jim eyes the milieu of citizens buzzing about the busy square with curiosity. The most striking feature of Shi’Khar is its relative silence, at least in comparison to other major metropolitan centers in the Federation. “Haven’t you guys ever heard of taking a siesta?”

“It is… Latin origin? I am unfamiliar with the concept.” The word is not Standard or English, and so Spock fails to place it. Jim snorts with humor.

“In some places where it gets really warm, humans close up shop for a while at the hottest part of the day. Go home, take a nap…” Jims words slur languidly, as though breathing is still an exercise in exertion despite the tri-ox compound. He yawns, fighting to keep his eyelids open, and threatens Spock’s resolve with a beckoning look. “I wouldn’t mind one myself right about now.”

Spock would not ‘mind’ what Jim suggests either, because if he is sleeping, he therefore cannot be in dialogue with his father, but they are still quite a ways out from the family estate. The maglev will only take them as far as the outskirts, they will need to hire a private car from there. The final distance is walkable, but he doubts Jim will manage the short trek in his current state. Spock tries not to wonder if his parents will put Jim up in the guest wing, rooms once belonging to Michael and Sybok, the mark of their existence on the house since relegated to a fading memory. Perhaps they will tacitly permit him to stay with Spock in his childhood bed, ill suited to fit two grown men. 

He briefly entertains the illogical thought of seeking accommodations elsewhere in the city and passing leave in much the same manner as the mission to Khione, wrapped up in Jim and hidden away from the immediacy of their predicament. He very nearly manages to convince himself there is some logic in relishing what little time he has with Jim before his departure, until the thread of the idea catches on Jim’s side of the bond and the fantasy begins to unravel. 

Spock swallows stiffly, encasing his desires in a bricked-over corner of his mind that Jim’s telepathy is yet too undisciplined to access. He is trying to be noble, as Uhura would accuse, suppressing any stray thoughts that might serve to bias Jim’s decision. Jim must sense the modest falter in his discipline through the bond because his brow pulls curiously taut for a moment before looking away. 

The silence that follows is tense and awkward. Jim licks his dry lips. Spock wrings his hands out of sight behind the sleeves of his robes.

The busy square is far from the ideal location to broach the subject hanging in suspended animation between them. Later, then…

The public train howls through the square, kicking up hot wind and a small flurry of dust devils as it comes to a halt on the main boulevard. Spock boards them wordlessly in the direction of the tanafluk² district. 

When they depart the train, Jim trails obediently in his shadow. Spock guides them out to the bustling streets where an open-air market spills onto the platform, the familiar scent of fresh baked kreyla and bar-kas seeds replacing the stench of bodies in heat. 

“It smells delicious! Can we eat something?” Jim eyes the young apprentices with fascination, the tips of their fingers stained black as they learn to tan the tea leaves after school. Perhaps he was under the common misconception that they are a planet exclusively of scientists. 

Their brief pause for Jim to gawk and dally is beginning to attract unwanted attention, though he hardly seems to notice. This is a traditional market—bringing an outworlder to this section of the city is a gross social faux pas. 

“No,” Spock says flatly. He grabs Jim’s wrist over the sleeve and hurries him along to a narrow passage at the end of the boulevard, expertly dodging eye contact with the Vulcan locals. 

Spock can sense a thousand questions burning on the tip of his tongue across their bond, but he must feel the eyes following them into the alleyway and so doesn’t give them a voice. Jim mumbles out a quiet apology, briefly brushing the backs of their knuckles when Spock relaxes his grip, before falling into step with his brisk pace. Spock can still feel Jim’s attention darting curiously about their surroundings—memorizing, synthesizing, poeticizing—but he is careful to ensure his interest isn’t quite so plain to their observers.

Spock has not had cause to visit the artisan’s quarter in many years. He ceased growing over a decade prior and has since experienced no significant fluctuations in weight that would necessitate new garments. While the advent of deep-space mining and advancements in replicator technology dictate most Federation core worlds operate a post-scarcity economy, only Vulcan sustains a truly credit-free production-for-use model. As such, a typical adult Vulcan possesses no more than two or three sets of robes as appropriate for regional weather patterns and two pairs of shoes, produced to measure by traditional craftsmen and designed to withstand daily wear for decades if well cared for. Formal robes for special occasions are passed down among clans and tailored when necessary. Occupation-specific clothing or garments expected to sustain damage in the regular course of wear are replicated. Anything else is seen as illogically wasteful. 

Traditional robes are not sold to outworlders. While there are laws prohibiting the sale of certain cultural artifacts, they are largely a formality. A typical Vulcan does not spend enough of their life off-world to value Federation credits, nor are such skilled craftsmen likely to peddle their life’s work for the purpose of cultural fascination, only to become yet another forgotten, exotic oddity in some distant curio collection. Spock knows of only one tailor in all of Shi’Khar who is likely to meet his request with anything but an upturned nose. 

He leads them down a flight of stone stairs with smooth grooves worn into their centers from innumerable lifetimes of footsteps, down through five layers of overbuilding to some of the oldest parts of the city. The air is cooler here, shielded by the towering painted rocks from the worst of their binary stars’ oppressive influence. It's a mark of prestige to have a workshop here. The space is occupied almost exclusively by generational artisans whose dedication to craft has stood the test of time even as great swaths of the city were raised and salted and exchanged hands. 

Ostensibly, all Vulcans are equal, but some more so than others. Despite all pretense, pedigree retains as much influence as merit. A Vulcan born of a less prestigious clan could not expect to be served in this part of the city. Syrran’s patrilineal ancestors have sewn robes for House Surak since before ‘Surak’ was a name of any note. 

Spock worries, momentarily, that he should have checked if the small tailor’s studio was still in existence at all or at least given its proprietor advanced notice before coming all this way. But they are here now, and as they round the corner the lamps are lit and the modest stone facade looks just as he remembers from when he was a boy. 

“I don’t mean to be insensitive or anything…” Jim throws a glance over his shoulder once again, squinting against the darkness with a twitchy, nervous energy. Daylight doesn’t dip her fingers this far beneath the city’s overgrowth, and his human eyes are unaccustomed to the lowlight. “But this is the seedy kind of place you get mugged back in San Fran.”

“You are mistakenly impressing Terran social norms on Vulcan culture.” Spock pulls up short, just out of view of the studio window, and checks over Jim’s shoulder for eavesdroppers and familiar faces. He is relieved to spot no one with ties to the family. “Quite the contrary, I would classify this quarter as ‘old money,’ for want of a better translation. The naturally cooler temperatures and historical architecture render such real estate most desirable. I suspect you are only the second outworlder to walk this street.”

“Oh yeah?” Jim looks back down the dark, narrow passageway, placing a hand on the cool surface of the sandstone worn smooth by the palms of generations of Vulcans who walked this same path, contemplative. He reassesses the value of this place with an open mind, trying to free his perceptions of the instinctual unease conjured by human prejudice. Intimate, he thinks. Spock shifts uneasily on his feet. “Then who was the first?”

“My mother,” Spock offers the confession quietly and turns to enter the studio without meeting Jim’s expression. Then, as an afterthought, he adds: “Do not touch anything.”

Jim rolls his eyes, and follows him inside. 

Syrran is an old man, frozen in time when measured against Spock’s childhood memories. His eyes are crinkled deep about the corners from a lifetime spent squinting at the eyes of needles and fingertips calloused from the neglect of thimbles. He is bent over the same ancient table, too lost in his work to be bothered noticing the door swing open. Spock feels as if he has only left for a moment, turned the corner to search for his mother, and returned to find him patching the knees of his school uniform. A memory from another lifetime, another Spock entirely.

Jim coughs—perhaps on account of the stale, subterranean air or to grab the wizened old Vulcan’s attention—but it has the same effect, in any case. Syrran looks up from his work and his eyes smile with recognition, even if his lips don’t betray classical Vulcan etiquette. 

“Tonk-peh, Spotsikam.”³ Syrran greets him in the diminutive, as though he were still the knee-high little boy who first came in to be fitted for his betrothal robes. The irony of the circumstances is not lost on him. He sets aside the monocular loupe used for inspecting fine bead work and gives his attire a brisk once over. “You have grown. I will need to release the hem of your robes again.”

Spock has, of course, not grown at all since departing Vulcan, but Syrran was always more agreeable to his mother’s illogical Terran sentiments than most. 

“Then it must be so.” Spock quirks a teasing eyebrow. “I’ve returned to free you from paki’lof that you might live long and prosper.”

“You honor me,” Syrran replies dryly, tinged with sarcasm. If he were given to humor, of course—Spock would never imply something so unbecoming of a proper Vulcan.

Jim gives him a curious look, evidently missing the joke due to universal translator nuance. Spock tries to conjure the fickle, amorphous sense of paki’lof, the lost purpose, an antiquated Vulcan spiritual belief that one’s katra departs the body when one’s reason for being is exhausted, for Jim’s benefit. He chuffs under his breath, lips quirked up at the edges. 

“What business do you have with an old man after all these years?” Syrran turns back to his work, marking red darts with an iron oxide chalk. “Perhaps you have grown wise in your absence, and see value in the craftsmanship the Starfleet replicators lack.” 

“Your work has survived hundreds of replicated uniforms during my commission, I would not challenge its merits.” Spock lowers his head in polite deference to his elders as he approaches the table. He switches dialects to High Golic, knowing well the universal translator cannot parse its evasive subtleties and Jim will struggle to follow their conversation. « That is why I come to you, hiyasu.⁴ »

« You want robes for the k'shatrisu.⁶ » Syrran nods in Jim’s direction, eying him with suspicion. K'shatrisu—a foreigner superficially enamoured with the mysticism of Vulcan culture. Spock fights the frown tugging at his lips.

Jim feigns being taken with the workmanship of a traditional pelal⁵ woven by Syrran’s father’s grandfather displayed behind glass, but it’s obvious he’s trying and failing to listen in. 

« You honored mother on the day of her bonding. » Spock has seen the holos. Syrran crafted her attire by hand, with the tasteful inclusion of an illogical Terran tradition—something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue—at her request. She was beautiful.

« Sarek’o-telsu¹⁰ is not k'shatrisu, » he says, matter-of-fact. Syrran has always respected his mother, respected Spock. This was not so easy to come by in his youth. Spock has many memories he resents, being poked and prodded and ogled by curious onlookers. Never here.

« Mine is no different. » Spock says tentatively, quietly. Any lingering ambiguity is made quite plain by this statement. High Golic never takes the possessive with people, with one notable exception. My husband. My bondmate. Mine. Syrran’s hand stills over the fabric momentarily, before picking up again. 

« You have a small frame. I was not asked to adjust the kal’i’farr pelal.¹¹ » Query: Why didn’t you wear your clan’s robes to your bonding?

« Be assured, hiyasu. Father would entrust the task to no other. » Response: Because my father doesn’t know.

Syrran again pauses his work, holds his breath for a moment before letting go, the Vulcan equivalent of a heavy sigh. 

« Spock, son of Sarek, son of Skon, son of Solkar… » He folds his weathered hands primly over the desk before eyeing him with a hint of mirth. « Your katra embodies the virtues of House Surak. »

« Perhaps in this. » Spock tries to disagree as politely as he can. He resents any similarities drawn between himself and his father. « But a single instance does not a pattern of behavior make. »

« Ha'kiv mokuhlek goh nam-tor ken-tor pla'rak.⁷ You are still young. One day, you will understand. » Syrran opens the drawers of his drafting table to begin fishing out his scissors and measuring tapes. « I will do as you ask as I would for your kal’i’farr. Perhaps these robes will prove more auspicious than what I prepared for your telan t'kanlar.¹² »

« I am grateful, hiyasu. » Spock bows his head politely, an old-fashioned display of respect that’s fallen out of favor.

« I will take his measurements while you are here . When do you depart Ah’rak?⁸ » Syrran thumbs through several patterns, some contemporary and others more traditional. Spock awkwardly clears his throat.

« If you might forgive this even greater imposition… » Spock trails off when Syrran gives him an exasperated look, already anticipating the request. « We are due at D’H’riset⁹ by first twilight. » 

By the look on his face, Syrran could have made colorful use of his mother’s English expletives had she been of a mind to share them.

« Perhaps I have something which might be altered. » Syrran gestures for Spock to follow to another room, and Jim is glued to his shoulder the moment the old tailor’s back is turned. 

“What was all that about, what did he say?” Jim’s gaze trails after him until he turns the corner, and then he turns his pleading eyes on Spock. 

“Syrran-hiyasu has most graciously offered to provide you clothing better suited to the climate.” He rests a staying hand on Jim’s shoulder.

“Oh come on, he definitely said a lot more than that,” Jim whines, petulant. “His eyes were burning a hole in my back the whole time.”

