Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There is no good way to wake up in Sickbay.

James Kirk, having spent an unfortunate proportion of his working life doing just that, was intimately aware of this fact.  And, he had to say, the statement was especially true after being stabbed.

Nevertheless, he was willing to rate this experience as…  Definitely not the worst.  As the world came slowly into focus, soft and fuzzy at the edges, he was able to turn his head to the side and give Spock a bleary sort of grin, and even though Spock didn’t smile back, his eyes were decidedly warm.

“Morning, Mister,” he said, keeping his voice low in deference to Ambassador Sarek, who was almost certainly awake but had not yet elected to show it.  “How do you feel?”

“Bad,” said Spock.

And then he blinked, surprised.

That, when Jim looked back on it all, was the first sign that something was wrong.

In the moment, however, Jim had far too many painkillers in his system to worry about petty things like, My first officer would quite literally rather mutiny than admit to physical discomfort.   He focussed instead on the fact that his first officer felt ill enough to admit it, an unprecedented occurrence that might actually mean the Vulcan was dying.

“Hell, Spock,” he said.  “That bad?”

“Apparently so,” said Spock, looking mildly perturbed.  He did seem a little paler than usual, washed out by the black and blue he’d been stuffed into whilst recovering from the procedure.

“Should I call Bones?”

“I would prefer that you did not.”

Jim snorted at that - any man would.  Spock could be on his deathbed and he’d still decline Bones’ tender mercies.  He heaved himself upright, suppressing the urge to wince, and said, “He’ll be here soon anyway.  Anything you want to mention before he does?”

“Yes.”  Spock, likewise, sat up.  “I appear to be under some compulsion to speak the truth.”

Jim laughed.  Spock, it seemed, had awoken in a playful mood this morning.  He did that sometimes, and Jim always enjoyed it.  It tended to lead to overly-competitive chess matches, experiments Jim didn’t officially acknowledge, and ground missions where Spock ignored protocol and brought his modified tricorder. 

Except Spock’s face hadn’t changed.  There was no quiet sparkle, no twitch of the lips, no raised eyebrow, no hastily hidden smugness; in short, none of the usual hints that Spock had made a joke.  Which could only mean-

“Oh.  Oh no.”

Spock looked steadily at Jim.

“Oh no.”  Jim scrubbed a hand over his mouth.  He needed a shave, and he needed for this not to be real.  “Really?”

“Yes, Jim.”

“That’s…”  Jim shook his head.  “That’s bad.”  In his half-awake, half-drugged state he could offer nothing better, but the sentiment was heartfelt, at least.

“Indeed, Jim.”

The pair of them sat silently in their respective beds, reflecting upon the…  The unique situation.

“Spock,” he said, with a slight edge of despair.  “Why is it that everything impossible happens to us?  I’d wager anything you like that no other ship in the quadrant has to deal with… truth spells. ”

“It is unlikely to be a spell,” Spock said.  “And I am unsure, Jim.  It may have something to do with the fact we frequently attempt - or are ordered to attempt - to achieve impossible results.  However, it may simply be that there is some force in the universe that amuses Itself by tormenting us.”

Jim was careful not to react.  It seemed… almost ridiculous.  But if Spock was forced to tell the truth, the absolute truth, that meant he sincerely believed that a force may exist with a strange-slash-cruel sense of humour and a fixation on the Enterprise crew.  Not impossible - they’d faced a multitude of bizarre scenarios in their travels, after all, including at least one higher power - but it wasn’t a scenario he’d have expected to cross Spock’s mind.

“You are surprised.”  Spock folded his hands neatly in his lap; a sure sign of nerves, or Jim’s middle name wasn’t overly long and slightly embarrassing.  “You may find many of my thoughts surprising in the coming days.”

Days?

“Perhaps,” said Jim, before remembering that he ought to be reassuring.  “Perhaps not as many as you think.  I do know you pretty well by now, Spock.”

Hidden parentage aside, of course.

Bones’ arrival - long-awaited, at least in Jim’s mind - was accompanied by the sort of  benevolent smugness that could only have come from the good doctor getting the last word in the night before.  Jim was almost glad to have something to puncture it with.

Almost.

Spock maintained a dignified silence as Bones bustled and grumbled and started running tests, all the while muttering about the ridiculousness of it all, the sheer impossibility of a truth potion, or whatever it was that Spock had managed to do to his thrice-damned, green-blooded self this time.

“It is unlikely to be a potion,” said Spock.

“Most likely the stimulant,” Bones agreed.  “Some unexpected interaction with your hybridity.  Or maybe your Vulcaness, or your Humanity - we could hardly know, after all!  Maybe this’ll teach you a lesson about untested chemicals.”

“Likely not,” said Spock.

Bones glared, deeply unimpressed, and Spock seemed compelled to explain himself.

“My father lives,” he said.  “My mother continues to hold affection for me.  Is that not a worthy trade?”

Huffing, Bones went on with his work, unwilling to contradict the unexpected bout of emotion.  Jim, for his part, desperately wanted to ask why Amanda’s affection had ever been in question, but wasn’t fool enough to actually do it.  He’d need more drugs - and maybe a concussion for good measure - before making that sort of error.

The tests went on, the scanners beeping obediently as Bones input variables.  None of it seemed to be making Bones happy but, equally, nothing seemed to make him particularly unhappy, which was generally a good sign.

It was in the midst of this that Sarek decided to admit, finally, that he was awake.

Jim was certain, even if they’d never admit it, that Vulcans shared a flair for the dramatic.

“I am gratified that you consider my life worthy of discomfort,” he said, voice perfectly even.  Blank.  This, of course, was instead of a standard greeting like hello or good morning.  Such pleasantries were a waste of time and therefore illogical - although Jim now realised that Spock had likely made that up to try and get out of greeting the ambassadors.

Spock nodded gravely, even as Bones lifted his shirt for better access to his heart.

“I confess to experiencing some confusion when you asked why I married your mother.  You had never asked before.”

“Indeed.”

“I will not ask you any questions.”

“I thank you for this.”

“I leave it to you to decide what you will tell your mother.”

At that, Spock looked alarmed.  His already pale complexion went waxy, and his eyes widened slightly.

Jim cleared his throat.

“Maybe take him into your office, Bones.  Until proper arrangements can be made, at least.”

“I would have you accompany me, Jim,” Spock said, before Bones could even his mouth.  He flushed a sweet apple green, the colour high up on his cheekbones.  “If you are willing and capable, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Doctor McCoy.”  Spock started as soon as the door shut behind them, rushing to get the words out.  “If you have ever felt friendship for me - and I am inclined to believe that what we share is friendship, though I may be mistaken - you will prevent me from being alone with my mother.”

“I-  What?”  Bones sputtered over it, stunned by the one-two whammy of emotional admission and explicit request.

“My mother asks questions of me that I do not wish to answer.  I do not want to upset her, or to… incriminate myself.”

Jim raised an eyebrow.  “Incriminate?”

Spock lifted his chin defiantly.  “There are things,” he said, “that a being does not share with his parents.”

Jim thought of his mother.  He thought of his own exploits.  He squirmed.  “Right.  Quite right, Mr Spock.”

“I’m sorry, Spock,” Bones said, and he really did sound sorry.  “I can’t give you a private room, and I can’t keep Lady Amanda from visiting her husband.”

“You may discharge me.  You have conducted your tests; besides the obvious, there is nothing amiss.  Under my own power, I see no reason why I could not avoid those that I must avoid.  And I am capable of fulfilling my duties.”

Jim had a feeling that it was killing Bones not to have some reason to deny Spock’s request.  The doctor was a cautious man by nature; anything unexplained was, in his book, worth at least a two-night stay hooked into the ship’s monitors under observation.  But Spock was right, and it was obvious that Bones - however grumpy and reluctant he might be - was going to discharge him.

Just as he’d grumpily and reluctantly discharge Jim.  (At least, he would if Jim had anything to do with it.)

“Jim is no doubt capable,” Spock added, as if to counter Bones’ doubts, “of keeping me from answering any dangerous questions.”

James Kirk was no fool.  He was, in fact, blessed with a rather intelligent mind - not to brag, of course.

On this occasion, he had entirely failed to use it.

He was going to blame the stab wound.

“You can’t go anywhere unattended,” he realised.  “So many strangers aboard…  Damn it, Spock, you’re probably the biggest security threat since Nomad!”

“Really, sir.”

“Right, sorry, that was…  A slight - very slight - exaggeration.”

“I am unlikely to cause permanent damage to any member of the crew,” Spock sniffed.  “Although there is the monumental risk of my speaking truth to a diplomat.  In that case, the shock may be dangerous.”

Bones frowned.  “Is sarcasm not lying?”

“I was not being sarcastic, Doctor.”