“Wait here. I will return shortly.” Spock gestures to an austere bench near the step risers. 

“You know, it’s rude to talk about people in a language they don’t understand right in front of their face.”

Spock doesn’t humor that comment with a response before following Syrran into the back of the studio. 

It is not the Vulcan way to overproduce and the majority of Syrran’s pieces are commissioned works prepared on request for several influential houses within Shi’Khar. Nevertheless, there are occasions where a particular garment is ill-suited to the wearer, or made from styles and techniques that have fallen out of fashion which Syrran has worked solely to impart the knowledge on his apprentice. There are several such pieces shelved among the bolts of fabric, waiting their turn to be reworked and repurposed, and Syrran invites Spock to have a look. 

Tastes among the high society circles of contemporary Shi’Khar favor clean, minimalistic lines, boxy cuts, and muted neutral tones. Spock has often wondered if this choice is deliberate in its semiotics—not an appeal to logic and pragmatism as the most visible academics and politicians of the city would profess, but rather a way to distinguish themselves from the vibrant, expressive hues so commonplace on Terra and within Starfleet. Too garish, too emotional, too… uncivilized. Spock was never so acutely aware of the elitism rampant in the capital until the moment he set foot on Starfleet Academy campus. 

« The VSA places such little merit in art, in culture… » Syrran thumbs distastefully through much of the drab taupe and grey on offer. « They forget themselves. »

« May I? » Spock gestures to one of the few pieces on the rack possessed of any color. The robes are a yellow ochre, a mature golden hue made with traditional dyes. Natural clay pigments, not synthetic organics. It’s reminiscent of Jim’s command jersey. 

« You were right not to attend. You see what is important. » Syrran says, cryptically. He pauses to run a thoughtful hand over the material before gently teasing it from the shelf. 

He reverently lays the robes out on the cutting table for Spock’s assessment. Their design is traditional, but timeless is perhaps a more fitting moniker than dated. It is immediately clear that the craftsmanship of this garment is a cut above the rest. The fiber is sham’amii wool, an exquisite but challenging material to work with a silk-like texture. It is prised for its resistance to both extreme heat and cold, its remarkable durability owing to a unique disulfide bonding structure that cannot be synthetically replicated. The weaver has done a superlative job breathing life, character into the textile. The warp and weft share a nuanced difference in hue lending a dynamic, iridescent quality to the drape. The tailoring is tasteful, a bit conservative. Nothing ostentatious—it does not need to be. The subtle intricacies and attention to detail speak for themselves to anyone with an eye for such talent. 

« Mnu. » Spock offers, simply. Masterful. The highest praise.

« Savesh was a skilled weaver. » Syrran’s bondmate. Spock met him only once, as a child.

« I grieve with thee. » Spock echoes the empty platitude, but it’s never enough. 

« You will keep it. » Syrran carefully drapes the garment over his arm, gathering his tools without fanfare. « It can be altered for Spock’a-telsu before the last train. »

« You are certain? » Spock hesitates to accept. Perhaps he has grown too distant from his culture to appreciate such a fine piece of art.

« You have come to free me from paki’lof, yes? » Syrran says. « Then do not leave it on the shelf. »

Spock finishes demonstrating for Jim how to tie the nepelal, a loose fitting undergarment made from an open-weave natural fiber that protects the fabric of the actual robes from absorbing dirt and oils from the skin. Jim was initially reluctant to dispense with his replicated Starfleet briefs, but was easily swayed by a reminder of how sweltering it will be once they return above ground. Spock lifts the golden outer robe from the hook and offers it to Jim to slip his arms through.

“Spock, this is too much. Really…” Jim dithers once again with indecision. “This is worth more than my liver on Reticulum.” 

“The ‘worth’ of the piece cannot be quantified in terms of Federation credits, as it has been freely given. This is the Vulcan way.” Spock offers. Jim’s preoccupation with how the ‘price’ of the robes correlates with his worthiness of wearing them is as alien a concept to Spock as their acquisition is to Jim. He continues to insist that there must be ‘a catch.’

“You know what I meant,” Jim mumbles. Genuinely, Spock does not. Jim’s thoughts are clouded with a complex, murky emotion when he runs his fingers over the silken weave with trepidation, like he doesn’t believe he’s been given permission. 

“Syrran is ki’ran— a widower but… more.”¹³ Spock tries to communicate the gravity of the sentiment among Vulcans in the space between their minds when the imprecision of Standard fails him. “This was woven by his bondmate, and cannot fulfill its purpose if you do not wear it. You dishonor his memory and his skill as a craftsman by rejecting it.”

“No, it's not that. I’m not trying to be ungrateful, it’s just—” Jim lets out a huff of frustration. 

Spock hesitates, unsure of himself given what remains unspoken between them. Perhaps he should refrain from touching Jim’s thoughts, but he… Spock traces the pads of his fingers featherlight down the inside of Jim’s palm, memories and impressions playing counterpoint to one another across the bond. 

“What, Vulcans don’t give gifts? Or is it only logical if it’s utilitarian?” “I suspect you are only the second outworlder to walk this street.” Jim babbles mercurially about the dying techniques of Khionian tapestries. Spock eyes the tiny water fountain on his desk, filling and tipping, filling and tipping—He’s trying this new thing called cultural sensitivity that seems to be a foreign concept on this ship—When it gets stuck, he reaches a finger down, careful not to get himself wet, and frees the gearing with a gentle touch. Jim draws the fabric of Spock’s meditation robes to his nose, and finds that the scent of his skin and his incense still lingers on the collar. “Sarek’o-telsu is not k'shatrisu.” 

You see what is important.

“Many Vulcans do not value art as highly as yourself.” Spock guides Jim’s hand into the sleeve, slipping the robe gently over his shoulders. “This is a gift. Be humble, and accept it.”

Spock turns down the collar at the nape of Jim’s neck, smoothing out the fabric over his shoulders. Jim takes a deep breath, admiring his own reflection. 

“Thank you,” he whispers. Jim traces the embroidered golden script over the chest with his fingers. Rata tafar tapan —concept, mental discipline, cerebral process—the motto of House Surak. Jim knows this because Spock knows this, has seen the symbols indelibly marked on Spock’s memories. If he is uncomfortable with such an overt display of possession, he does not mention it.

Spock’s hands settle over Jim’s shoulders as he studies their reflections in the mirror, and tries not to see his father’s face in his own. He has been told he has his mother’s eyes. Perhaps that is not so terrible a thing as he once thought. 

Despite his reassurances, Jim’s mind is still turning over stones in search of something Spock has not learned him well enough to place.

“There is something else troubling you,” Spock prompts delicately. He traces the rounded shell of his ear with the backs of his knuckles. Jim is pensive for a long moment, lost in thought.

“The other night… I had the strangest dream.” Jim’s nimble mind is drawn to memories of the Kobayashi Maru simulation, apropos of nothing. I had Spock reprogram it, just for you— He doesn’t chase the rabbit any further, leaving Spock to wonder. “It’s nothing. Nevermind.”

Would Captain Pike lie about such a thing? For what purpose? Spock was never a programmer on any Academy simulations. Point of fact, the Kobayashi Maru test was not administered until after he was already an ensign. Perhaps this is another of Jim’s vivid unrealities. Spock only frustrates himself trying to decipher his strange illogic.

“It is not nothing,” Spock presses. He rests a palm on the nape of his neck, above the natural slope of the robe’s collar, and the bond makes itself known with physicality. I see you as you see me.

Jim yields with a heavy sigh of defeat. His gaze breaks from his own reflection.

“Syrran… He’s a widower.” He reaches up a hand to brush the pads of their fingertips together, uncertain of the gesture. Spock reciprocates—an invitation. Jim swallows. “But you said—Well. I guess I assumed that Vulcans die when their bondmates do.”

Ah. A logical conclusion, given the narrow set of facts he is operating under. Spock forgets that this—the bond, this planet, their customs—is all so frighteningly alien to him. 

Jim is not his mother. He has not spent the better part of a decade in dedicated study preparing to integrate himself into Vulcan society. He did not invite this on himself, lacks the foresight to have even imagined it, and nevertheless perseveres blindly into a monumental unknown. He is a man of exemplary fortitude—not merely the willingness to confront adversity, but to endure it without flinching. A leap of faith, of trust, he offers himself over and over again with a bleeding heart and an open mind. Jim is profoundly human. 

He is also very scared. 

“Yes and no.” Spock occupies his hands with adjusting the tie of Jim’s robes again. “P'pil'la'ai is always a painful, dangerous process. When a bondmate passes suddenly or a mind-link is forcibly severed, it is often fatal for the partner.”

He does not obfuscate the facts with the polite euphemisms and vague generalities typically adopted with outworlders. Jim is not k'shatrisu. He has a right to the truth. His body is rigid and tense to the touch. 

“But Savesh’s death was not unexpected. It is customary for bondmates to meld during one’s passing.” Spock absently traces the golden lettering on the robe where Jim’s human heartbeat thunders under the fabric. “Syrran is ki’ran because he has carried another’s katra for the seven days of mourning, before passing it on to the care of a healer.”

Jim furrows his brow in irritation, as if Spock has missed the point entirely and offended his sensibilities for it. 

“I’m not scared of dying,” Jim says, like it’s a phrase he has rehearsed a thousand times before until he was certain he believed it. 

I’m afraid I’ll take you with me.

He need only think it, and Spock understands.

“You do not strike me as a man who is careless with the lives of others.” Spock brushes the back of his hand gently, and Jim opens his palm to greet the touch. 

Do not be careless with your own.

Jim squeezes his hand briefly before letting go. He nods, and turns to admire their reflections a final time.

“Looks pretty good, don’t you think?” He says, making a show of straightening his robes. He is trying to lighten the mood, but Spock can still sense his nerves simmering behind the brave face.

“I do not believe you capable of looking poor in any attire,” Spock says. “but gold is your color.” 

☿   ♀   🜨   ♂   ♃   ♄   ⛢   ♆

The first sun has already begun to set as they board the high-speed rail line out of the city, and Jim comments with wonder on the variegated shades of violet and indigo on the horizon that mark first twilight. It’s cooler now, and temperatures will only drop further come nightfall. There are no oceans on Vulcan to mediate blackbody radiation, and the planet’s extended diurnal cycle generates more extreme temperature differentials than even the Terran Sahara. D’H’riset, the family estate, is located 513 kilometers outside Shi’Khar in the Tarhana Highlands, where the long nights are cold enough for what little standing water can be found in the hollows to freeze over. They will arrive in a little over an hour’s time.

Spock acquires more water for Jim at the replicator, as he’s neglected to drink enough in the dry heat, and a cup of tea before reseating himself to the inside of their row, creating a barrier between Jim and the Vulcan commuters leaving the city. 

“Thanks,” Jim whispers. He downs the full glass in one go, evidently parched, and sets the cup aside before taking up Spock’s hand again and drawing it into his lap. 

He has been uncharacteristically quiet all day. Spock would like to think he is merely conforming to their cultural norms—the other passengers are silent, engrossed for the most part in reading on their datapadds—but his troubled mind bleeds into his own through his skin. Jim leans his head against the window, watching idly as the sprawl of civilization slowly yields to the scrub brush and spired rock formations of the natural desert landscape. Spock, politely, silences his own anxieties with simple meditation techniques. He allows the eddies of Jim’s thoughts and emotions to wash over and through him, hearing without listening, choosing instead to focus on the sensual feeling of his hand in his. 

Jim’s eyes skip about the interior of the train now and again, and the familiar buzz of annoyance teases the edges of his awareness.

“They’re watching us.” He gestures to the other passengers, and Spock passes a cursory look about the car. He’s right. Though they are trying not to draw attention to their rudeness, the other Vulcans are eyeing them with a spectrum of curiosity to disgust over their PADD screens. “I get there aren’t a lot of outworlders here, but you’d think they’ve never seen an interspecies couple before. What ever happened to infinite diversity in infinite combinations?”

“Kol-ut-shan,” Spock corrects gently.

“Right, that.” Jim shifts uneasily, and turns away from their prying eyes. “Isn’t that basically the cornerstone of Vulcan philosophy?”

“You may find my people remarkably well-practiced in espousing two simultaneous beliefs which share a logical contradiction,” Spock says, mostly for the benefit of their nosy audience. Then in Jim’s ear, safely beneath the register of Vulcan hearing: “However I suspect that in this specific instance their irritation is on account of—if I may borrow a Terran expression—your attempts to reach ‘second base’ on public transport.”

Spock glances pointedly at their tight-locked hands, where Jim has spent the better part of the last hour absently worrying their fingers together in his fit of anxiety. Jim’s face flushes with embarrassment when he snatches his hand back, swiping his palm down his thigh as if to dispense with the evidence. 