Jim nearly choked holding back laughter - was Spock’s opinion of ambassadors formed because of or in spite of his father? - and Bones rolled his eyes.  Still, he surrendered to the inevitable.  With Spock summarily dismissed to his quarters- 

“You can get there without talking to anyone, Spock?”

“I shall endeavour to, Doctor.”

-Jim was ready to begin his own campaign for freedom.  He was preparing to launch his opening offence, in fact, when Spock’s voice floated through.

“Mother.”

“Spock?  Where are you going?  What’s wrong?”

“I am avoiding you.”  Spock’s voice was fading rapidly; he was clearly in the process of fleeing.  “Please ask Sarek to explain the situation.”

Bones sighed.  Jim let his head fall into his hands.

“Has he never heard of tact? ”

“It’s not his fault,” Jim said, before pivoting to the important part.  “Bones, you have to fix this.”

“I’ll try, but it’ll take time.  I’m a doctor, not a miracle worker.”

Jim smiled.  It was weak, but he felt it.  “Liar.”

“Yeah, well, in the meantime…”  Bones gestured back to Sickbay proper, where a barrage of tests awaited.

***

It was early evening before he was discharged, but Jim was discharged, under strict orders to take it easy, go straight to bed, and only work half-shifts until Bones decided otherwise.  And Jim entirely intended to follow those orders.  He just had to Spock first.  If his second-in-command was determined to stay on duty, then Jim needed to know exactly how he was faring.

That was his excuse, anyway.

When he walked in - the door was always open to Jim, as Jim’s was always open to Spock - he found the Vulcan meditating cross-legged on the woven rug, incense burning nearby.  It might have been a good sigh, except there was a pinched look about him that Jim didn’t like.

He couldn’t ask outright, though.  That’d be too much like taking advantage, especially if it wasn’t about the compulsion and was something more personal.  Spock was a private man.

“I’m going to make statements,” Jim said, “and you can agree or disagree as needed.”

Spock looked up.  His shoulders relaxed minutely.  “That is considerate of you, Jim, but entirely unnecessary.  There is nothing in my mind that is off-limits to you and, furthermore, I believe I can anticipate your intended line of questioning.”

“I-”  Jim swallowed.  The expression of absolute trust had stunned him, despite being entirely reciprocal on his part.  “Alright, then.”  He walked over to perch on the end of Spock’s bed.  “Did something happen?  You look…”

“I informed Ensign Chekov that his claims regarding Russian history are dubious at best.  I informed Lieutenant Sulu both that his fencing form requires improvement and that I was the one who first referred to him as D’Artagnan.”

Jim winced.  The nickname wasn’t bad - Sulu was pretty fond of it, actually - but Spock valued his reputation, and handing out nicknames didn’t fit that reputation.

“And - perhaps most unfortunately - I informed the Gamma shift science team that, although I could not officially sanction their experiment, I would be exceedingly interested in the results.”  Spock shifted, looking vaguely put out.  “I clarified that this should not be taken as approval.  However, as the shift lead winked as she agreed, I gathered that they did not believe me.”

“Oh boy,” said Jim.

“Indeed.  I apologise in advance.”  Spock folded his hands in his lap.  “Following these incidents, I closed my eyes and proceeded to my quarters by memory to avoid further negative encounters.”

Jim…

Damn it, Jim didn’t know whether to laugh or despair.  He could picture it perfectly: Commander Spock, cool as a cucumber, eyes closed and left hand tracing the wall as he made his way home, entirely confident that people would leap instinctively out of his way.  He settled, at last, for one laugh and a face palm.

“Spock, I…”  He looked up, smiling helplessly at his baffled first officer.  “Oh Spock.”

The Vulcan raised an eyebrow.  He simply shook his head, unable to explain the strange mix of bemusement, exasperation, and deep affection that had welled in his chest.  He gave Spock’s shoulder a healthy squeeze instead.

“If you’re up to it, you can take the first half of Alpha shift with me.  I’ll keep you from causing too much trouble.”

Spock graced him with a small - very small - smile.  “Thank you, Captain.”

Chapter Text

When the artificial dawn arrived, Jim deemed it best to escort Spock to the bridge personally, in order to avoid any recurrence of half-Vulcans wandering his halls with their eyes closed.  It was alright - or at least, not terrible - when there was no one around to notice, but one did try to look good in front of ambassadors, and executive officers literally walking around with their eyes shut was not the image Jim wanted to project.

He even brought a ration bar each, so they could avoid detouring to the mess.

For his part, Spock was silent and solemn looking, though he did nod a greeting and accept breakfast.  Apparently, he was attempting to circumvent potential embarrassment by refusing to open his voice.

When they reached the bridge, however, it became clear that this was not an option.  The words were drawn from him as if by force.

“I apologise, gentlemen,” he said, stepping in front of Sulu and Chekov.  “I am forced to speak unfiltered truths.  No offence was intended.”

The two men looked at Jim.  Jim lifted one shoulder, helpless.  “It’s true.  Bones is… looking into it.”

“I suppose,” Chekov said, with a considering note to his voice, “you do not want us to be asking too many questions then, Mr Spock?”

“That would be preferable, although I do not anticipate your asking me anything particularly damning over the course of a typical shift.”

For a moment Chekov and Sulu looked at one another, and Jim had the wild thought that they might test the theory.  It passed almost as quickly as it came - they were professionals for one, and, for another, Chekov looked up to Spock as a scientist and as a man, and wouldn’t want to embarrass him.  Nevertheless, he sent them a quelling look.

Two hours proceeded as normal.  Escort missions, when going well, were unforgivably dull.  Take the quickest, safest route from A to B and  make no detours for scientific curiosities, first contact opportunities, or other interesting phenomena.  Most certainly do not make unscheduled stops to document particularly beautiful but not particularly unique meteor showers.

(Spock had adored that shower, ‘ordinary’ as it might have been.  He hadn’t said it, of course, but Jim had caught the shine in his eyes, the way he took a fraction of a second longer to check his instruments when asked, engrossed in the sight on the viewscreen.  It was the best birthday gift Jim had managed to give… well, anyone.  He was quite pleased about it.)

Now that the assassin had been dealt with, this mission was shaping up to be rather textbook.  Perhaps even duller than usual, since the collective near-death experience seemed to have quelled some of the louder arguments.

All they had to do was sit still and look pretty until they made it to Babel.

Spock stood.

“Problem, Science Officer?”

“I wish I had a pillow.”

Jim blinked.  “What?”

“My chair is uncomfortable.”  Spock’s eyes were fixed upon his instruments, but Jim would eat his dress shirt if the Vulcan was paying attention to them.  More likely, he didn’t want to face the crew as he spoke.  “I desire a pillow.”

At her console, Uhura was starting to smile.  “Mr Spock,” she said, swinging to look at him.  “That’s why you’re always standing up?”

“Affirmative.”  The silence hung, heavy, as Spock prodded desperately at buttons and dials, trying to clench his jaw shut.  “Additionally, I am aware that this position works to my advantage, aesthetically speaking.”

Now.

Jim wasn’t one-hundred-percent sure in his analysis, but he was fairly certain that Spock just admitted to spending half his life bent over his console because it made his ass look good.

Judging by the silence of his crew, they had reached the same conclusion.

Judging by the green flush on Spock’s ears, the conclusion was not erroneous.

“Put in a request with the quartermaster,” Jim said, electing to ignore everything else about that conversation - for everyone’s sake - even though a traitorous part of him wanted to know who, precisely, Spock wanted to… work his advantage for.

And an even more traitorous part of him…

No.  No .

Not going there.

“Yes, Jim.”

“I’ll look into getting you a more ergonomic chair for you when we next restock.”

“That is kind of you, Jim.”

And then back, back, back into boredom.  A yeoman - another new one, Jim just couldn’t hold onto them, they kept heading for promotions - delivered coffee for Jim and a conspicuously curious look for Spock.  Gossip travelled past on Enterprise, after all.

Bones sent a message to Spock that he hadn’t made any progress on curing the thing, not yet, but they were at least pretty convinced that it could be cured, a message that Spock had read aloud without really meaning or wanting to.

Another hour in, they were all starting to slip.  Just a little.  It was impossible to be completely professional all the time, especially without an emergency to get the adrenaline going.  Sulu and Chekov started a quiet conversation about Sulu’s latest hobby - knitting, apparently.  Uhura started to hum, softly, under her breath, composing something new, if Jim wasn’t greatly mistaken.  

He’d almost begun to believe they’d make it through without incident when Uhura stopped humming, started tapping at the console.

“Captain,” she said, adjusting her earpiece.  “Incoming message from Starfleet Command.”

Never a good thing, not after a crisis onboard.

Still, it’d break up the afternoon.

“On screen, Lieutenant.”

In all honesty, Jim largely zoned out the admiral’s complaint, paying just enough attention to nod on cue.  He seemed overly upset about damage to ambassadors - and perhaps not quite upset enough about damage to captains, in Jim’s humble opinion - and unwilling to forgive their spending more than half an hour solving the mystery.

Still, it was bluster.  Not likely to cause any real problems.

Not until Spock swore.

In everyday life, Jim rather enjoyed listening to Spock swear.  In fact, let’s not mince words, Jim loved it.  It was a hint at the emotions - all kinds of emotions - that lay beneath his placid expression.  A delightful contrast between upright posture and downright filthy words.

Above all, it was a masterclass, a tribute to Vulcan ingenuity.  For a species that claimed to be all-logical, their language was chock-full of potent curses and insults, and Spock was both willing and able to use them to their fullest.

Really, it made you feel all… tingly inside.

Whilst on call to the admiral, however, Jim wanted to reach over and gag Spock himself.

“Something to say, Commander?” asked the admiral, giving Spock an out.

Unfortunately, Spock was currently incapable of taking outs.

“Your complaints are petty and irrelevant,” said Spock.  His fingers clawed, mortified, at the edges of his shirt.  “Your grudge against Jim’s success is evident, likely born of the fact you have not been commended in three-point-eight years.”

“You-!”

“Your teaching style was deeply inefficient and poorly structured.  Your exam structure was sadistic.”  Spock’s cheeks were green; he quite clearly didn’t want to be saying this, airing grudges from when he was last studying.

“Commander-! ”

“In your third year of teaching at the Academy, you cheated on your wife.”

The admiral fell silent.  He started to turn purple.

The bridge, likewise, was silent.

Jim felt rather ill.

Spock turned, wide-eyed, to face him.  “I am sorry.  Jim-”

“Ready room,” said Jim.  “Go.”

Spock went.

Jim grovelled.

Operation ‘Keep Spock’s Chances of Future Promotion Out of the Refuse’ was threefold.

Step One: emphasise that Spock was currently unwell, and that he could not control his speech.

Step Two: emphasise that Spock did, in fact, come by his affliction by going above and beyond the call of duty in service of an ambassador.  (Jim did not, however, mention that the ambassador in question was Spock’s father.)

Step Three: give up on diplomacy and heavily imply that Jim was friendly with an individual who was friendly with the admiral’s wife.

The admiral signed off, appropriately cowed.  Jim slumped in his chair.

“Sir,” Uhura began.

“Until he’s cured,” Jim said, “Mr Spock will leave the bridge before I answer calls.  Universal Translators will be turned off in his vicinity-” God knew how much worse it would have been if the ambassador had known what Spock actually said- “and not a word of this leaves the bridge.”

Chekov yelped.  “We would never!”

“Good.”  Jim stood, raking a hand through his hair.  “Sulu, you have the con.  I need to check that Spock hasn’t tried to strangle himself in there.”

No one laughed, but that was fair enough.  After all, Jim wasn’t entirely sure he was joking.

He crept, anxious, into his own ready room.  Perhaps he was overly cautious, but the last thing he needed was an upset Vulcan.  “Spock?”

“Jim,” came the muffled reply.

The reason for the mufflement was immediately apparent.  Spock was lying face down on the carpet, hands clasped neatly at the small of his back.  It was entirely pathetic, entirely endearing; Jim felt himself melt.

He sat on the floor beside Spock’s head, utilising all his restraint to prevent his hand from stroking Spock’s hair.

“What was it you called the admiral?”

“The excrement of a nursing le’matya, chewed and discarded by the young cubs seeking nutrients,” Spock told the floor.

Jim whistled, impressed.  “Did he deserve that?”

Spock turned his head, glaring at Jim.  The imprint of the carpet was visible on his forehead.  “He insulted you.  There was no reasonable way for you to discern the presence of an assassin.  The fault - if there is any to give - lies with the security measures taken prior to the ambassadors arriving on the ship.  Arrangements that were the responsibility of the admiral.”

“You think that he was trying to deflect responsibility onto me?”

“I know that he was,” Spock said, still looking furious.

With that, Jim surrendered to impulse.  He brushed the disturbed strands of Spock’s hair back into place.  And then…

Well.  He carried on brushing.

Caressing, more like.

“This is pleasant,” Spock said.  He twisted slightly, giving Jim better reach.

“I’m glad.”

They were silent, savouring this new intimacy.  Jim couldn’t have spoken if he tried, stunned by his own bravery - or boldness, at least.

Spock made a quiet noise in the back of his throat, almost a purr.  Jim hummed, matching him.

There were plenty of things he ought to say.  Something about the strangeness of all this, perhaps.  Even for them, whose friendship sometimes pushed the generally agreed boundaries surrounding personal space and privacy, this was new.

Something about how Jim knew this must all be frightening.  Something about how sorry he was that Spock - of all people - was going through it.

At the very least, he needed to fill Spock in on the new rules regarding transmissions.

But he didn’t want to break the silence.

Like an instinct, his fingers moved to brush against the skin of Spock’s temple.  Spock’s breath came out sharp.  His eyes fluttered closed.

Jim opened his mouth to apologise - immediately and profusely - but Spock’s hand gripped his wrist, stilled his tongue.

For a moment there was nothing.

Then there was something.

Understanding.  Spock’s understanding.  One bright pulse of it, meant to signal that Spock was aware of the new protocols, and moreover approved of them.

Surprise.  Spock’s surprise.  A background hum of it, surprise that Jim was capable of projecting his thoughts with such clarity.

Gratitude.  Spock’s gratitude.  A rushing wave of it, flooding his senses.  Gratitude that Jim would entrust him with his thoughts.  That Jim would open his mind in the Vulcan way.  That Jim would share himself in such a way, when not even other Vulcans were willing to do so with Spock.

Contact broke.  Something faded back into nothing.

Jim felt strangely shaky.  His eyes were wet.  His throat was dry.

His hand was still buried in Spock’s soft hair.

“Give yourself a few minutes,” he said, voice a little hoarse.  “Then come back to-” me- “the bridge.”

“Of course.”

“I need my logical science officer.”

Spock looked at him, eyes intense and dangerously earnest.  “Then you shall have him.”

Chapter Text

No one looked twice at Jim when he returned, so he assumed that he didn’t look too badly shaken.  He was glad.  Nothing that had happened in the room with Spock was inappropriate, exactly, but he had the thought that he wouldn’t have known how to explain it.

When Spock walked in a few minutes later, the silence held.  Not a word was said about the outburst, or the time in the ready room, or even the imprint of carpet on his cheek.

Jim was glad for that, too.

True to his word, Spock made a visible effort to be Jim’s science officer.  He bore the discomfort of his chair without comment and made notes of everything on his monitor that could be called even slightly interesting.  He opened a channel to his lab and made an admirable attempt to convince his Alpha science shift that he really did want them to dismantle Gamma team’s experiment - a failed attempt, since they kept drawing him into tangents about how fascinating it all was, but a valiant try nonetheless.  He looked truly put upon when Alpha team announced their intention to join in, and pointedly began typing up staff evaluation forms.

(He sent four of them to Jim’s PADD for approval and they were all glowing, but Jim understood the point.)

He did, on occasion, punctuate his work with a soft, I am being logical, Jim, but that was easy enough to ignore.

When the midday break arrived, Jim made the executive decision that both he and Spock would eat in the Officer’s Mess.  Normally they’d mingle, be available for the crew to ask questions of, but a man didn’t have to be a genius to see how that would end.

He collected both their trays and claimed a small table.  The others were good enough to sit elsewhere; they’d still hear anything that was said, of course, but the illusion of privacy was appreciated.

“Our crew are singularly generous,” Spock said, taking his seat.

“That they are,” Jim said, hiding his smile.  Not so long ago - or perhaps it was lifetimes ago - Spock had rejected entirely the idea that the crew might one day be as much his as Jim’s.  One day Jim would ask him when that changed… but not today.  Not when Spock was at such a disadvantage.

“I am reminded once again why I choose Enterprise over Vulcan vessels.”

Choose.  Present tense.

Good.

“We are all very glad that you do.”

Spock smiled a little at that, poking at his salad.  “Even when I embarrass you before our superiors?”

“Especially then.”  Jim grinned.  “It’s good to keep them on their toes.  Stops them getting too big for their boots.”

“Am I to suppose that is why you choose to challenge them?”  Spock raised his eyebrow, but didn’t wait for an answer.  “Of course, this is not the first time I have been out of favour with the admiralty.”

“I suppose not,” Jim said.  He had studied Spock’s service record before promoting him, after all, and now served with him a good few years.  He knew full well that Spock had made a most elegant sport of irritating admirals, with just a hint of plausible deniability.  

“Even without outside influence, I am blunt and largely unsociable.  I frequently offend when in conversation with superior officers.”  Spock flicked a sideways glance to the bridge crew, seeming to gauge their interest (high, for the record), and continued speaking.  “He is not the first admiral I have publicly insulted, and I doubt that he will be the last, though I hope I am typically more discreet.”