“Why didn’t you say something?” He hisses, slinking lower into the seat to try and hide himself from view.

“I did not mind,” Spock says simply. 

He has grown accustomed to being the subject of idle fascination. Spock has often been the only non-Terran during his deployments within Starfleet, and on other occasions the first Vulcan many have ever met in person. The attention which caused him much distress as a child has become quite commonplace. Or perhaps it is simply that the disapproval of strangers pales in comparison to that which awaits him at the end of the line.

Jim is surprised for a moment, then he laughs brightly under his breath, unable to stop himself. He knocks their shoulders together playfully. 

“Pervert,” he whispers, laughing again. Spock has to lick his lips to keep from smiling. 

Jim keeps to himself after that despite the comment, but as soon as the other Vulcans lose interest in their activities, Spock reaches out to lace their hands together again. 

Spock has surprised himself with how well he’s maintained his composure since their arrival planetside. Perhaps it is the atmosphere of his homeworld which triggers a certain frame of mind, taking him back to the days of his youth where he was concerned any mark of his humanity might slip through in his expression. Perhaps it is simply easier to mask his emotions when he is not surrounded by humans who display their own so openly. He has had plentiful distractions to keep his mind occupied with ferrying Jim through the city, and has been single-mindedly focused on ensuring their timely arrival at the estate.

Now, once the first sun has sunk beneath the horizon and the great stone beast of his father’s house is clear in the distance, the fissures begin to shift and crack his stoic façade. Spock struggles not to quake in his shoes. He is being childish, he knows this. It is illogical to fear his father’s judgement so acutely when he has far greater troubles weighing on his future at present. He does not hold any real power over him, not anymore. There are no demands he might make of him that Spock—now a grown man, no longer the meek, sheltered little boy he once was—is incapable of denying. His disapproval cannot hurt him in a way that matters. 

He knows this, and still he walks in the lengthening shadows of the stone escarpments as they make their approach, one reticent step at a time. Spock thinks idly of Zeno's paradox. While each step they take draws them closer to the inevitable, they must first halve the road standing between them. They halve and halve the distance infinitely, and Spock imagines they might be trapped here, walking side-by-side, where the continuity of time allows this moment to stretch via homeomorphism to last an eternity, asymptotically approaching confrontation. But sure enough, they reach the limit and arrive in the neighborhood of his mother’s hanging garden just beyond the gates. 

“You grew up here?” Jim balks in disbelief, staring down the path and through the portico where the façade ripples, allowing the occasional sandfire storms to lens harmlessly around the house. Spock turns the handle, and ushers him inside. “You know, Sam and I shared a bedroom back at the farmhouse.”

Spock does not mention his own siblings, how Michael broke a branch on his mother’s palo verde hiding from Sybok among its branches, because he can only balance so many complicated emotions at once. Jim catches the echo of the memory anyway, unwittingly drawn to the tree’s bright yellow flowers. He places a hand on the knot where the wound has long healed over. He turns around to marvel at the garden.

“Can I look?” He asks. Spock nods, and they leave the path to linger together on the grounds for a time, both reluctant to finish their journey but unwilling to speak it aloud. The plants cling to the irrigation system, their only lifeline in this inhospitable place, and form a natural labyrinth winding through the landscape. Jim guides them forward, following the trail towards the central fountain. “These are all Terran plants,” he notes. The question is obvious even if unspoken. 

“My mother has always had a fascination with horticulture. Though she has assimilated well here, she maintains this garden as a small reminder of her homeworld,” Spock reaches out to prick his finger against the needle of a round barrel cactus, not hard enough to draw blood, only to feel. He pricked himself deeply once as a boy, and his mother had fought to keep from laughing. How vicious a world Terra must be, he thought, for even its flora to sprout violence. 

“You mentioned you like plants,” Jim says quietly. He stops for a moment to admire a large saguaro, older even than Spock, thriving here despite its nature. “In your SIPPA bio, I mean.”

“I suppose I did…” Perhaps Spock has carried more of this place with him than he once thought. He is not sure how to feel about that. He stares at the cactus, once a small thing, now taller than them both. The plants have matured in his absence, and Spock hardly recognizes himself among them anymore. “Many of these specimens did not take well to the environment naturally, and my mother was initially disheartened when most perished within a season, despite her best efforts to care for them. It was my father who augmented their genetics to hardy the microbes in Vulcan soil.”

“He must really love her.” Jim draws a hand up to cradle the soft, pink blossoms of his mother’s acacia, their leaves unfurling and fanning open to respire in the cool night air. 

“Yes.”

Jim leads them deeper towards the heart of the labyrinth, until the sound of rushing water eclipses the rising hum of desert insects emerging to feed in the liminal hours between scorching heat and seering cold. He seats himself on the edge of the retaining wall, and Spock joins him wordlessly. 

The fountain is an illogical concession to extravagance in a world where water was once so scarce. He sat here often in his youth, with his mother. With his sister. He has never questioned its aesthetic value, only his father’s hypocrisy in maintaining it. The water evaporates so readily, it requires daily maintenance to keep from drying out. Jim dips a hand into the drink, creating ripples in the still surface. He stares at his fingers, warped and refracted, before drawing it out again, dripping wet. A low pressure system carries a breeze across the plateau, and he draws his golden robes across his chest to guard against the chill.

“Jim,” Spock watches the skies above Mount Seleya where Sol will be visible in the sky this time of year. His mother loved to point it out to him. “You’ve not yet given me your answer.”

“I know,” he says, barely audible over the rush of the water and the night breeze. Jim is quiet, but Spock doesn’t press. The evening stretches out between them and the bond keeps them moored together despite it. He takes a deep breath, and together they watch the last sun go down.

“You were right, you know,” he starts eventually, all nerves and quiet resignation. “That I hadn’t really thought about my future before. Not really. I guess… There was a time I didn’t think I would make it this far.” 

Jim offers the confession shakily, an old, ugly emotion filtering up to the surface. Spock can sense from how the memory is muted, all rusted over and oxidized, that it is not a sentiment he has shared often.

“And all of this… Everything that comes after… That it’s all just living on borrowed time.” He swallows to keep his voice from breaking. “That I should be grateful to be here at all, that maybe I don’t deserve to be, and asking for anything else… Well, that’s just being greedy.” 

Spock has caught glimpses of Jim’s memories now—in their melds, in his dreams. It is not his place to go digging around in there, not if he hasn’t been invited. He is only privy to their influence on Jim’s person. That is all that matters anyway.

“I’m not sure I deserve any of this, Spock. I know I don’t deserve you.” Jim is trembling where his fingers dig into the fabric of his robes, white knuckled with fear. “And I never would have been shameless enough to ask for it, not in a million years… But I want this.”

Spock stiffens and sucks in a breath, failing to process exactly what it is Jim is saying.

“I’m a selfish piece of shit for it, I know that,” Jim is crying again, swipes the meat of his palm under his eyes to try and hide it. “I’m not the kind of person anyone wants to be tied down to, and I’m sorry this had to happen with me cause I’m never gonna be any different. I’m selfish and I’m reckless and I’m probably gonna get us killed one day, but Spock I… I wouldn’t want to do it with anyone else. I don’t think I can.”

He is curled in on himself, the defensive posture of a wounded animal hiding the worst of its injuries from view. “I’m sorry…” He whispers, over and over again, frightful and penitent, guilty for having the audacity to demand anything from his life at all. 

“Jim… You have never asked me to be anything other than what I am.” Spock slips a hand over his thigh, prying his fingers loose where they are wound tight in the fabric to slip their palms together, one over the other, tranquilizing his self-effacing spiral with quiet acceptance. “My affections for you are not conditional.” 

“You don’t know that,” he whispers. 

“Perhaps not,” Spock allows because there are no certainties in the world, no logic in empty promises. “But I have always reveled in the pursuit of the unknown.”

Jim smiles despite himself, a small quirk of amusement that begins to unravel the tangle of his human emotions. Spock reaches up to trail his fingers down the side of his face, a tentative brush of the mind as the pads of his fingers dance over his psypoints. Jim turns, pressing their foreheads together, and reaches up to still his wrist, keeping his hand against the side of his face. He sighs, a release of tension, opening himself in unspoken invitation. 

Spock slips into his mind like sand through an hourglass, has been in want of this intimacy since their departure from Khione, and is gratified to find it as natural a thing as the first time. Jim’s heart’s a mess, but in a way that feels lived in—how it feels to enter a house with the evidence of its occupants strewn about the floor. He is ashamed of himself, embarrassed and uncertain still, but welcomes him anyway. Spock can make a home of this place among its faults, if he’d like to.

And he would like that, very much. He would like to find his boots beside the door and dog-eared paperbacks on the night table, to sleep in unmade bed sheets, to find the chessboard stuck in perplexing positions and serve tea in cups with tribbles on them. Spock slides their lips together without thinking, as if this were his custom and not Jim’s, losing himself in the endless well of his thoughts until he has forgotten where they are entirely—

“Spock?”

Jim starts with surprise, snapping back suddenly like he has been burned. His mind tangentially grazes a long forgotten memory—a flashlight through a car window and the scent of cheap perfume. Spock turns in slow motion, sick to his stomach, and finds Sarek standing across the yard, carrying the urn to refill the fountain. He stares brazenly at Jim with an expression Spock has not seen since the day he declined entrance to the VSA.

“Father.” Spock steels himself and braces for disaster with all the practiced composure he assumes under red alert. “May I present my bondmate, Lieutenant James Kirk.”

Chapter Text

It’s been a long time since Jim has met anyone’s parents. That’s the part of the relationship he usually tries to avoid, if he’s being honest. 

The last time was with Ruth, back at the Academy. They’d gotten pretty serious at that point and Jim made the rookie mistake of admitting that no, he didn’t have any concrete plans for the holidays because his family was currently scattered to the wind on three different fleet postings. She’d insisted then that he come home with her. Really, Jim, Christmas is no time to be alone and my dad would love to meet you. 

That was a lie. No father looks forward to meeting the man who’s fucking his daughter. 

Ruth was the middle child of six and grew up on the outskirts of Houston in one of the enormous public housing complexes ubiquitous to the Terran suburbs, so at least she’d had plenty of siblings to run interference during his stay. Her mother was polite enough, though she hardly gave Jim the time of day after a perfunctory welcome. In retrospect, Jim suspects she knew their fling had an expiration date. Jim got drunk on peppermint schnapps, made himself so sick with it he couldn’t stand the taste of mouthwash for a whole year after. Ruth got in a real row with him out in the hall, woke the neighbors. Funny enough, he can’t even remember what the fight was about anymore. Jim slept on the couch that night. He didn’t realize it in the moment, but that was the beginning of the end for them. 

D’H’riset is nothing at all like Houston.

Jim’s never been to Vulcan so it’s not his place to comment on whether the estate is unusual by cultural standards, but he thought… Well, he didn’t know what to expect, but he thought there might be some mark of Spock’s mother’s humanity on the space after their walk through the garden. The house is an enormous monolith of wood and concrete, the ground level a massive open floor plan with towering floor to ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of the neighboring highlands. Practically empty, which is good because Jim gets the sense he’s not supposed to touch anything. Decorations must be illogical. Seating, too, by the looks of it. He thinks they’re standing in what’s meant to be a living room, but there’s only four chairs and a low table between them that look about as inviting as sitting on the concrete floor. There’s nothing soft to be had, so every small sound amplifies and reverberates through the otherwise silent space and Jim thinks he can hear his own anxious heartbeat echoing off the walls. Outside, the rising winds bend around the curved facade of the house in a morose lament devoid of functional harmony like a very morbid take on a windchime. There are no corners to cower in, no art or old photographs to carry the small talk. Jim feels like he’s been made a centerpiece in a performance where he’s forgotten his lines.

You have nothing to fear if you have nothing to hide. What a sickening sentiment. 

He feels Spock before he hears him, and hears him before he sees him. Jim doesn’t turn away from the window. 

“Here.” Spock hands him a glass of something, and Jim is surprised to discover it smells like wine. “My mother still enjoys a few luxuries of her homeworld.” 

“Thanks,” Jim whispers, but even still his voice probably carries up to the balcony. It’s a real malbec, not the cheap replicated stuff. Probably damn near impossible to find something this nice out here, but Jim supposes being the ambassador to Terra has its privileges. He tries not to drink too fast.

Spock joins him beside the window, all stiff posture and parade rest, with two calculated inches of negative space keeping the balls of their shoulders from brushing. Jim doesn’t have to be in his head to recognize something about this place triggers his fight or flight reflex. Maybe that’s why it has an unsettling aura to him, too. 