Jim snorted into his coffee.  “As long as you let me watch…”

“Of course, Jim.”

They lapsed into comfortable silence.  Spock began to eat his lunch and Jim stared at his own.  Half-afraid that Spock’s tolerance of his carnivorous ways was a polite fiction, he too had opted for a salad, lest Spock blurt something unfortunate.  He was regretting it a little now; that much green couldn’t really be good for him.

It did seem that Spock was sitting a little closer than he normally did, so maybe there was some benefit.  Maybe he could, occasionally, obey Bones’ recommended dining plans.

Spock hummed softly.  His deep eyes seemed a little distant, staring right through the durasteel wall.

“Something on your mind?” Jim asked.  Not thinking, obviously.

“Your thoughts are beautiful to me,” he said.

And then he blushed.

And Jim blushed.

And it seemed the whole room fell silent to observe the space wreck.

“That…”  Jim swallowed his leaf.  The taste had not improved.  “That’s kind of you to say, Mr Spock.”

“I apologise, Jim.”  Spock’s fork had crumpled in his grip.  He didn’t seem to notice.  “I did not intend to share that particular thought.”

“My fault.  It’s alright.”

“It was humiliating for both of us.”

“The venue is unfortunate, but the sentiment was appreciated,” he insisted.  “And there’s no one here who’d spread it around.”

The weight of many eyes seemed to drop away.  Jim appreciated it.

“Thank you.”  Spock let the crushed fork fall onto his tray.  “Nevertheless, I would ask to leave.  Doctor McCoy may wish for an update.”

Jim noted that Spock could use one truth to obscure another, which would be helpful.  Then he said, “Of course.  Whatever you need.”

Spock left.  Jim pinched the bridge of his nose as soon as he was out of sight.

“So,” murmured Chekov, probably thinking Jim couldn’t hear him.  “That is how Vulcans flirt?”

“Who knows?” said Sulu.

“It’s certainly… intimate.”  Uhura looked contemplative.  “Even to admit that he’d felt the captain’s thoughts…”

“That’s enough speculation, gentlemen,” Jim sighed, and stood before they’d finished wincing.  He’d be more useful in the chair than here, eking out the last hour or so before the end of his shortened shift, than hanging around here.

And that salad was looking worse by the minute.

Chapter Text

Bones (1:04 PM): update from your vulcans tests

Bones (1:04 PM): delayed indefinitely by spock apologising to christine for only appreciating her in a platonic manner and not responding appropriately adequately to her declaration during the psi 2000 incident

Bones (1:05 PM): hes now frantically apologising to her for bring it up in front of me

Bones (1:05 PM): hes very green

You (1:05 PM): Damn it.  Is she upset?

Bones (1:06 PM): never seen her laugh harder

Bones (1:06 PM): “mr spock tell me you haven’t been worrying about that all this time”

Bones (1:06 PM): “...perhaps”

You (1:08 PM): Of course he has.

***

For the first time in recorded history - including during Spock’s Pon Farr - efficiency went up after the Enterprise’s favourite Vulcan left the bridge.  

Jim hated it.

He was therefore refusing to acknowledge it.  He refused to admit it aloud, to himself or to the bridge, and completed the rest of his half-shift by putting the best possible spin on Bones’ messages (“Doctor McCoy and Nurse Chapel are conducting more tests.”) and handing command over to Sulu.

After that, he decided to spend the rest of the day buried in reports in his room.  To see Spock was to risk Spock finding out how smoothly the shift had run, and he wouldn’t have that.  He checked in once before bed, saying nothing of the shift, begged off chess, went straight to sleep, and woke up feeling just as stressed as he had the night before.

Still.  It wasn’t all bad.  

A half-sheepish knock at the bathroom door heralded an entirely-sheepish Spock and a breakfast tray.

“Morning,” Jim said, untangling himself from the bedsheets.  He ran a hand through his hair, hoping that would tame it rather than worsen his bedhead.  “What’s that?”

“It is thanks,” said Spock.

“For?”

“Babysitting.”  The Vulcan grimaced as he placed the tray on the table.  “I did not wish to use that term.”

“It’s alright,” Jim said, rising.  And things did, by-and-large, seem quite a lot closer to alright than they had the moment before.  “You’ve brought enough for two?”

“I did not wish to presume-”

“We’ll make it work.”

If Spock had got his way, he’d probably have sat there watching Jim eat a perfectly balanced meal, consuming nothing himself.  Fortunately, Jim was captain, and it was his prerogative to ensure that Spock ate with him, especially when it was a simple matter to make Spock admit that, yes, he actually would like some of the strawberries, and maybe a little toast, too.

It was nice.  More than nice.  They ate together most days, but rarely ate privately, choosing to sit with the crew to encourage morale and avoid being placed on too high a pedestal.

In Jim’s room, they were free to just… chat.  And Spock was chatting more than he ever had before.  Inquiries to Spock’s well-being were answered.  Questions about his personal projects in the lab were met with minutes-long gushes, Spock’s eyes alight with delight and wonder as he leant slightly closer.  Slight insinuations of Vulcan impropriety that were normally countered with a raised eyebrow and silence - that Jim typically translated as sure I did, but just try and prove it - were instead met with a raised eyebrow and thorough explanation of how Spock had not just breached the convention but obliterated it.

And best of all, better than anything, was that Spock wasn’t trying to resist answering.  In fact, he seemed to be leaning into it.  Relishing it.  Encouraging it.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” Jim teased, sneaking the last strawberry onto Spock’s plate.  “You’re a rebel!  A good one, too!”

Spock speared it delicately on his fork, ate it slowly, and then said, “You are the one being alive for whom I need not censor myself.”  Something of a non-sequitur, and furthermore it knocked the wind from Jim’s lungs.  “I am incapable of expressing the value of our friendship.”

Well.

That’s a long way from shame.

Jim blinked.  His mind felt sluggish, useless.  Stunned, deliriously pleased.  Impossibly moved.  His stomach fluttered with it.  “You know I feel the same about you.  Right, Spock?”

“I know, Jim.”

With that, Spock seemed to consider breakfast concluded and returned to his room to change.  Jim took a moment to pull himself back together and went to pull on a shirt.

(Had he really eaten breakfast with Spock half-naked?  Was he entirely insane?)

When he opened the door to leave, Spock was waiting, and they walked together.  Jim resisted the urge - barely - to loop their arms together, or to do something equally ridiculous. 

“At some point,” Jim said, “I need to head to Sickbay.  Convince Bones to take me off light duty.  The captain can’t stay on half-shifts forever.”

“I imagine that he will remind you that one day does not, using the typical definition, constitute forever.”  Spock’s eyes were amused - until they wandered further down the corridor and the humour flickered and died.  “I would not ask at present.  Doctor McCoy looks displeased.”

Doctor McCoy did indeed look displeased.  Stuffed into formalwear and glowering in the direction of the ambassadors, Bones gave the impression of wanting to incinerate someone with his eyes alone.

“Your father,” he said, transferring the glare to Spock and ignoring Jim completely, “has been out of bed for five goddamn minutes, and he’s been starting arguments for all of them!”

Spock blinked.  His posture straightened dramatically, hands coming to rest at the small of his back.  “My father has left Sickbay?”

“Take a deep breath,” Jim told him, before addressing his disgruntled surgeon.  “What do you want me to do?”

“Defuse the tension.  I don’t care how, as long as you do.”  Bones shook his head, fidgeting almost unconsciously with his uniform.  “For some reason, they won’t take it from the doctor.”

“Right.”  Jim tried not to let the irritation overwhelm him.  Looking out for the crew was no trail; looking after this lot most certainly was.  “Stay with Spock.”

“You are now the Vulcan-sitter.”  Spock gave Bones a small, sardonic smile.  “Congratulations.”

Rather flatteringly, the arguing ceased when Jim entered the room.  His speech the other day had apparently landed well - though weight may have been added by the unfortunate passing of one of the ambassadors he’d chastised.

“Gentlemen!”  He injected his greeting with joviality and just a hint of displeasure, a potent mix in diplomatic circles.  “I trust we are all getting along.”

Thus followed general mutterings of agreement and Sarek silently refusing to meet Jim’s eyes.  Jim considered it a job well done.

Still, best to linger a moment, to be certain the arguments didn’t restart themselves.  He procured a cup of coffee and hovered conspicuously.

It took a full minute, but Sarek finally approached.  “Has my son spoken to you recently, Captain?”

“He has.”  No extra information, Jim reminded himself.  Spock would not appreciate that.

Sarek’s expression was unchanged, but Jim thought he could sense a slight exasperation.  Something around the eyes, maybe.  That was where Spock carried his.  “Has he expressed any desire to discuss the matter with his mother?”

Jim took a tactical sip.  The coffee burned his lips.  It was a battle not to react.  “Not to me.”

“I thought not.”  Sarek didn’t sigh, exactly, but his posture seemed to suggest that he might have wanted to.  “You should warn him that his mother wishes to speak with him.  She is, as Humans say, on the warpath.”

Jim’s lips tried to grimace; he forced them not to.  Vulcan or not, he doubted that Sarek would appreciate people pulling pained faces at the thought of his wife.  “I’ll warn him.”

“Good.”  Sarek tilted his head, slightly.  “You should attend him.  Ambassador Mlar is attempting to revisit a failed argument with Spock in my place.”

Red alert, Jim thought nonsensically.  All captains to their post.

He couldn’t sprint, not in a room full of people, but he abandoned his cup of lava and proceeded to speed walk.  Authoritative, but not suggestive of imminent disaster.  

Thank God, Bones had stepped in, offering his own belligerence in an attempt to distract Mlar from Spock.  Spock had fixed his gaze on the end of the corridor, as if entirely unaware of his surroundings.  The only tell was the horrific tension in his shoulders.

“Forgive me, sir,” Jim said as he reached them, grabbing both his men by their forearms and beginning to walk.  “I’m in desperate need of Commander Spock and Doctor McCoy.  Ship’s business, you understand.  Nothing serious, only administrative matters, but important administrative matters, if you catch my drift.”

Mlar had no time to object.  Jim was already steering his men towards Sickbay and into Bones’ office.

“Damn it,” Bones sighed, sinking into his chair.  “I’m a doctor, not a wordsmith.”

That was Jim’s cue to respond, to quip back, but there was something about Spock’s expression that bothered him, distracted him.  Slightly pinched, slightly tight.  His jaw was clenched.

“The door is locked,” Jim said.  “If you need to-”

Spock unloaded in a breathless rush: “Your claims are spurious, your beliefs are offensive to me, I disapprove of you on principle, my father referred to you privately using terms unutterable in public, and my tongue hurts.”

Bones frowned.  “Your…?”

Jim spotted the flecks of green marring Spock’s lip and felt his heart twist.  “You bit your tongue.”

“I have disgraced you once,” Spock said, shockingly fierce.  “I will not do so again.”

“Damned hobgoblin.  Go get some water.”  Bones waited for him to leave before asking, “Disgraced?”

“There was an incident with an admiral.  Spock outed a historic affair… amongst other things.”

“Jim.”

“I know,” he groaned.  “But I can’t…  I can’t take him off duty.”

“Why not?  His father’s out of him, and I can restrict Spock’s visitors.”

“You try telling him he can’t work.  He won’t like it.”  He might even pout.  Jim couldn’t say no to that.

Bones didn’t remind him that, as captain, he could order Spock off duty, and Spock wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.  He didn’t remind him, but Jim felt the judgement anyway.  And damn it, he did know that he probably should remand Spock to Sickbay, or at least suggest he confine himself to his labs - his scientists weren’t easily offended, after all.

But, put bluntly, he didn’t want to face an indeterminate length of time without Spock on the bridge, offering up his quiet commentary, and he was certain Spock didn’t want to spend an indeterminate length of time meditating, which realistically he would be doing, or else risk meeting an ambassador sans escort.

Or risk biting his tongue off.

Bones was still judging him when Spock returned, half-full glass still in hand.

“I have not bitten my tongue since I was a boy,” he said.

Bones raised an eyebrow.  “What happened?”

“The other children insulted me.”  Spock sipped his water.  “Naturally, when they realised that I did not intend to react, they inferred that my mother was a prostitute.”

“And then?”

“I ensured they did not make such an error again.”

“Good,” said Jim.

“Very good,” said Bones.  And then, without further ado, he added, “Have you considered a leave of absence?”

“Yes.  I do not wish to take one.”  He shifted slightly.  “I have also considered spending more time in the labs, but it cannot be risked.  Beta shift have joined Gamma and Alpha shifts in the unofficial experiment without even consulting me; to encourage it further with unmasked curiosity could prove unfortunate.  Additionally, I find inexplicable explosions exciting, and I do not wish to admit such a thing in front of my ensigns.”

Nodding grimly, Bones seemed resigned to the fact he wouldn’t win.  Jim supposed that he, too, ought to feel appropriately solemn, but that was impossible.  My ensigns - yet another development Spock had once said would never happen.

“Jim,” said Spock, effectively recapturing his attention.  “Do you wish for me to take a leave of absence?”

“I…”  Once again, it seemed rude to lie.  “I want you to be comfortable, Spock.  Whatever that means.”

“I… believe I understand,” said Spock, slowly.  “With your permission, I will meditate before joining you on shift.”

“Be my guest.”

Bones was really judging him now.  Jim could feel it.

“Why the hell didn’t you say yes?”

“He’s hardly a danger,” Jim protested.  “Not to anything but his own dignity.”  And maybe a few Federation alliances, but who’s counting?  “And I meant what I said!  I want him to be comfortable, and he’s not likely to be comfortable if I confine him to quarters!”

That little speech did not halt Bones’ judgement.  In fact, Jim felt double-judged.

“We’ll see what he decides, at least.  Alright?”

“Alright,” said Bones.  Triple-judging.

It was only when Jim was halfway to the bridge that he remembered Sarek’s warning to Spock, which he had entirely failed to deliver.

Damn it.

Chapter Text

Maybe they could tell how Jim’s day was going when he walked in; conversation seemed to fade as Jim took the centre seat.  He hated that, for the record, but couldn’t exactly fix it.  He was sulking, and his crew had a habit of noticing.

Uhura peered at him.  “Captain?”

“Lieutenant.”

“How is Mr Spock today?”  Trust Uhura to know exactly what’s wrong.  “We worried about him.”

“Your concern is noted and no doubt appreciated.”  He’d be sure to tell Spock about it.  When he’d first asked Spock to take Gary’s place, the Vulcan had worried that the crew wouldn’t… gel with him.  Well, look at them now!  “Without breaching his privacy, I can only say that Spock is taking some time to consider the circumstances and determine the best, most logical course of action.”

The elevator opened.

Spock entered at a light jog.

He looked downright alarmed.

“I am escaping my mother,” he said.  “At last check, she was in, as Humans say, hot pursuit.”

Damn it.  The forgotten message had come to bite Jim in the ass much more quickly than he’d expected it to.  He rubbed his temples, the start of a headache starting to press against his skin, and silently prayed there’d been no one around to see his first officer being chased to the bridge by his own mother.  “Spock,” he said, with an edge of exasperation, “would it be so bad- ?”

“She is upset with me because I did not immediately decide to save Sarek.  I am upset with her because she said cruel things when upset.  I have not expressed that to her.”  Spock had reached his station and taken a seat.  He - looking quite unconscious of the fact - wiggled slightly, sinking into the pillow Jim had procured for him.  “Additionally, whenever we speak, she asks questions I prefer to avoid.  For example, ‘How do you feel today, Sa-fu?  Why do you not call or visit more often?  Are you certain there is not a nice girl you have failed to notify us about?’”

“Lots of mothers ask those questions,” Uhura said.  Not without sympathy.

“True.  However, I do not believe that my mother would care for the answers.”

“Oh?”  Chekov’s eyes widened, a textbook image of instant regret.  “Wait, you do not have to answer!”

Spock could not prevent it.  “Without cure, my condition poses significant risk to my continued employment with Starfleet and aboard Enterprise.  I am therefore feeling apprehensive, verging on nervous.  I do not call or visit because I am estranged from my parents which, by definition, suggests low levels of contact.  There is no ‘nice girl’, and it has recently become clear that I should seek a ‘nice boy’ instead.”  Spock concluded by raising an eyebrow, presumably at himself.  “Strange.  I had not expected verbal communication to be so cathartic.  You have my thanks, Ensign.”

“You are welcome,” Chekov said, face pressed against his console.  Sulu patted his shoulder.

Jim rubbed his face.  “Alright.  Stay here for now, Spock.  At the end of the shift-”

“Half-shift,” Spock reminded him, before rolling his eyes at himself.

“-I’ll distract Lady Amanda long enough for you to actually reach your room.”  

“Thank you, Jim.”

***

At first meeting, Jim had found Lady Amanda to be perfectly pleasant.  She was charming, amusing, and had some mannerisms that reminded Jim of her son.  Their short conversation had been enough to give him a positive opinion of her, and that was before you factored in that she was the Human woman bold enough to challenge centuries of tradition, marry a Vulcan, and have a child with him.

Right now, Jim was feeling less impressed and a little more… wary.  Spock’s evident dread had put him on edge, and Amanda herself looked less than pleased to find Jim at her door.  No doubt she had an idea what he was up to.

“Captain Kirk,” she said.  Her voice was as cold as any Vulcan’s.