“The theme of the architecture at D’H’riset is continuity,” Spock says, in answer to Jim's train of thought. “The design was commissioned by T’Kaana, my ancestor and ancestor of Surak, who wished the space to be modelled on the principles of measure, the infinite, and continuous change studied in mathematical analysis, or what is known to Terrans as calculus. The design was considered quite avant garde in its time, as most Vulcan architecture of the era favored straight lines and did not incorporate curvature.”

Jim hums softly, nodding in tacit understanding. He swirls what’s left of the wine in his palm and opens it up to the room. It’s too hot, spoils the vintage. He's not going to tell Spock that, though he suspects he can probably taste it. 

“You know, it’s funny. That Surak had kids,” Jim muses. “Not like it’s weird that a great thinker would also have a personal life, more just I’m surprised that Vulcans acknowledge that he did.”

Spock does that adorable thing where the corner of his eyebrow perks up with interest like a dog wagging its tail when it’s looking to play fetch. Jim knows that he knows that Jim’s only trying to distract them both from the anticipation of his parents walking in, but he accepts the gambit regardless. Spock can’t resist a rousing philosophical quandary. 

“Why would we not?” He relaxes a touch. “It would be illogical to obfuscate the truth.”

“Well, I reckon Jesus probably slept with Mary Magdalene, maybe even had kids with her, but it’s kind of an unspoken rule that we all just agree to act like that never happened. For good reason, if you think about it. I mean, can you even imagine?” Jim shakes his head, sipping the dregs of his wine. “How could anyone live up to that legacy? What would you even say to a guy if you knew you were talking to Christ’s great-great-great—okay enough greats you’d need scientific notation—grandson?”

Spock cocks his head like he’s deeply contemplating the implications of such a question, but Jim can sense the rub of his humor brushing against the edge of his attention. 

“As I have no cultural or religious ties to the Terran Christian tradition, I suppose I would say ‘Hello.’” Spock’s lips quirk up for a moment, the smallest of microexpressions. Jim snorts under his breath, knocking playfully against his shoulder. He rests the fat of his cheek on the bone, and the night has grown dark enough they see their own reflections in the glass more easily than the landscape beyond. 

Jim wonders idly what that must be like—being born with the weight of such great expectations to live up to, in a world where your given name means next to nothing beside the weight of your family’s, your father’s. He’s not sure he can, can’t imagine what sort of person he’d be. He’s glad that up until twelve hours ago, Spock was just “Spock the hot science officer from the Enterprise” without all the trappings and accoutrements of his clan following him. It doesn’t change anything, least of all for Jim—the revelation doesn’t hold nearly as much gravity as he imagines it would to a Vulcan—but he’s glad that Spock knows beyond any doubt Jim fell for Spock, not the heir to House Surak. 

Spock must catch the thread of his mental musings because he unfolds his tension to rest a hand on the small of his back.

“If I’d known you were a prince, I would have demanded a bigger wedding. Or, I don’t know, a dowry or something. Bunch of cows, maybe a stand mixer,” Jim teases. 

“There are royal houses on Vulcan, but I assure you Surak is not one of them,” Spock says. “And I believe Terran custom dictates it is your family which would owe a dowry to mine.” 

“I don’t know, you sure you’re not the blushing bride in this scenario?” Jim licks his lips and lowers his voice, leaning up to press to the shell of his ear. ”I had you on your back pretty often on Khione…”

Spock bristles, ears stung green at the tips, and Jim resists the compulsion to drag him down and lick it off. 

“The implication that as the penetrative partner you are necessarily the more domin—”

“Your son has returned.”

Spock and Jim whip around on time like two synchronized swimmers at the sound of his father’s voice. Jim doesn’t miss the careful emphasis on your , either .

Sarek and Amanda are standing on the other side of the room, looking like a bizarre heterosexual facsimile of their older selves. For how long or how much they’ve observed, he can’t be sure. Sarek hadn’t said much of anything at all out in the garden, only that he was going to ‘fetch his wife’ before storming off towards the deeper bowels of the house. That was over a half hour ago, and Jim can’t imagine the delay is on account of the walk. He suspects they were trading notes and discussing various attack patterns and defensive maneuvers to navigate the course of the evening. It’s what he would do. 

No one speaks up after Sarek’s…warm welcome, so he figures it’s on him to break the ice. Jim never liked the command modules that trapped you behind enemy lines. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Dr. Grayson,” Jim stumbles and falls back on the lessons from the cotillion class Winona forced him to attend back in Riverside. “I’m Lieutenant James Kirk, USS Farragut—” Idiot. Spock mentioned they’re still pissed he joined Starfleet. “—You have a beautiful house. Uh, thank you for hosting us.”

Jim isn’t sure if he should offer the ta’al or a handshake and settles on a stiff nod. 

“Oh, Dr. Grayson is my mother. Please, call me Amanda.” She offers a tight smile of her own that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Jim’s played the ‘but daddy I love him’ boyfriend once or twice in his life, at least enough to spot a certain brand of disappointment when he sees it. “I didn’t know Spock was bringing anyone home with him. I would have prepared Terran food for dinner.” 

Jim picks up on a little note of smug superiority in her tone, the snide implication that Jim’s too philistine to properly appreciate the nuanced flavor profile of fermented cheese and collard greens stewed til they’re rubbery. (He is, of course—he absolutely despises plomeek and pok tar—but that’s hardly the point).

“It would be illogical to visit without my bondmate.” Spock cuts in and fires the first shot across the bow with that little number. Jim is reminded that Vulcans lack that subtle instinct for social graces that keeps tense situations civil.

“Right, of course…” Amanda is thrown a bit by the outburst, but recovers admirably. She’s every bit the diplomat’s wife. Jim’s only seen her in the photograph in Spock’s quarters and in his childhood memories, and so is surprised to find her as gray and frail as she seems now. Stress has aged her too quickly. “Did you have to travel far to get here, James?”

He winces. Only his father calls him that, and only when he’s angry.

“Just ‘Jim’ is fine,” he says awkwardly. “And uh, no, actually. I’m doing a—” Jim senses Spock’s brain tripping the red alert on the airwaves, still not accustomed to his train of thought derailing his own at times, and pauses to recompose himself and choose the next word carefully. Amanda notices. “—rotation aboard the Enterprise at the moment. My older brother, Sam, works in the sciences with Spock.”

“Isn’t that lovely.” She’s going in for the kill, he can see the iceberg a mile out but it’s too late to swerve. “How long are you over there for?”

“I’ve been shadowing their first officer for about a month now.” Jim nods to himself, tries his best to salvage the situation by at least making it sound like he was there for legitimate reasons. “I’m heading back to the Farragut when our leave expires.”

“Only a month?” She raises her eyebrows and suddenly Jim can tell she’s spent the last forty years on Vulcan. “Then you must have met Spock before, yes? While visiting your brother?”

Shit. Fuck. No point getting caught in a lie.

“Ah, no... We met during my rotation.” Jim flashes his best charming smile to diffuse the tension to no effect.

“I see…” Amanda purses her lips in distaste. She takes a deep breath, rubs her hand to her breastbone in a self-soothing gesture Jim remembers seeing on older women fighting off fainting on hot summer days. “Well. I think the food is about ready, if you’re feeling hungry. I can set the table.”

Spock and Sarek haven’t said a word, eyes locked in a cold war over his and Amanda’s heads. To any casual observer less attuned to the nuance of Vulcan emotional displays they’d probably look neutral and unaffected, but Jim’s got Spock in his head now. He's one wrong move away from going postal. Amanda breezily pretends not to notice, and so Jim closes the trick out on suit.

“Dinner sounds great, thank you.”

And so begins the most excruciating dinner service of Jim’s natural life—which is saying something, because he’s had to endure quite a few stuffy fleet functions over the years. 

The dining room is more of the same bland wabi sabi emptiness. Minimalism has never been Jim’s taste. Nothing but a table low to the floor, similar to the one in Spock’s quarters, but only if it were a priceless antique that belongs in a museum instead of someone’s house. The lighting is dim, almost too dark to see clearly, which Jim is coming to realize is a Vulcan thing and wonders how Spock’s eyes aren’t burning out of their sockets when he’s up on the bridge. 

It’s Vulcan custom to sit beside your partner, that much he knows. He silently thanks Erica for being an insufferable scamp when at least he doesn’t embarrass himself by sitting down across from Spock instead of next to him. Sarek and Amanda mirror them on the opposite side. All the etiquette lessons of his youth pretty much fly out the window from there, though. 

Obviously Jim’s eaten Vulcan food before. He’s not Bones. His tastes aren’t so pedestrian that he’s allergic to trying new things, but this isn’t on the spectrum between fusion cuisine and outright bastardization that gives San Francisco spaceport its reputation for the best shikahr banh mi and t’lava cakes in the quadrant. He’s never had authentic Vulcan home cooking, and honestly he’s not even sure whether they use forks or hands or chopsticks or some fourth secret implement he’s about to humiliate himself with. 

Amanda serves them each a piece of flatbread on their place setting, like injera but lacking all the delightful squish that makes it delicious. The middle of the table boasts an honest-to-god lazy susan he suspects she brought back from Earth on her wedding day. It’s packed with a collection of fine bowls filled with half a dozen different colors of vegetarian mush made from vegetables he couldn’t name with a gun to his head, and—of course—sour milk curds. Vulcan staple. Jim discerns from context that they’re meant to serve themselves (possibly each other?) with the little wooden spatulas and, presumably, rip off bits of bread to scoop up the multiple species of mashed potatoes with their hands.

Maybe it’s a little like Ethiopian food, he hopes. Desperately. He loves Ethiopian. 

“It smells delicious,” Jim lies through his teeth.

“Have as much as you like, I know you must be starving,” Amanda counters, all airy pleasantries. Damned shrew. “It’s a long walk from the station and I know how difficult it is for outworlders to adjust to the climate.” 

Sarek picks up one of the bowls and starts serving his wife. Spock makes a pointed display of doing the same for Jim, so at least he’s spared the burden of asking what everything is. 

When the two of them are through posturing, the silence is absolutely deafening. Apparently, Vulcans don’t believe in a bit of tasteful dinner time jazz for ambiance. Outside, a sandfire storm rolls through the valley and the only sound is the distant wailing of wind and the faint rattle of porcelain shifting against the table. 

Jim plays supper time roulette, spins and lands on the purple stuff and takes a bite. It’s foul. Cold (you’d think that violates the laws of thermodynamics with how sweltering the house is) with a bitter amine aftertaste that nearly makes him gag. No spices to speak of, which is frankly baffling given the delicious aroma when Spock dragged him through the market earlier. Jim’s not one to be picky about food ordinarily, but he admits to some difficulty choking it down with a straight face.

Spock’s outward demeanor is placid as a still pond—almost too emotionless, clearly overcompensating. He doesn’t say a word, not to his mother and father or to Jim. His thoughts, however, are racing. Jim struggles to follow his logic as he fixates on every minute detail of his father’s behavior since their arrival, playing and replaying trivialities to calculate the precise angle of an eyebrow, the slightest clench of a jaw, and cross-referencing against a database of a thousand youthful disappointments. He’s winding himself up over analyzing the situation, and Jim wishes he could reach out. Nothing uncouth, just a hand on the shoulder to say ‘hey, I’m here, you’re not alone this time’ but he’s not trying to push boundaries and make things worse than they already are. 

They catch eyes over a mouthful of masticated lima beans, and do-si-do their thoughts. Across the table, Sarek and Amanda do the same. 

It’s making his skin crawl. The room is so quiet you could hear a pin drop, but that hardly means nothing is being said. Jim gets the distinct impression his parents’ telepathic tête-à-tête is a full on dialogue trash talking him right in front of his face. It’s not a fair match. He and Spock are at a tactical disadvantage here because they haven’t spent the last forty years digesting each other's brain matter. They might have a better shot communicating by signal flag than with the disjointed impressions they’re passing around in circles at the moment. 

“So Amanda…” Jim opens when at last he thinks his own tinnitus and Spock’s anxiety are liable to earn him a psychological evaluation.

She starts slightly, blinks where her eyes were focused on a fixed point against the wall beyond his head. Yeah. They’re definitely talking.

“Spock told me you’ve done extensive work on the universal translator.” Jim wagers this is a safe topic—academic, inoffensive, no politics or religion. “I’m sure you’ve heard it before, but it can’t be said enough that it really is an incredible feat of ingenuity. I can’t count how many times it’s saved our skins on deployment. Even with the most linguistically divergent first contact species, just a few hours of native speaker dialogue is enough to bootstrap functional conversation. I guess I’ve always wondered how that’s possible.”

This is perfect. All Jim has to do is regurgitate Uhura’s best talking points and he’ll get an A in asskissing. Amanda brightens a bit at having been given the floor.

“It’s an interesting challenge. Most people assume that language is all about linguistics, but our biggest breakthroughs for first contact species came when we began to consider acoustic physics. How do different species evolve to produce sound? How is that influenced by their environment? Even something as simple as air temperature and atmospheric composition can have a profound influence on what auditory frequencies a species uses to communicate…” She trails off thoughtfully. “It sounds like you have an interest in language. Do you speak anything besides Standard, Jim?”

“Well English, of course. I grew up in Iowa. Some Italian, a non-native Terran language is still a requirement in schools,” Jim’s not got as talented a tongue as someone like Uhura, but he’s pretty proud that his marks were higher than everyone in the command track who wasn’t minoring in xenolinguistics. “I studied Tellaran pretty extensively at the Academy, I’d always taken an interest in their philosophy. My parents are both in Starfleet, actually, so I picked up a lot of conversational stuff hopping around as a fleet brat. Even a little Klingon and Orion here and there.”

“Tor du stariben Vuhlkansu?” Amanda asks.

“Uh, no…” Jim flushes in embarrassment, picking at his full plate. “No Vulcan. Sorry.”

She nods politely, but is clearly disappointed. She looks at her husband. Sarek might be anything from irate to unamused to simply bored. He’s not quite so easy to read as his son, despite all their similarities in appearance. It’s the eyes, Jim thinks. In any case, that seems to mark the end of that particular line of inquiry. 

Silence falls heavy over the table again, but with a stormier underbelly to it this time. Spock’s hand is fisted white-knuckled around a deflated looking piece of bread. Sarek might be on the brink of a stroke. Amanda serves herself another helping of lentil porridge, feigning blissful ignorance to the temperature of the oil slowly coming to a boil around her. 

Jim feels like he’s caught in a saw trap and wishes the axe would just fall already because the suspense is liable to kill him. He’s always hated the silent treatment worst of all. The Kirk family might be dysfunctional, but there’s something to be said for having it out instead of bottling it all up and dying with it festering in there. He’d feel more at ease with the screaming. 

He regrets the thought as soon as he has it, but doesn’t retract it quick enough. Not before Spock catches his fool idea on the wireless dancing in their heads and sinks his teeth into it. 

“You have something to say. You show illogic by continuing to withhold it,” Spock says, voice so flat and cold Jim hardly recognizes it as Spock’s voice at all. He’s staring down his father across a battlefield of minced green goo with a hue and consistency remarkably reminiscent of a certain species' blood. 

Jim flashes him a look—Are we really doing this? Right now?—that he patently ignores. Jim’s not exactly a Vulcan cultural attaché, but he’s pretty sure accusing your father of illogic is the equivalent of calling him a fucking asshole judging by the scandalized look on his mother’s face. For a moment, Jim wonders if Sarek is going to play dumb. He takes the time to carefully set aside his food and drink, to brush his hands clean with a damp napkin, to swipe the corners of his mouth. 

“You would accuse me of illogic,” he starts, hands folded primly on the table. He watches Spock, but his face gives nothing away at all. “When it is you who strays from the path of Surak’s teachings?”

“Elaborate.” Spock doesn’t flinch when the spark of raw, childlike fear shocks down his spine, and Jim’s nerves tingle with it secondhand. 

“When you joined Starfleet, your mother and I presumed such acts of rebellion were a consequence of your human nature at your current stage of mental development. It appears we were mistaken in our hypothesis.” 

“There was no illogic in my decision to attend Starfleet Academy over the VSA, as we have discussed on numerous prior occasions. It is illogical to debate that which has already come to pass.” 

“Your past errors in judgement are not what concerns me. It is your present inability to learn from them I find disappointing.”

Jim’s head swivels back and forth over the table like he’s watching a tennis rally. Spock and his father don’t so much as twitch a muscle as they spar verbally. It’s disconcerting to watch him like this, protecting all his soft spots under a hard carapace. On all the occasions that Jim has fought with his own father, it typically involves short fuses and raised voices, cutting in before the other can finish the thought, blustering bravado as they see who can puff himself up to look bigger, stronger, more threatening. But for a Vulcan, the best show of dominance isn’t power, Jim realizes—it’s control. 

This is about who can get the other to drop his mask of indifference first. 

“Should this particular ‘error in judgement’ concern my choice of bondmate, I trust you would not suppress your opinion on the matter to avoid provoking his human emotionalism,” Spock says, and Jim flinches when every eye at the table lands on him for a split second. He picks up his wine glass and starts to chug. There’s nothing he can say right now that isn’t going to make this situation a million times worse. 

“Spock…” Amanda starts in with that classic warning tone all human mothers seem to be capable of. “Don’t take that attitude with your father.”  

“I am expressing multiple attitudes simultaneously. To which are you referring?” That’s a jab he learned up on Pike’s bridge, no doubt.

“Your habit of behaving as an ungrateful, petulant child,” Sarek says, entirely unamused. It’s a brazenly subjective accusation. “The dissolution of your betrothal is a serious matter, one you continue to neglect whilst denying the exigencies such circumstances demand of both you and this family.” 

“I have already addressed the matter,” Spock says, flatly. He’s digging his heels in on this one point in particular and is content to die on this hill. “The issue of my unbonded status has been resolved, as evidenced by the presence of my bondmate.”

“You need not repeat yourself,” Sarek snaps, and it catches Jim off guard. It’s hardly a fault, he’s barely stepped over the line by anyone else’s standards, but the cracks are beginning to show. “I have been content to entertain your frivolous exploits in the service at your mother’s behest for long enough. I presumed that you were young, and that in time you would come to see reason. But my patience grows thin where it concerns your fatuous antics, and now you expect me to believe that you are bonded to this boy.”

Jim is pinned under the assault of Sarek’s scrutiny. He might as well be a mangy stray their son fished from the gutter at the nearest starbase for all his parents think of him. It gives him the rub, and he bristles with a bit of fight. How someone as impartial and tolerant as Spock could have been brought up by someone so arrogant just goes to show not everyone turns out like their parents. 

“It is illogical to deny a truth you find inconvenient,” Spock fires back. Jim hopes he’s not egging him into escalation with his own energy. He’s always been confrontational, but that’s not in Spock’s nature ordinarily. 

“I deny nothing. The truth you claim is impossible,” Sarek says. “No healer would agree to conduct such a desecration of our practices.”

“You dishonor mother—”

“Your mother has devoted her life to our customs, to walking the path of our people.” Sarek is practically fuming, or at the very least showing a greater departure from composure than he’s seen on any Vulcan other than Spock, and even then that was in private. Apparently Spock’s touched on a raw nerve. “You forget the magnitude of what our bond has cost her, what she endured to give birth to you. It is you who dishonors her by bringing a stranger in this house bearing the mark of our clan as if he could understand its meaning.”

He’s right, of course, Jim’s not stupid enough to pretend otherwise. Doesn’t make it bruise his ego any less to hear it thrown back in his face so plainly. The truth is, Sarek hasn’t actually said anything irrational. He’s barely known Spock a month. That’s situationship territory, not grounds for permanent-telepathic-fusion-marriage. If Jim were a third party observer in all this, his own friend offering advice over a couple drinks maybe, he’d beg himself to cut and run.

But no man ever thinks he’d look back if he were Orpheus, does he?

Spock turns to his mother in want of an ally in all of this, but she beats him to the punch before he can open his mouth.

“Your father’s right, Spock. You shouldn’t have brought him here,” Amanda obscures her face to avoid looking either of them in the eye. She’s tired, in the existential sense. “And Jim, I apologize if our son has made promises to you that he never intended to keep.” 

That, finally, is the red balloon that triggers their mutually assured destruction.

“Do not presume to speak to my bondmate on my behalf,” Spock says, half-Standard half-Vulcan, and it comes through sounding guttural where it cuts in and out on the translator.

“This is no bond and he is not your bondmate. You were barely of a strong enough telepathic disposition to support a bond with T’Pring, a full Vulcan, lest we forget what became of that.” Sarek raises his voice to talk over him, and Jim thinks if he were still on duty now’s about the time he’d be setting phasers to stun under the table. “What you harbor for this boy is an infatuation and nothing more, yet another unintended consequence of your human biology.”

“Don’t. It’s not worth it,” Jim says under his breath. He rests a staying hand over Spock’s arm where he’s trembling, but he turns to stone under the touch. He doesn’t rise to the bait, though.

“I have given notice to T’Pau. She will arrive at D’H’riset tomorrow, after second dawn,” Sarek says in a tone brooking no argument. “I will let her determine if this bond you allege is legitimate. She can assist you, my son, in ridding yourself of this inappropriate emotional attachment. Your mother and I will secure you a bondmate, a proper Vulcan—”

“I refuse to find another—”

“A man, if you wish. As that seems to be your preference.”

“Father!”

“That is enough!” Sarek actually shouts, which is so out of character for a Vulcan it’s like watching a dog walk on its hind legs. “It is clear to me that you cannot be swayed by logic. I will hear no more on the subject tonight.”

He stands from the table, immediately excusing himself from the dining room to ensure he has the last word. Petty, for an ambassador. No one watches him go. When his footsteps fade out down some distant corridor, Jim chances a glance at Spock. 

He’s shaking like a leaf on a tree, a heady mix of childhood fear and hot anger simmering beneath the skin. His mind is a great swell, bubbling red with the stain of old wounds torn open anew. His expression teeters on the edge of a gross display of emotion.

“You okay?” Jim whispers, offering a small squeeze of his arm where his hand still rests over his robes. 

Spock snatches his arm away with force and barrels out of the room in the opposite direction of his father. Jim listens for the echo of his footsteps down the stairs. A moment later, the front door slams open with a crack against the concrete and the chandelier rattles from the impact. Jim wars with himself over whether he should chase after him or give him space to regain his composure in private.

The silence is awkward once again, just him and Amanda now, surrounded by the remains of their half-eaten dinner. Eventually, she relaxes the tension she’s holding between her shoulders with a weary sigh. It sounds like surrender.

“Jim, would you be a dear and help clear the table?” 

Well, he can’t say no to that. He still knows how to be a gentleman when it counts.

Amanda’s porcelain china is way too nice to be run through the sonicators so Jim helps her with rinsing the dishes by hand in the sink. Such a strange, old fashioned ritual. It lends itself to a dissonant sort of ambiance, playing at a pre-contact lifestyle like this while nestled in the mountains of a strange alien planet. Jim is honestly surprised given everything else he’s seen of the estate that D’H’riset doesn’t have ‘help’ for this sort of thing, though he reckons that would constitute another ‘illogical’ waste of resources, as Spock is so fond of pointing out. From Jim’s outside perspective, the Vulcan citizenry is pretty inconsistent with their judgement on that front. Mysteriously, it only seems relevant when convenient, and is summarily disregarded when it’s not. Like this entire house, for example.

Downstairs, the wind rattles against the exterior and Jim’s head snaps subconsciously towards the sound, as if this time it will be Spock at the door even though, rationally, he knows it’s not. Amanda gingerly plucks the bowl from his hands and begins to dry it off.

“Leave him be,” she says softly. She works the cloth in tender little circles, almost meditative, before replacing the dish in the cupboard. “He’ll be back in a couple hours.”

“How do you know that?” Jim asks. 

He trusts that Spock will come back when he’s ready. He would never leave Jim here to fend for himself for long. Maybe he’d trust his survivalism and command training well enough out in the Forge, but certainly not in this snake pit. His parents, though, seem to have woven a narrative where Spock’s enlistment in Starfleet was more like an angsty teenager running away from home to join the circus than a simple matter of a young man choosing a career path that served his own interests instead of his father’s. 

“Spock has always had a taste for melodrama. When he was a boy he used to cry and cry… ” Amanda sighs heavily, shaking her head to herself. She places another of the serving bowls in the soapy water bath for Jim to attend to. “In his room, for hours. Sometimes I thought it might break me, to leave him alone in there like that. He’s always struggled with emotional regulation.”

Jim’s hands pause for a second, turning pink in the hot water. He’s not sure why she thinks that sort of behavior is appropriate in the abstract, much less why she has a mind to share this revelation with him now. Sarek has made no bones about his opinions on Jim—his son might as well have come home hitched to a Risan prostitute—but he’s still not sure where he stands with Amanda. She might be human, but of the three of them she’s the most difficult to parse. 

“Oh don’t look at me like that. It’s different with Vulcan children.” She purses her lips, wrings her hands in the washcloth. “You wouldn’t understand.”