Oh no, he thought, and smiled his most diplomatic smile.  “Lady Amanda.”

“I presume you come with a message from Spock?”

“Well…  In a manner of speaking.”  A rather stretched meaning at that.  

She looked almost indulgent, the way mothers do waiting for a child to incriminate themself.  “And what manner might that be?”

“He really…”  Jim sighed.  He’d have to improvise and hope Spock forgave him for it.  “Your son doesn’t mean to hurt you.  He’s refusing to speak to you because he’s afraid of hurting you.  He wants to protect you.”

And himself, he did not add, even as Amanda remained silent.

“I’m sure that when Doctor McCoy and his team find a solution, Spock will be more than happy to speak to you.”

“And he told you that?”

Jim did not answer.  Amanda smiled dully.

“I thought not.”

It sat heavily in the air.  Jim wanted to defend Spock, to defend the way his friend chose to express himself, to express his care, to express his love.  He wanted to defend Spock’s right to maintain a dignified silence, even if it was for no other reason except that he didn’t want to speak.  But he held his tongue.  He would not reveal so much of Spock.  Not to anyone.  Not for anything.

After a moment, Amanda seemed to realise there was defence forthcoming.  She sighed and shook her head and motioned for Jim to leave.

He left.

“Uhura,” he said, clicking the closest intercom.  “Did Spock make it?”

“No, sir.  He appears to be in the gymnasium.”

Of course.  Things seemed to just keep happening to Spock, these days.  “I’ll get him there myself.  Kirk out.”

Chapter Text

Spock was still in the gymnasium when Jim arrived.  Thankfully.  He hadn’t changed, but he had stripped off his science blues; the black undershirt was as form-fitting as ever, emphasising all sorts of wonderful things.

Spock was - pardon Jim’s language - beating the absolute shit out of a punching bag.  At full-strength, too; Jim made a mental note that he might need to discreetly replace it by the end of the night.  The Vulcan didn’t look over, but Jim knew he’d been noticed.  He wasn’t entirely sure how he knew, but he did. 

“Can I offer you a more mobile opponent?”

“I am currently indulging in the fantasy that this particular punching bag resembles my father.  I cannot vouch for my control, and therefore cannot vouch for your safety.”

“I see.”  Personally, Jim knew full well that Spock would never willingly harm him.  He also knew, however, that he had no right to push.  “Later, then.  When you’ve cooled off.”

A particularly brutal right hook made the ceiling creak.

“Perhaps,” said Spock.

Time passed.  Jim waited silently, unwilling to leave in case Spock changed his mind, unwilling to leave whilst Spock was so clearly upset.  He kept track of the minutes by the rhythmic thunks of fist against synthleather, and the slow, steady dishevelment of Spock’s hair (though his body did not sweat).

“Do you want to tell me what your father said?” he asked eventually, easing himself upright as his back throbbed ominously.  He didn’t really expect a positive answer, but the punches stopped.

“I would tell you,” Spock said, “and no other.”

“Tell me, then.”

“My father,” he said, wandering over and sitting at Jim's side, conspicuously casual, “wishes me to know that, despite my failure to marry T’Pring, there are others who could be persuaded to have me.  Who have, in fact, overlooked my shortcomings and contacted my father to arrange… meetings.”

In some ways, Jim could see the logic.  They’d escaped consequence on this occasion, but already the countdown had begun to the next occasion, and there could hardly be another miracle.

And yet, in other ways…

“How can he,” Spock continued, fist beginning to clench, “who has not spoken to me in eighteen years, who wishes I were something other than I am, claim to be the best party to arrange my bonding?”

“Did…”  Jim cleared his throat.  “Did you tell Sarek that?”

Spock’s lip twitched.  “I left without answering.  I considered it better for everyone.”

“Your judgement, at least, is sound as ever.  I do question your father’s, of course…”

Spock didn’t reply, but he seemed quietly pleased, so Jim considered his duties as friend successfully discharged.  For a minute they remained, staring silently at the walls.  Comfortable.  He could never be anything else at Spock’s side.

“If you still wished to spar, I believe I could now do so without attempting to break your neck.”

“I don’t believe for a second that you’d break my neck, Mister, but I’ll spar with you anyway.”

Spock neatly ignored that little illogic, and they readied themselves for the fight.

It was almost…

It was almost unbecoming of a captain to relish a fight like Jim did.

In fairness, he didn’t enjoy the firefights of deep space battles, though he knew his way around them as well as any captain, and he didn’t look forward to planetside skirmishes, though he could certainly hold his own.  But this, the spar, the friendly fight safe aboard the Enterprise…  This was everything to him.  The rush of blood, of adrenaline, of excitement.  The smack of flesh against flesh that proved you were both real, both alive.  The thrill of the hunt - predator and prey all at once - knowing that it’d be patched up in a moment, as if it never happened, the barbarian tucked neatly away, back inside, put to rest where it could do no harm.

And Spock…

Good God, Spock.

If he didn’t enjoy it as much as Jim did, Jim’d resign his commission.  The way those deep brown eyes flashed, the calculating gleam that devolved into burning, pre-Surakian instinct, thought the knife-blade precision of those lethal fists never faded…  In the field he might rely on Suus Mahna - logical, defensive, perfectly Vulcan - but here, just the two of them, Spock fought like a warrior, desperate and exhilarated and breathtaking. 

Jim’s chest was heaving already with the effort of breathing, and Spock looked as fresh as if they’d just begun.  That was familiar; a Human could hardly expect to outlast even a half-Vulcan.  Still, Jim refused to go down easy.  He fought dirty - within the bounds of friendly competition, obviously - darting in and out of reach, lashing out fast at bits of soft, unprotected body.  The top of Spock’s thighs when he thought Jim was headed for his stomach, the meat of his bicep when he was protecting his face.  Jim was almost certain that Spock was humouring him, that if he really wanted to he’d be able to predict every one of Jim’s movements, but he was only glad that Spock was willing to play along.

Not forever.  Sooner or later, when Jim started to flag too severely, Spock would put an end to it. 

Spock always won.

Jim grunted as he landed hard on his back, sent sprawling by Spock’s foot hooked around his ankle.  Spock was on him in an instant, teeth bared, anticipation making him just a touch too rough, not that Jim minded, as he shoved his shoulders into the mat.  He was panting hard, the sound catching in the back of his throat in half-stopped growls, more adrenaline than real breathlessness.

“Yield.”

Jim went obediently limp.

The knowledge crept in slowly.  Just a thought as he lay there, Spock pinning him down, that it’d been a while since they’d sparred like this.

A long while.

Not since Vulcan.

Not since Pon Farr.

Not since Spock had tried to kill him.

They realised it, Jim fancied, in the same moment.

Spock’s hands were hot against Jim’s skin, like a brand.  Every inch of him was hot, and Jim was overly aware of everything, all of it, from the hands on his shoulders to the way Spock was straddling his stomach, knees pressing against his sides.

He was aware of everything, but it wasn’t fear.  There was something, just not fear.  Something that stirred, deep in his blood, knowing that Spock had him, knowing that Spock could destroy him so easily and yet would not.

“Your heart rate is accelerated, Jim.”  Spock’s voice was carefully blank, but Jim didn’t need to hear the dread of rejection to know it was there.

“You’ve only called me ‘Jim’ since this started,” he said, nonsensically.  “Never ‘Captain’.”  Spock stared back at him, and he said at last, “I’m not scared.”

Spock looked him over.  One hand drifted to the side of Jim’s neck, to the delicate bare skin there.  Nothing more than a caress, telling Spock everything he needed to know.  “You are not.”

“I’ve never once been scared of you.”

Shuddering, Spock snatched his hands away.  He seemed to fold in on himself, head drooping, shoulders curling, still sitting over Jim’s body.  “I gave you good reason to be.”

“I know.  I know you did.”  Jim took the risk, reaching up and touching and holding and drawing Spock’s hands back down to his shoulders.  He brushed his fingers over the pulse points of Spock’s wrists, stomach fluttering in time with his heart rate.  “I’ve played it over a hundred times in my head.  I thought of it just now.  D’you know what I wanted to ask?”

“I do not.  But I will answer, whatever it is.”

Jim breathed in, breathed out, slow and steady, weighing the words in his mouth.  “What would have happened, the last time you had me like this, if I’d kissed you?”

Spock went very still.

Jim might have worried, might have tried to take it back, except that when he was lying here, this close, he’d had a front-row view of Spock’s pupils dilating.

Spock’s head drooped further, until his lips were barely an inch from Jim’s ear.  When he spoke, his voice was low.  “It would have burned.”

Jim shivered.  “And now?”