This time, Jim doesn’t think the comment is meant to be backhanded. He can’t pretend to know what it is she’s gone through, living here all these years in near total isolation from other humans. At the end of the day, this isn’t just picking up your bags and moving to China, that’s hard enough. But a whole new world… that’s something else entirely. There are paths her husband walks that she’ll never be able to follow—no katra, no pon farr, no touch telepathy. The same is true for Jim, only that Spock’s made an effort to be a part of his world. Or better said, a piece of him always was. 

“Spock’s half human,” he says, feeling stupid for saying it. Amanda is the last soul in the galaxy who needs a reminder about that. 

“Mmmm…” She hums, contemplative. She looks very sorry, but sometimes being sorry isn’t enough. “It's hard to tell where the Vulcan part of him ends and the human part begins. I’m not going to pretend I haven’t made mistakes drawing that line before.”

Jim thinks he catches an undercurrent of guilt in her tone, but it’s hard to say. He doesn’t know these people. Spock has always avoided the subject of his childhood, which has suited Jim’s tastes fine until now. It’s not like he enjoys talking about his parents’ fighting, all the demerits, about Tarsus and everything that came after. As far as he’s concerned that’s all in the past. They’re different people now. 

He recalls the holograph in Spock’s quarters, the one of his family posed for a professional portrait with the human child and the messy-haired Vulcan boy, both around Spock’s age, and finds it bizarre that they’ve never once been mentioned. Something doesn’t add up here.

“Spock and his father…” Jim chances broaching the subject gingerly. There are still dishes in the sink, but it’s been several minutes since they stopped pretending that’s ever what this was about. “Have they always fought like this?”

Amanda wraps her robes tighter about her chest, a muted sort of plum color that brings out the swelling around her eyes. It’s not because she’s cold. 

“Oh yes. They’ve never seen eye to eye on much of anything, I’m afraid.” She crosses the kitchen, and opens a cabinet beside the pantry. “It was worse when he was younger, if you can believe that.”

Ah. The wine. She holds the bottle up in offer. He politely declines. 

“Fought about what?” Jim leans awkwardly against the counter and watches her pour a glass too deep for her stature without comment. Suddenly, it feels like he’s back in the farmhouse. It’s funny, how all kitchens seem to occupy the same space in people’s lives. 

“Everything, really. I told Sarek that’s how human children are most of the time, but I don’t think he ever accepted that answer,” She shrugs, noncommittal, and takes a drink. Her nerves probably need it at this point. “We thought it would be safer for him to be raised here, as a Vulcan. That people would be more accepting of his nature. It’s what Sarek wanted.”

Jim frowns, but she isn’t looking at him. She’s too busy acting pathetic about the situation, which he’s never been good at empathizing with. Or drinking about it, he supposes, because he doubts she could cry about it under this roof. 

“But you knew he wasn’t happy here,” he says.

“Children are rarely happy about things that are good for them,” she says, sardonically. It’s jarring, spotting so many of the subtle mannerisms, the little turns of phrase, he knows as Spock’s on another person. 

“For god’s sake, you’re his mother,” Jim spits.

“What do you want from me? Spock is the only child I have left!” Amanda snaps. To her credit, it’s taken her longer than the Vulcans. She’s a frazzled, exhausted mess, and when she finishes the thought it’s laced with weary resignation. “I can’t get between the two of them anymore… I can’t.” 

Amanda throws up a hand, gesturing aimlessly to the empty space of the kitchen before dragging it through her hair. She curls in on herself, backed up against the cabinetry, and runs the heel of her palm against her face. It comes away streaked with mascara. 

Jim decides that he’s heard more than enough to get the picture. He abandons Amanda to her snivelling self-pity in the kitchen and makes a break for the door, which would feel a lot more dramatic if he actually knew where the door was. His boots clang-clang-clang on the way down the stairs. Obnoxious design. He hates this fucking house.

“Oy gevalt… Just let him go, Jim!” He hears Amanda’s voice calling after him from up on the balcony. “You’re going to get lost!”

☿   ♀   🜨   ♂   ♃   ♄   ⛢   ♆

Vulcan has no moon to light the desert at night, only the stars. And a communicator, if you happen to be a Starfleet officer. 

It’s black as pitch save the narrow field of blue light from the comm that’s hardly enough to illuminate his steps. He has to flip it open and shut every few feet, and each time it makes that annoying little tweet. He hopes there are no predators lurking down the ridgeline who mistake the sound for a wounded animal. The temperature has dropped significantly by this time of night, and the knife of cold dry air burns his throat. The worst of the sandfire storm has blown over the lowlands now, but the winds still whip the loose fabric of his robes in a tangle about his legs and kick up thick flurries of dust and sand. There is a low, constant hiss, the brown notes of abrasion against the surrounding escarpments, wearing them spitefully smooth night after night. It’s all he can hear anymore, not even the insects. 

“Shit.” Jim pauses to unstick himself from another bramble, methodical to avoid pulls in the fabric of his robes. They’re proving as durable and utilitarian as they are aesthetic, at least. He already feels terrible enough about the gift without ruining it the first time he wears it.

There’s nothing out here for miles in any direction save a few steep bluffs with fatal drop-offs, and he’d prefer to avoid those. Jim is unacquainted with these mountains, but Spock has learned their jests and japes by rote.

He quiets his thoughts and ambles blindly through the darkness on pure instinct, listening to the panting of his own breaths and the crackling scrub brush he’s bulldozing underfoot. No thinking, only moving. He takes a back seat to his own motions, watching his body scramble over boulders and maneuver through narrow outcrops in the third person. 

An old cairn. Freshly exposed bedrock. Syncline. Anticline. Twin hoodoos locked in dialogue.
He knows these landmarks. He gives up on the comm light.

It’s nearly an hour before he reaches the switchbacks. He’s close now. To what? 

Jim’s eyes have grown accustomed to the starlight, enough to pick out forms and contrast in the landscape. When he finally reaches the bottom of the gorge, the bend opens up to reveal a grotto. There is a small pool of water, more of a puddle than anything, so shallow the still surface reflects the river of stars like a silver mirror. At the edge lies a tree, a rarity in the wild on Vulcan and the first Jim’s seen since he arrived. It’s a gnarled, miserable old thing, all stunted and bulbous. One could be forgiven for thinking it dead, but nevertheless it endures. 

A figure sits crouched among the roots beside the water’s edge, a shadow of a shadow in the night. 

Spock watches his own image in the surface, though it’s too dark to reflect his features. The shape of his figure blots out the prickle of stars in a pool of ink. He’s shivering bodily in the cold, fingertips folded in the hollows of his knees for warmth and his breath clouds around him in the night air. Jim crosses the last stretch of ground between them without speaking. He slips free the tie of his robes and drapes the heavy fabric over Spock’s shoulders. He dips under a brittle and low hanging branch, careful not to break it loose, before settling down in a patch of gravel beside the spring. 

Spock doesn’t say anything at all. He shuffles his posture, lifting an arm to drag the furnace of Jim’s body under his wing until he is pressed flush against the barrel of his chest. Jim allows himself to feel small with him.

This place is beautiful, but of course it would be. Spock has an eye for such things. His mind dances with Mnemosyne, and Jim is treated to shifting images of the canyon in the light of spring, polka dotted with white button flowers. He wanders aimlessly through a memory, this childlike Spock, and Jim stumbles along after him in his tennis shoes. 

Together, they observe the negative space. Jim finds a trifle to keep his hands busy. There’s a groove where the bark has been worn smooth, not by sand but by touch. Jim rests his palm in the notch and worries the wood with his thumb. The texture feels nothing at all like the trees he knew back on Earth. 

“How old is it, do you think?” Jim says once they have been sharing each other’s company for some time.

“This is a glantausu —the Watcher. The species is notable for their exceptionally long lifespans and frequent appearance in religious iconography,” Spock says. It’s the first he’s spoken since leaving the house, and perhaps the clinical accounting of facts makes this concession feel safe. “I estimate this particular specimen has survived upwards of five thousand Terran years.”

Jim whistles through his teeth in disbelief. 

“That’s older than Surak…” More than that, it’s older than most human and Vulcan civilizations. 

“Their slow rate of cellular division and unique ability to repair both single and double stranded DNA via homologous recombination renders them remarkably resistant to radiation damage,” Spock says. Jim could never have predicted when reading his personal statement all those weeks ago that a simple ‘I like plants’ would prove such a revealing statement about his character.

“It’s got so many scars…” Jim tilts his head back to examine the branches, all crooked and meandering with no natural logic to their pattern at all.

“Radiation-resistant,” he says. “Not radiation-proof.”

Jim traces their silhouettes back to their source and finds the trunk growing around some sort of intrusion. It’s a roughly peened sheet of copper. There are characters in simplified Golic hammered into the surface by an unsteady hand, but they’re too difficult to make out in the darkness.

“What’s that say?” Jim nods over his shoulder. Spock doesn’t turn to look.

“I’Chaya.” He says softly. “My father believed that memorializing pets was an emotional compulsion and therefore illogical.”

“Your sehlat…” Jim’s mind conjures an image of Bumble as Spock recalls burrowing his teary-eyed face in fistfuls of soft brown fur. “...Did something happen?”

“Yes.” 

Spock cloisters himself behind that eerie emotional severance that makes it clear this isn’t a memory that takes him any place nice. Jim understands. 

“The kahs-wan is a traditional ritual which marks the coming of age for a young Vulcan. It is typically undertaken at thirteen Terran years old,” he starts. Jim remembers tracing the inked curves on his arm back on Khione, lying in the sheets, eyelids heavy. “It is a test of survival. One must venture alone into the heart of Vulcan’s Forge and survive for ten days without food, water, or weapons. If successful, the child’s parents are no longer considered accountable for his actions, and he is entitled to participate in most aspects of our society with the rights and expectations of an adult.”

Such a measure of mettle seems at first incommensurate with their principles of logic, but it’s easy to forget that not long ago, Vulcans were a warrior people. Back then, the glantausu was already ancient. 

“How old were you?” Jim asks. He knows Spock well enough to guess that ‘typically’ is doing some pretty heavy lifting in that exposition. 

“I believed it a logical solution to the problem of my social ostracization,” Spock mounts a preemptive defense. Jim has put the pieces together at this point that he was roughed up pretty bad as a kid. “I merely wished to prove myself to my peers. To my father—”

“Spock…” 

“I was eight years old.” There is nothing proud in the admission. 

The wind howls through the gorge, and Jim reaches up to take hold of the robes to keep them from blowing off their shoulders, inching towards Spock in the process. He rests his cheek on his shoulder, and the shame and remorse flows into him like a broken dam when they are this close. Spock slips their hands together, palm to palm.

“I’Chaya followed me here against my instructions. Despite my best efforts, he could not be swayed to return to my father’s estate.” Spock pauses, and for a moment Jim wonders if he is going to finish the story at all. “We did not make it far.” 

Spock’s eidetic memory is a wicked punishment. All these years later, he still recalls every detail with devastating clarity. Jim remembers the sand in his eyes and the pebble in his shoe. He remembers trembling on small, weary legs unprepared for the elevation gain. He remembers the precise moment when the bilious tang of fear rose to the back of his throat. 

“The le-matya is the only apex predator native to the L’Iangon.”

It is nearly nightfall in the canyon, and the long casts of pillared rocks across the sand make it difficult to discern what is lurking in the shadows. Jim knows it is dangerous to travel at twilight, but he cannot rest for the night before finding water. For miles, he has been unable to shake the sense he is being watched. He wrote this instinct off as an illogical, juvenile fear, but now he is not so certain that was wise.

“It is a remarkably adept game stalker owing to its heightened psionic sensitivity and has been observed to circle timid quarry for several hours preceding an ambush.”

I’Chaya stops short, growling at an innocuous looking outcrop. He will not be coerced despite Jim’s huffy temper tantrum. He is exhausted and uncomfortable, frightened and lonely. Finally, he grows frustrated and storms off without him, sandals slipping in the sands. Jim swears he catches motion in his periphery, but when he turns there is nothing but redrock.

“Widely feared for the structurally complex paralytic neurotoxin produced by a uniquely evolved venom apparatus in its barbed claws, envenomation can be achieved through even minor dermal abrasions.” 

It happens faster than Jim has the reflexes to react. His robes are torn open, a great gash from the shoulder down his arm. He is hurled like a plaything and the canyon floor rushes up to meet him. He collides painfully with a stray boulder, the air is knocked clean from his lungs. Jim inspects his hands and, in a panic, finds them stained a bright green. Heart racing, he twists around to inspect the tear—Syrran will be cross with him—but miraculously, the claw has split only seams, not skin. 

“The neurotoxin acts as a selective voltage-gated sodium channel blocker which induces a flaccid paralysis, leaving its victim calm and conscious during the progression of symptoms.”

Dizzy, he spins towards the guttural racket of feral violence. I’Chaya sinks his teeth in the cat’s neck, wrings until the spine snaps with the sickening crack of bone. Jim cannot hear himself screaming in terror, but his throat is pained and hoarse. The limbs of the carcass lie at unnatural angles on the canyon floor, intestines streaming out in bloody ropes from the gaping abdominal cavity. Green, there is green everywhere. The air stinks with it. Jim thinks he’s going to vomit. 

“Despite rapid onset, fatality does not typically occur for a further two to three hours following exposure when the paralysis of breathing muscles ultimately results in asphyxiation.”

I’Chaya’s side is lacerated between the ribs. Already, his breathing is beginning to labor. Jim scrambles to his side, begging and screaming, sobbing all fat soggy tears. He pleads with I’Chaya to get up, rips his fur out in fistfuls, but he is helpless. He grows weak, lying down on the floor of the canyon like he means to fall asleep. He is too heavy to carry. Quivering with shock and desperation, Jim places his tiny hand on his face, senses the well of all that encompasses the only friend he’s ever known waning beneath his touch. I’ll come back for you. I’m going to get help. Jim rips off his sandals and runs barefooted as fast as his small legs will carry him in the darkness. 

An old cairn. Freshly exposed bedrock. Syncline. Anticline. Twin hoodoos locked in dialogue.
Back to D’H’riset. Back to his father.

“Once the compound binds the integral membrane proteins interspersed along the neuronal axons, antivenom becomes ineffectual.”

They return with the healer much too late. He required treatment in the first few minutes, she says. Sarek kneels down in front of him, and places his hands on his shoulders. Jim weeps openly, shaking and hiccuping. There are two choices, he explains. You may say good-bye to I’Chaya if your emotionalism compels you, but he is in great pain and he will continue to suffer. Or, you may tell the healer to euthanize him so that he may know peace. What is your choice?

Neither! Jim wails. He balls his tiny hands in his ruined robes, trembling with grief. I choose to save I’Chaya!   You cannot. No! That’s not true! You have come of age. Now it is you who must make the choice. 

He does not wish to be a disappointment to his father. He accepts the hypo from the healer. Jim kills his best friend, and I’Chaya does not make a sound.

“I was arrogant. Careless. I sought to earn my father’s approval, and the cost was irreplaceable,” Spock says, voice wavering. “I will not make this mistake again.”

I do not want to lose you, too.

“You won’t,” Jim says. He circles his arms around Spock’s chest and holds him tight. 

“You must think me a fool,” Spock whispers. 

“Of course not. You’re not the first son in human history to do something stupid trying to get his father’s attention, and you won’t be the last.” Jim sighs. He hooks his chin over his shoulder, leans their heads together and feels the static crackling between them. “Not like I was much better…”

A flicker of a memory—Jim aborts the thought before it can gestate into something ugly, but Spock is clever. Nothing gets past him, and now his curiosity is hungry for it. He fists a trembling hand in Jim’s thin shift, and his fingers are like chunks of ice.

“I have observed that it is common for humans to express empathy for others’ circumstances by relating similar anecdotes from their own lives,” he says awkwardly. “I would not be opposed to listening to yours.”

He’s not asking for Jim’s benefit here, he knows that. As far as Spock’s narrow body of evidence is concerned, he’s convinced himself that his life is a statistical anomaly of royal fuck-ups. He’s an only child—or worse, Jim’s begun to suspect there was a time when he wasn’t—who grew up without one honest-to-god true friend in his whole life. Maybe that’s normal for your average Vulcan, but it’s clear that a part of him has been neglected for a long, long time. He has been so alone, feeling around blindly for the missing sense of connection that his father has tried to convince him is unimportant. 

But if it’s so unimportant, what compels us so deeply to search for life elsewhere in our universe?

Jim promised to be a friend to Spock and there’s nothing about being bonded that changes that. He was his friend first. He will always be his friend first. And friends are the people you can trust when it counts. 

“Yeah. Yeah, okay…” Jim takes a deep breath and struggles to find the right words. He stares out at the water, and the stars in the puddle become a pile of loose teeth. “I’m sure uh… Sam’s told you. About how our dad is a fleet captain. So, you know, he wasn’t home much growing up. Just about the only time he’d call was when I was in trouble for something, and pretty soon that turned into getting in trouble a lot.” Pathetic. There’s nothing about this conversation that makes him feel anything other than pathetic, no matter how many times he has it. “Me and my mom… Neither of us really fit in back in Riverside and when Sam left home, that meant we lost our buffer.”

It’s been a long time since Jim’s thought about telling anyone this story, hasn’t had the chance to rehearse the lines. Not since he met Bones, and that was only after he’d seen Jim’s medical files. There’s no easy path to the punchline. All it does is make everyone around him grossly uncomfortable. 

“It was hard for her, dealing with me all by herself. I know that. She thought maybe… Maybe if I got off the planet for a while, start over, that things might be different. So they signed me up for this boarding school in the colonies, where her sister lived. I would’ve been about the age you were supposed to do your khas-wan…” Jim takes a deep breath, and lets it out through his nose. He’s grateful he doesn’t have to look him in the eye. “They sent me to Tarsus, Spock.”

“Jim,” Spock seizes up, the guilty apology already on the tip of his tongue. “I did not know—”

“No, stop, just… Don’t.” Jim winces. This is always the part he hates the most, the part that makes him feel the worst. It’s not even the memory itself anymore, it’s people’s reaction to it. “I’m not trying to turn this into some kind of martyrdom contest. Just because something fucked up happened to me doesn’t make what you went through right either. But believe me. I get it. Sometimes, shit happens when you’re a kid and it’s like you spend the rest of your life playing a few cards short of a full deck.”

Jim is grateful that Spock isn’t the type to pry or to make paltry, sentimental apologies. There are things that once done, cannot be undone—irreversible chemical changes of the mind where equilibrium never quite reasserts itself as it once was. Pain and guilt can't be taken away with the wave of a magic wand—they're the things we carry with us, the things that make us who we are. But there is peace to be found, Jim thinks, in understanding. In knowing that you’re not alone. 

“I grieve with thee.”

They are quiet again for a time after that, allowing the grand cacophony of the evening’s spectacle to surely fizzle out until all that remains are the natural sounds of the desert. By now, fractals of ice are beginning to form spindles about the edge of the spring and Spock’s skin is growing cold. Jim takes one of his hands between his own, brings it to his lips in an effort to warm his fingertips with his breath. He presses the hand to his neck, the heat of his pulse. The touch stings with chill. They cannot hide away out here forever, and he knows Spock is having the same thought. 

“We don’t have to go back there, you know. If you don’t want to,” Jim offers. “We could run away. Leave everything behind. There's nothing in my bag that can’t be replaced. Head back to the city and just… catch the first shuttle off world we see. No one would stop us.”

Spock cocks his head like this is a possibility he hadn’t even considered.

“Where might we go?” He whispers.

“Any port in a storm,” Jim presses his lips to the tip of each finger, one at a time, and watches him shiver. “We’ve still got two more days of leave. Doesn’t matter how we spend it, as long as we’re together.” He drags the nail of Spock’s thumb across the roll of his lower lip and senses the spark of his arousal as it crosses the psypoint. “Although, I can think of a few ideas, if you’re in need of suggestions.” 

The corner of Spock’s lip twitches with amusement, but falls again just as quickly. He carefully extricates his hand from Jim’s grip and examines the lines of his palm. 

“An enticing offer,” he says. His aura remains phlegmatic. “But I must return. I do not wish to flee any longer.” 

There is nothing material to be gained by returning to D’H’riset that cannot be achieved more clinically and expeditiously via paperwork signed and filed from orbit. The very thought of it trips Spock’s switches again, Jim can feel his nerves formicating under the skin. 

Maybe a better person would give more impartial guidance, encourage Spock to be the bigger man and return to the ship. Tell him the healthy thing to do is not to stoop to his father’s level, to let it go, that the best revenge is a life well-lived and all the rest. 

But Jim is a selfish person, a vindictive person. He loves a clever twist of dramatic irony wherein the snake eats his own tail. He savors the taste of victory, but revels in the moment it’s writ on his opponent’s face. Even now, he fantasizes about beating the teeth out of Finnegan’s jaw, about taking the head from Kodos’ shoulders and dragging it through the ship’s corridors as a trophy. He might rest easier then, or the dead might at least. 

Jim is a poor choice of mediator if Spock is looking for someone to talk him off the ledge. He respects his thirst for retribution, even if Spock is too proud to admit that’s the real reason for all this. He’d like to be there for the vicarious self-satisfaction of enjoying the look on Sarek’s face when it happens. 

“Well then, Mr. Spock,” Jim rests on his shoulder and whispers the devil in his ear. “May the god of vengeance yield to you his power to punish the wicked.”

“He sends me for that purpose, and here I am,” Spock quips back, without missing a beat. Jim laughs brightly, and wonders if he’ll ever cease to surprise him.

He claps Spock on the back before hoisting himself to his feet by the knees and offers him a hand, heaving him up from the shadow of the glantausu. Spock slips the robe from his shoulders and returns the favor by wrapping it around Jim once again. They turn together toward the wide mouth of the gorge to face the long journey ahead.

Jim is really dreading climbing those switchbacks.

☿   ♀   🜨   ♂   ♃   ♄   ⛢   ♆

The house is dark when they get back. Sarek and Amanda have retired for the night, but this place is an echo chamber so Spock and Jim are careful to move soundlessly about each other to avoid waking the leviathan. They make a quick detour to collect their belongings from the living room, and Spock checks around the corner to be sure the coast is clear before leading them towards another wing of the house.

They pass the solarium, a great transparent enclosure where Amanda has left her mark at last. It reminds him of a giant bell jar, stuffed to bursting with a myriad of colorful orchids and other tropical specimens. The condensation rains down the glass on the interior, making it difficult to see inside. All the green and wet is striking against the rest of the estate. Jim suspects her human touch is more acceptable here in the private wing where only personal guests of the family are invited. 

They round the bend and circle the plants, passing several closed doors before they reach the end of a long corridor. Spock pauses momentarily, a hand hovering over the knob with indecision, before ushering them inside. The lights come up as they cross the threshold, and Jim knows instantly that this is Spock’s childhood bedroom. Spock removes his sandals and so Jim follows his lead, squaring his boots beside the door and stuffing the socks in the calves.

It is not a room meant to appeal to a child. Predictably, the decor keeps with the running Surak-haus theme. The far wall is entirely glass with a pane that slides open to access the balcony beyond, but the rest are painted a dull, inoffensive beige. It’s got all the barebones amenities of a typical prison cell—a bed, a mattress, a lamp, a meditation mat, a couple shelves—all of them neutral wood squares devoid of personality. That hasn’t stopped a much younger Spock from infusing the space with his presence, however. He has amassed a collection of minor sentimental paraphernalia, the sorts of small items kids tend to be enamoured with. Little origami animals and museum pamphlets, Starfleet recruitment materials and charts of stars in the neighboring sectors. Even a few drawings that don’t look like Spock’s handiwork at all. They are precisely arranged with the edges set to perfect alignment, nothing out of place. It is everything and nothing like his quarters on the Enterprise.  

Spock approaches a shelf with a hand-crafted model of a D’kyr-class combat cruiser and runs a finger down the length. It comes away clean. Someone has continued to dust in his absence, though his personal effects remain otherwise undisturbed. 

Whatever bravado Spock mustered at the grotto has been stripped from him now that they’ve returned. The memories he holds fast to form their own mental prison, and his thoughts inevitably fall prey to the same infinite recursions again and again, wearing his mind to the point of fatigue. The anticipation of whatever awaits them in the morning remains hung up in his processors even if he is doing an impressive job of revealing none of his anxiety on the outside. Jim wonders how many times he and the others aboard the ship have seen Spock so mute and unaffected and simply assumed there was nothing going on up there but zeros and ones when in reality he was overclocking under the hood. 

“You’re thinking awfully loud.” Jim approaches from behind and wraps his arms around his stomach, fiddling idly with the tie of his robes. 

Spock remains mired in his stochastic forecasting, convinced he can better prepare for what lies ahead if only he can crunch the odds and memorize the optimal board positionings to account for every conceivable possibility. There’s a fine line between analysis and over-analysis, and Spock is veering away from statistics into tasseography. Jim’s head is drowning in numbers. 

“Don’t waste the RAM.” He slips the tie loose, and Spock’s robes fall open at the front. “People aren’t deterministic—Not even Vulcans.”

He slides a hand beneath the layers of fabric, starts at his navel and drags his palm up his chest. 

“What are you doing?” Spock’s breath sticks, and he drops the miniature starship. 