The strangest thing about kissing Spock was that it wasn’t strange at all.  There was no awkwardness to it, nothing stilted about kissing his dearest friend for the first time.  Maybe because a lot of it didn’t feel new at all.  Jim had known already that Spock always smelled of standard-issue body wash and shampoo brought specially from Vulcan, a once strange now familiar blend of chemical and herbal.  He’d known already what Spock’s rapid heartbeat felt like as it fluttered in his side; this was the first time Jim had slid a hand beneath Spock’s undershirt to feel it, but he knew it.

And he knew Spock’s single-minded focus, the intensity he approached the world with, the whole damned galaxy with.  He even knew what it was to have that focus on him, the dizzy, heady feeling of having all that attention at once.  Only the specifics had changed, and Spock didn’t seem to care either.  Spock leaned down and kissed him like he’d done it a thousand times already, like he’d do it a thousand times in the future.  Jim was perfectly happy to let him.

More than happy.

He clutched at Spock, pulled him in, urged him closer.  He wanted Spock to collapse on top of him, rest his whole body against him, crush Jim against the floor and ground him with the pressure in the best sort of way.

Spock pulled back slightly, resting their foreheads together.  Jim could barely breathe.  He thought of saying something, anything, flirting maybe, but came up blank.  He settled for stealing another kiss, firm and slightly desperate, savouring the way Spock’s eyes fluttered closed.

“Jim,” he murmured, pulling back again, breath coming quickly.  “This is not the ideal venue.”

Right.   “Right.”

“The door is unlocked.  A member of the crew could walk in.”

“Right.”

Spock huffed a very small laugh.  Jim kissed him again just to taste it.  He wanted Spock.  Wanted all of Spock.

“Jim, let us relocate.  We may continue in a more private location.”

“Promise?”

Spock traced the shape of Jim’s bottom lip with one finger.  Jim had a feeling that it might be even more intimate than the kiss.  “It is a promise.”

For the rest of his life, Jim would never understand how he and Spock made it to Spock’s room unhindered.  No ambassadors, no crew…  Or perhaps there had been, but Jim hadn’t noticed them.  It was all a little blurred, hazy with lust and the desperate need to get Spock alone in a room that locked.  

He was fairly sure they didn’t embarrass themselves - though Spock made a high choking sound when Jim brushed their hands together - and that was the best he could do.

The door clicked shut behind them.  Spock set the lock - only the captain could override it, and Jim had no intention of doing so.  It was all he could do to wait until the door was properly locked to wrap his arms around Spock again, to press his lips to Spock’s neck.  Spock tilted his head to give him more space.  

“Do you intend to give the orders-” Spock gasped as Jim bit down- “Captain?”

“Spock,” he groaned, only half-joking, “you can’t start that now.  I’ll never be professional again.”

“Forgive me, Captain.  I have no intention of stopping.”  The sly smile was intoxicating.  And then, because Spock was incapable both of cruelty and lying, the flirtation slipped and he said, “Unless you truly do not like it.  Then I shall stop immediately.”

Jim loved him even more for that.

“So considerate,” he teased, deciding to ask where the fantasy had come from some other time, when Spock could fib if he needed to.  Then he decided to stop thinking entirely and remove Spock’s undershirt in one quick movement.  He tried not to look too distracted, tried not to stare too much, but he knew that he was failing, eyes fixed on the dark hair trailing down from Spock’s chest to his navel and beneath the waistband of his trousers.  “I suppose I could… learn to live with it.”

“I believe I can make it worth your while.  Captain. ”

Yeah.

Jim could believe that.

He ran his hands through Spock’s coarse hair, over each rib, over his stomach, stopping at Spock’s hips and relishing the disappointed little sigh Spock let loose when he really did stop.  He swept his fingers over Spock’s palms, down each finger to the tip, listening to Spock’s breathing as it sped up.

“This is your chance to back out, Spock.  Tell me no, we’ll never speak of it again.”

“Jim.”  Spock waited until he met his eyes.  He looked dangerously sincere.  “If I have given the impression that I would deny you anything, allow me to correct it.”

Was Jim supposed to resist that?  Surely not.

Kissing Spock had lost none of its charm in the five minutes it had taken to relocate.  For all his talk of Captain, for all Jim was used to taking control, it was immediately clear who was really in charge.

For the record, Jim had no complaints about this.

He let Spock set the pace, let Spock crowd him against the metal wall, let Spock hold onto his shoulders just a little too tight, but he was far from passive.  He encouraged.  He needled.  He rewarded every escalation - a hum here, a harsh breath there, a rock of his hips so he ground against Spock’s broad thigh.  Performative, but it drove Spock harder, made him bite Jim’s lip and move his grip so he was bruising Jim’s hips, and pretty soon it was less a reward and more an involuntary reaction.  When Spock abandoned his mouth and moved down his jaw, his neck, Jim damn near whimpered.

“Spock-”

“Captain,” came the reply, hot against his skin.

Fuck.   Jim wanted…  He wanted…

Incapable of articulating, he ghosted his fingers over Spock’s temple, trying to give him the general impression, if nothing else.

The noise Spock made was sinful.

They both froze, Jim stunned, Spock panting open-mouthed against him, whining slightly, trembling with the effort of holding back.  

“Jim.”

“What was-  Did I…?”  He started to reach again, thinking of nothing but hearing that sound again, but Spock seized his wrist.

“I would not last,” he warned.  “And we are not yet finished.”

Fuck.

“Bed.”

Chapter Text

Jim woke slowly to a dawning light.  For a moment he was on shore leave, the sunrise falling gently on his face, no responsibilities except lying in bed and eventually getting some breakfast.

Then he remembered where he was, whose body he was sprawled over, and he blinked, trying to shake the sleep away.  “Spock?”

“Jim.”  The Vulcan’s voice was slightly hoarse as he whispered.  “I apologise.  I did not mean to wake you.”

“It’s fine.”  Jim considered moving, then decided not to.  Spock was strong enough to move him if he wanted to.  “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is amiss.”  In one of Spock’s hands was a PADD.  He started to run patterns up and down Jim’s ribs with the other.  “My scientists have sent their report.”

Letting his eyes close, Jim smiled.  Always the science officer - he was ridiculously glad of it.  It was the touchstone, the anchor to reality in what would otherwise seem like a dream.  “And is it as fascinating as you expected?”

“Very much so.”  Jim didn’t need to be telepathic to pick up on the quiet satisfaction Spock was radiating.  “Their ingenuity pleases me.  They shall upset at least three scientific journals when they publish their results.”

Such wide-ranging consequences tended to result only from wide-ranging chaos.  “Should I expect furious calls from Engineering?”

Spock sniffed, giving Jim’s hip a reproachful poke.  “I have taught them better than to leave damage unrepaired.”

“You finally admit that you teach your scientists bad habits?”

“On the contrary, I teach them good habits.  Cleaning up after oneself is an excellent habit.”

“But you do teach them to rebel.”

“I have never denied it.”

“Jim?”

“Hm?”  Jim forced his eyes open.  He’d been lulled back to sleep by Spock’s fingers and the quiet of a Vulcan absorbed in reading. 

“I have caused a problem.”

Fuck.

Jim looked up, squinting at Spock.  “How ?  You haven’t left the room!”

Spock chewed sheepishly at his bottom lip.  Jim found himself in a forgiving mood.

“I have discovered that the compulsion extends to written communication.”

With a soft sigh, Jim relaxed back onto his Spock-pillow.  “Just tell me it wasn’t an admiral.”

“It was not an admiral.”  From the look on his face, Spock would have preferred an admiral.  “My father sent a message reiterating his earlier statements regarding my-” Spock wrinkled his nose very slightly, and it was a little bit adorable- “marriage prospects.”

Oh God.  Jim might have preferred an admiral.  “You didn’t tell him-”

“I managed to avoid that particular argument against another arranged betrothal,” Spock assured him.  “However, I did comment upon his presumption, and I explicitly refused to allow it.”

Jim blinked.  In the grand scheme of things, that wasn’t so bad.

“I try not to openly defy my father,” he said.  “It upsets my mother when we disagree.”

Ah.

“Put the PADD in the drawer,” Jim decided.  “Close your eyes and pretend to sleep.  We’ll fix it later.”

Spock obeyed immediately, wrapping himself around Jim like a sentient blanket.  “A wise decision, Jim.”

“Spock?”

The Vulcan let loose a sleepy sounding almost-purr, which Jim took as acknowledgement.

“Your comm, Spock.”

Another not-quite-purr, separated from purring only by the fact that if Jim called it that, Spock would likely never do it again.

“D’you want me to read it?”

Spock roused himself enough to mumble against the top of Jim’s head, “I have no objections.”

“Right.”  He reached over and grabbed it.  The screen was too bright, he had to squint.  “Bones.  He has a treatment ready to try.  What should I say?”

“Nothing, at present.”  Spock sounded more alert by the moment.  “Twenty minutes remain before we are expected to rise, and I intend to make good use of them.”

Chapter Text

“If I am fortunate,” said Spock, “I shall henceforth avoid this place for at least one week.”

“A week?”  Bones shook his head.  “Thought I’d earned a longer break than that.”

“I must remain realistic regarding the rate of injury amongst the Enterprise’s senior officers.”

Translation: either he or Jim would end up hurting themselves in a landing party relatively quickly.  Jim considered protesting, but ultimately kept his mouth shut.  The last thing he needed was for Spock to start listing off entirely accurate statistics regarding injuries sustained whilst planetside - some of which Bones maybe hadn’t been fully apprised of - and have him condemned to Sickbay for all time, wrapped in cotton wool and Bones’ disapproving glare.

“Well, as long as you’re being realistic,” Bones grumbled.

“Of course, if I am unfortunate, I may suffer a reaction to the treatment and be confined to Sickbay for the foreseeable future.”

“Oh, now he worries about experimental medicines.”

Spock looked at Bones for a long, silent moment.  “I suspect this incident will be mentioned frequently, and used to support many of your arguments for a significant length of time.”

“Damn straight,” said Bones.  “Now sit tight.  Christine’s on her way from the lab with the hypo, and I just need to check on Ensign Michaels and xir migraine.”

Spock sighed, settling himself more comfortably on his bed - Bones refused to give Spock new hypos unless he was lying down, given how often Spock complained of nausea and dizziness when faced with Bones’ ‘potions’.  “Jim?”

“Yeah?”

“It is highly likely that Doctor McCoy’s concoction will prove successful in curing me.”

Jim smiled to himself as he sat.  “I suppose you don’t want Bones knowing you said that.”

“I do not,” Spock confirmed.  He reached over and took hold of Jim’s hand, not meeting his eyes.  “Without the influence of this affliction, I consider it unlikely that I will verbally express my affection for you.  It is not in my nature.  Nevertheless, I hope you will not doubt its existence.”

“Never.  Spock, I’ve never wanted you to change.  I never will want you to change.”  Jim squeezed his hand gently, trying to radiate every bit of sincerity, of affection, of love that was in his body.  “You believe me, don’t you?”

“I believe I do.  Ashayam.”

Jim had never heard that word before, but he didn’t need to ask to know what it meant.

They were still holding hands as Spock’s parents walked in.  Jim would have let go, but Spock held tighter, tight enough it almost hurt.  It was defiant, yes, in part, but there was fear too.  It was a request for strength.  For Jim’s strength.

He’d give it.  Give anything.

Spock didn’t speak as his parents approached.  He watched them, as tense as if he’d been staring down hostile forces.  Amanda came to his bedside, the other side to Jim.  Sarek hung back, seeming disapproving in his expressionlessness.  Jim felt his hackles rise, ready to fight, ready to argue, ready-

“Jim.”

He forced himself to settle.  Spock’s eyes were amused.  “Sorry,” said Jim.

“It is of no consequence,” Spock said.  “I am, in Human terms, flattered.”

Jim huffed a laugh.  Amanda looked between them, between Spock’s bright eyes and Jim’s smile, between their clasped hands and the easy exchange.  Her lips pursed slightly, but it was Sarek who spoke.  “I see now why you do not wish to be betrothed.”

“Even if Jim had not consented to altering the nature of our relationship, I would not have permitted you to betrothe me,” Spock said.  “As is my right.”

“But you could have spoken to us,” Amanda said.  “If you had told us the truth-”

“The unfiltered truth,” said Spock, “is liable to hurt.”

“Then Captain Kirk was right, and your avoidance was meant to protect me.”  Amanda shook her head, disappointed.  “You are my son.”

“You have not approved of the truths I have shared of late.”  Spock’s voice was gentle, achingly gentle.  Jim’s hand was starting to hurt.  He wouldn’t let on for the world.  “I was protecting myself, also.”

Amanda swayed, as if the shock was a physical blow.  Her eyes welled.  “Sa-fu-”

“I understand that the emotional response to father’s illness may have compromised your judgement, but it does not alter your instinctive reaction.  You ask that I act as a Human would, despite your repeated claims that the Vulcan way is superior.  You claimed…”  Spock’s voice wavered.  If he could have, Jim would have come closer.  “Would you truly have hated me, Mother?  If I could not have saved him?”

The tears had not fallen - she was a Vulcan wife, of course - but her breathing was shaky.  “Spock…”

“It is of no consequence,” he decided.  “It has long been apparent that you - both of you - would have preferred that I be ‘one thing or the other’.  Vulcan or Human.  Not both.”  His lips twitched, a little wry.  “You are not alone in this desire.”

“You chose to follow the Vulcan way,” Sarek said.

“My insight is recent and hard-won.  You believe that my traits can be categorised as Vulcan or Human, as if I can be split down the middle into two distinct halves, one that is correct and one that is not.  I cannot be so easily explained.  I am both, meaning that I am neither, and I am incapable of pretending otherwise.  Even for you, Mother.”

“What would you claim to be, then?”  From this angle, Sarek seemed almost…

Jim wasn’t quite sure.

Diminished.  Quiet.

Regretful?

For a moment, Spock simply breathed.  Gathered his thoughts.  Then he tilted his head, raised one eyebrow, and almost smiled.  “I am Spock.”

Spock seemed calm until the very moment his parents walked out, and then he shivered, turning and pressing his face into Jim’s stomach.  

“I’m proud of you,” Jim told him, pressing his fingers against Spock’s nape.  “You did so well.  I’m so proud of you.”

“I have hurt her.”

“You were honest.”

“C’thia.”

Jim would ask what that meant later.  Right now, he locked eyes with Bones as he walked in.  Bones widened his eyes in question, but didn’t speak.  Jim guessed he’d have to handle that.

“Spock, are you ready for the hypo?”

Spock nodded without looking up, which was fine.  One thing Jim had learned, Bones didn’t need eye contact to stab you.

Chapter Text

Given that Enterprise’s XO was no longer a walking liability, the journey seemed to run a little more smoothly.  Admirals went about their days blissfully un-insulted (at least to their faces), illicit experiments went unconducted (at least as far as Jim was aware), and deep secrets went unexpressed (at least in public).  There were no further sightings of Vulcans roaming the halls with their eyes closed, which Jim was always glad of.  All in all, a much improved - though less interesting - state of affairs.

It culminated with Enterprise delivering all ambassadors - minus one dead and one imposter, naturally - safely to Babel with no further interruptions.  Excepting one incident with the warp drive, which Jim hardly counted, given how quickly Scotty fixed the thing.

Spock was there to see his parents off.  None of them mentioned what he’d said in Sickbay.  Amanda asked him to stay in touch; Spock neither agreed or disagreed.  Jim asked about it after they left, but Spock was taking full advantage of his rediscovered ability to not answer questions.

In truth, Jim suspected that Spock plain didn’t know.

After a few days to resupply, Enterprise set off back into the galaxy, and he and Spock sequestered themselves in Spock’s room for Beta shift, writing reports against the backdrop of velvet curtains and incense.  Not so different to what they’d do before, except this time Spock had lain down with his head in Jim’s lap, holding the PADD over his face to read.  Neither comfortable nor particularly logical; Jim suspected it was largely for his benefit, a non-verbal expression of affection, so he was doing the honourable thing of enjoying it immensely.

They were comfortable, content, nestled in pillows on Spock’s meditation mat.  Jim was considering a light doze.  It was peaceful enough that they hardly flinched when Bones came bursting in, abusing his medical access to make the proper entrance.

“You!”  He brandished a menacing finger.

Spock raised an eyebrow but not his head.  “Me, Doctor?”

“Yes you!”  Bones stomped over and replaced Spock’s PADD with his own.  Spock, naturally, allowed it.  “Were you gonna tell me that papers with your data have a thousand year cooling period, or were you waiting for me to get rejected first?  Good God man, you helped me edit the damn thing!”

Spock started to type, a slow process on unadapted screens, which meant he was certainly going for dramatic effect over practicality.  Jim hid his smile in Spock’s black hair as he said, almost dismissively, “You exaggerate.  Papers will only be held until six months after my death-”

“You-!”

“-unless I choose to sign the waiver provided by your publisher.  Which, given our long acquaintance and your professionalism - when it comes to practising medicine, at least - I am prepared to do.  I was merely waiting for your publisher to provide it.”

He returned the PADD, now bearing a new document and his signature.  Bones deflated like a pricked balloon.

“Oh.  Well.  Thank you.”

Spock radiated a light smugness.  “I thought that you would be pleased.”

“Yeah, well, don’t look too happy.  It’s titled ‘The consequences of not listening to your doctor: a case study’.”

Spock’s eyebrow found its way to his hairline and Jim thought - as he laughed against Spock’s skin - that he better intervene before it became a real argument.  He ran a soothing finger over the tip of Spock’s ear, trying to project peaceful thoughts alongside the hilarity.  “We can workshop it.”