“Offering a distraction.” 

Jim’s palm rolls over the ball of his shoulder, drawing his dark robes down one arm and revealing the languid curve of his collarbone and the long plain of his throat. He presses his lips to the tender juncture of muscle where his skin is starting to flush. 

“My mother and father might hear us,” he says, but his chin tips back to make better allowance for his explorations.

“You’re a grown man,” Jim teases. “Maybe they should mind their own business.”

He lets his other hand trail lower, weaving figure eights around the crest of his exposed hip bone, then lower still down the inside of his thigh. Spock bristles with a warring mixture of hot arousal and nervous apprehension.

“Jim—”

“Look, there’s nothing I can do to make your dad hate me any more than he already does,” he snorts with humor under his breath. “Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb…”

Jim sucks and nips higher up his neck—not enough to leave a mark, though imagining the scandalized look on Sarek’s face in the morning makes it nearly too tempting to decline—and traces the shell of his pointed ear with his nose. 

“I am unclean. We have not made use of the sonics.”

Spock burns, a bundle of tense coils and springs weary for release. All the adrenaline of the day’s excitement is built up and singing in his veins, making it impossible to relax. Jim gets that way too sometimes, when the waves keep beating the ship against the rocks. He’s gotta rub one out, flush the circuitry, to even stand a chance of falling asleep.

“So?” He breathes in his hair, and there’s a depraved eroticism in the scent of alien musk in place of civilized sonic soap. “Me too. I’ve been sweating like a pig all day.”

The golden string that binds them pulls taut, oscillating between the nodes at the nape of their necks when Jim runs his fingers up the wires. Spock’s lust rises, warming up and tuning to the right key to play along.

“That is not my primary concern…” He mumbles. Jim draws a finger around the half-moon curve of his ass.

“I think you’ve eaten a grand total of three bites of food since yesterday so I wouldn’t worry about that.”

A shot of raw anxiety spikes on the instruments when his knuckles brush against his tailbone —Spock has always had difficulty with emotional regulation— his heart hammers in both their ears. 

Ah, so there’s the true thorn.

This intimacy is entirely new and untried, fragile and experimental. They haven’t done this yet, not without the pretense of the Pon Farr to provide the convenient excuse of necessity. Spock must concede now to desire for desire’s sake, and that is a novel kind of vulnerability.

Jim’s hands arrest their forward advance.

“Should I let you meditate?” He whispers. 

A pause. For a moment, this awful house becomes a liminal space, the gap between two heartbeats. 

Spock surrenders then, whirling around and catching Jim’s face in his hands before crashing their mouths together, swallowing him up in voracious want. His fingers brush his psypoints, and Jim opens for him, letting Spock lick his tongue in there and taste the simmering yearning that’s been stewing on the stove all day. There isn’t a moment he can stand in Spock’s presence and not be totally besotted, all his subtle mannerisms constituting a torturous, slow-burning seduction since the moment they woke up together.

Spock moves the alarm to stop him pressing snooze and Jim wants him. Spock delivers a detailed monologue on the history and development of the Shi’Kahr public transport system and Jim wants him. Spock slips the robe over his shoulders in the tailor’s shop, Spock holds his hand on the train, pricks a finger on the cactus, cracks a dry joke, quotes Dumas, shouts, runs, cries, breathes and goddamn does Jim want him. 

Now they are alone, and Spock is his to indulge at last. 

Jim pushes Spock’s robes from his shoulders, letting them fall discarded in a pool of black ink on the floor, leaving him naked in front of the windows. Lucky thing there aren’t any neighbors. Spock presses his advantage, driving them backwards until the backs of Jim’s knees connect with the edge of the bed. It’s small—precisely enough for one person, no illogical waste—which will necessitate a touch of finesse and ingenuity to avoid rolling onto the concrete floor. 

Spock’s mind is a stubborn ass that needs to be pulled back on course every so often, and conjures a sore memory—in this selfsame bed touching himself experimentally, the guilt in it, heart racing, worried his mother might open the door any moment.

“Stop. Thinking. About. Your parents.” Jim punctuates his point with kisses down the soft skin of his inner arm, finishes by taking two of his fingers between his lips and licking up the pads.

Spock gasps, and Jim replaces the memory with one of his own—back aboard the Enterprise, sonic on the highest setting with a fist between his teeth, jerking himself off to kill the hard-on he gets every night crawling into bed with Spock, listening for his movements around the cabin on the other side of the door. There is a pleasant thrill of desire from Spock when this revelation strokes his ego, the sound that he makes when Jim drags his teeth down his fingers is practically a purr. 

Jim tumbles backwards on the bed shortways, too narrow to accommodate the length of him, and his head tips over the opposite side. His eyes find the door upside down as Spock pulls open his nepelal and licks a hot stripe up his ribcage with that feline tongue. Jim’s back arches off the sheets, and Spock helps slip his arms loose of his sleeves. The robes have about as much sex appeal as a wet paper bag, but Jim thinks Pavlov might show him a new perspective. They’re remarkably efficient when it comes to stripping. He feels around for the crown of Spock’s head, roping his fingers through his hair before he can lathe his way down to his cock.

“Hold on,” Jim squirms under his weight. “Let me actually get on the bed first.”

Spock relents long enough that he can drag his legs up and over the edge and flop his head back against the pillow with an exhausted grunt. “Okay.” He reaches out to grab at the narrow inset of Spock’s waist. He mounts like Pike showed him how to swing his weight up in the saddle, kneels down with his calves against his hips. 

Jim grabs his hand and pulls it to his face, to bask in the sensual caress of his soul against his, the easy comfort of that blissfully warm feeling at the moment of connection, all hot buttered rum on a winter’s night. He hums, pleased with himself, and takes a moment to admire the view. Spock is dusted with black hair everywhere from his feet to his head, built from hard wires bolted to steel girders, a thin towering spindle with perfect posture. He follows his gaze up the elevator of his sides with his hands, reaches his jaw and tilts his face this way and that to mark the symmetry in its construction. Spock flushes, and the stain rises all down the front of his chest.

“You have seen numerous more beautiful individuals,” Spock says when the flood of Jim’s musing begins to fluster him. 

“Nah,” Jim smiles lazily, admiring how the low light of their Vulcan ambience casts strange shadows on his pretty features. “Good-looking maybe, but none of them were you.”

Spock’s cock isn’t fully hard yet, but Jim reaches up to press his thumb against the shiny tip where it is just visible in the thatch of black hair between his legs. Spock makes a small, hastily swallowed sound of approval. The skin where his thighs press together is wet and sticky. Jim loops his hands through the crooks of his knees and drags him up the sheets until the green, swollen flesh of his sheath is staring down at him. With a hand on his hip, he coaxes him to lower his weight a little—more—there, like that—and buries his face in it. Spock chokes on his tongue, buckles and pitches forward to catch himself with a hand against the headboard. 

“Jim—” Spock’s thighs quiver with the effort to hold himself up. He leans forward, buries his face in his elbows against the headboard as if he could hide away from the world and spare himself the embarrassment.

He eats out his sheath with sloppy enthusiasm, experiments with wrapping his tongue around the shaft of his cock from the inside. Teases until Spock can’t grow any harder with it still inside and whines and bucks with discomfort, rutting against Jim’s face to beg him to give it room to breathe. Jim tortures him a little longer, because he can, because he enjoys having Spock at his mercy, likes eliciting all those traitorous moans that are probably echoing down the corridor right now. When it sounds like he’s liable to come in his sheath, Jim relents. His swollen cock slicks free from its cage, and he breathes a heavy sigh of relief as Jim moves on to his ass for the second course. 

It is a novel amusement, being able to feel Spock through all this—not so bodily as in the meld, but enough to know when he’s doing something right, when to malinger and when to move on, when he is nearing the precipice and can pull back to edge him again. It makes the game so easy it is almost unfair for poor Spock, his legs slowly turning to jello. Above him, he’s panting and heaving, brain reduced to nothing but a bunch of bees buzzing in a jar. No more room for his earlier anxieties, now he’s preoccupied with disgust over how dirty this is, with the fear of getting caught in such a debauched and compromising position. If he had the clarity of mind to form words, Jim reckons he’d be hearing all about that right now. But Spock is such a terrible liar—he’s getting off on this as much as he is.

When he’s worked enough of the knots from his muscles that his ass is plenty loose, Jim slaps his thigh to get him to let him up for air. He reaches for the headboard and hauls himself to sitting upright in the narrow space between Spock and the wall, panting. His hair is drenched with sweat in the heat of the room and some lingering evidence of Spock is slicked wet across his cheek. Spock kisses him, in the human fashion, undeterred by the taste of himself on his mouth and god Jim’s so hard it hurts, wants to fuck him so hard it rearranges his organs. 

Spock catches that degenerate thought because of course he does, reaches between them and Jim hisses when his chilly fingers wrap around his neglected cock. He adjusts himself in his lap, moves his arms from the headboard to Jim’s shoulders, and lines himself up before sinking down around him. Jim’s eyes roll back and his head cracks against the wall, loosing his breath between his teeth. Spock moves slowly at first, as fastidious and precise as he operates in all things. Shimmies his hips a bit once his ass is flush against Jim’s thighs, a minor course correction out in the fourth decimal place, before he starts running through his paces. 

And yeah, Pike taught him something about horses, cause he’s putting him out to stud right now. Jim bars an arm across the small of his back to keep him steady, buries his face in his neck, and bucks his hips up to meet him on the beat. Spock moans like the air is being punched from his lungs on every stroke. He fumbles once for purchase and settles on holding Jim’s face between his palms. He feels him winding out towards completion, feels it mingling with his own approach surely enough. Their timing is off, at least until the chain that spins the gears between their brains syncs them up. Spock is close, they both are. Jim pulls one hand from his cheek to suck on Spock’s fingers, which he’s come to realize does almost as much for him as sucking his cock anyway. 

Spock is loud when he comes, enough to wake the house if they weren’t in a separate wing. It’s like he’s been dying to scream all night, and now it’s been forced from him so he is free of it at last. His rhythm stutters, and Jim digs bruises in his back with the force of how tightly he clings to his frame when he finishes inside him. In the aftermath, the fog has cleared some, chased out by the warm breeze that always follows summer rain. 

Their position begins to grow uncomfortable, and Jim kisses Spock’s cheek when he extricates himself with a slight wince. He stands from the bed, and Jim catches his breath, lying back limp and boneless against the sheets. After the rollercoaster of emotions the day has been, closing on the comfortable numbness that follows a thorough fucking feels positively divine. Spock is better off for it too, head at last devoid of all rational thought. Jim is appreciating this rare blissful moment of total psychological silence. 

There is a hard wrinkle digging uncomfortably into his shoulder blade, and when he recovers enough motivation for movement, he reaches back to feel around for it. When his hand finds the culprit, he sighs.

“Great…” Jim rolls off his robes and checks for wet spots. Looks like the shift caught the worst of it, at least that can be recycled. He balls that up and tosses it aside, inspecting the finer outer robes. He presses the gold fabric to his nose and groans. That’s the only thing he has to wear. “I’m gonna stink like sex tomorrow.” 

Spock doesn’t comment on that, but the small, animalistic part of his instinct that wakes up for his Pon Farr preens at the thought. Jim reaches up to hang the robe off the headboard, hoping the worst of the wrinkles will fall out overnight. Spock moves to collect his own from the pile on the floor.

“No, don't get dressed. Stay.” Jim rolls over and reaches out to catch his arm, trails the touch down til their fingers meet.

“We are disgusting.” Spock gives him a look over his shoulder that anyone else would say is ‘expressionless’ but Jim would call this subtle nuance ‘fond exasperation.’

“I like it when you’re gross for me. I like being the one who gets to make a mess of you,” Jim rubs the back of his hand with his thumb, tempting him closer with a gentle tug. He yawns, long and wide. “Sonics will still be there in the morning.” 

Spock, physically and emotionally exhausted himself, does not require much convincing to skip the fanfare of bathing and redressing before calling an end to this very long day. He does make an effort to at least wipe the worst of the sticky wetness from his ass and thighs first. Jim manages to kick down the sheets without getting up, too lazy even for that, and holds them up to invite him underneath. 

“This bed is not big enough for two adult men,” Spock says, gesturing to cut the lights. 

“I know that, Spock.” Jim has to wrap himself around his frame to make them both fit, and only if they keep their legs straight. Even then, it's a tight squeeze. “You want to take turns? I can go count shuttlecraft on the observation deck.”

“No.” He pulls Jim’s hand across his chest, lacing their fingers together. 

Outside beyond the window, the sky is a vast river of stars. Jim wonders if this is how Spock slept when he was younger, dreaming of one day standing on the other side of the glass.