Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Carol tells Jim she's pregnant, he laughs. How else is he supposed to react? They're sitting in a bar, for fuck's sake. Jim just ordered them both drinks. It's objectively hilarious. “Very funny, Care,” Jim chuckles, but then he sees the look on her face. In an instant, his blood runs cold. “Carol…?”

“I'm serious, Jim. It's yours.”

And she certainly looks serious. Jim can tell that much. He pauses for a moment to take in the sight of Carol, trying to decide if she looks any different (he's heard it said, after all, that pregnancy gives a person a certain glow; maybe, if he can pinpoint it for sure, this'll stop feeling like some sort of off-color prank). “But we never even— oh. Oh.”

"Glad to know it was memorable," she says drily, but her smile is kind.

It happened after everything with Khan. Once the dust settled, the 'fleet organized a whole fancy ceremony — lots of commendations, far-too-long speeches, and then booze. So much booze. From what Jim's spotty memory can piece together, he knows this much: he and Carol had sex. Not necessarily good sex (considering they’d both been pretty drunk), but sex nonetheless.

It started when Carol approached Jim in the corner he'd taken for himself, murmuring something about 'getting out of here.' Her expression was kind, maybe even pitying, but her eyes were dark with lust.

Jim, who had been not-watching Spock and Uhura be all over one another for at least an hour at that point, was all too eager to have a distraction. Especially one of the pretty, blonde variety. So he finished his drink, discarding his glass on a nearby surface, and took Carol's outstretched hand. From there, it sort of just… happened. 

Once. It happened exactly once.

Jim blames the liquor for the route his mind takes immediately upon learning of his impending fatherhood. Before he can think better of it, he's already begun to ask, "Are you sure it's mine?"

Which... shit. How's a guy supposed to come back from a blunder like that?

Carol looks about ready to smack him across the face (and he wouldn't even blame her if she did). “Yes, Jim," she responds instead, holding his gaze for several prolonged seconds. "I’m 'sure.' I don’t exactly make a hobby of sleeping around, especially with my superiors.”

“Wasn’t your superior when it happened,” Jim mumbles into his glass.

Which is true, mind you — he wasn't her superior. Not anymore. Carol had already submitted her letter of resignation at that point, citing 'differences in principle' between herself and the 'fleet as her primary reason for leaving. Jim had dutifully signed on the dotted line, passing it along to the brass, and that'd been that. It was the reason Jim said 'yes' to her proposition in the first place. Even drunk, he knew better than to mess with frat regs.

Now, equipped as he is with this new knowledge, Jim takes another much-needed swig of his drink. He hisses at the burn of it, using an embarrassing amount of his willpower to set the glass down on the bar (placing the thing on a coaster, no less) and look the blonde in the eye. “Look, Care. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked that. Of course it's my kid. Do you need me to— um. I’m not sure what you’re planning to do, but regardless of your choice, just know that—"

“I’m keeping the baby, Jim,” Carol says. There isn't even a hint of hesitancy in her voice. No indication that she might be considering her options. She’s clearly made her decision.

“You’re—” Jim starts, feeling uncharacteristically tongue-tied. He brings the glass right back to his lips. One sip turns into two, until suddenly Jim is downing the whole thing and hissing at the taste all over again. He does the mental math, attempting to figure out just how far along this would make her — and, shit, when would her due date be...?

It isn't until he slams the empty glass back onto the counter, gesturing for the bartender to pour him another, that Jim manages to say, “Okay. I’m— yeah. Okay. What do you need me to do?”

"Well," Carol starts, eyeing Jim for a moment. "The way I see it, you have two options."

Always so analytical, that one. It's a mystery why she and Spock didn't become fast friends. "Hit me."

Carol smirks, wordlessly sliding her still-full glass across the bar towards Jim, and says, "Option one: you leave Starfleet— permanently. Settle down with me somewhere nice and quiet. You get a normal, non-life-threatening job. Then we raise the smartest, most pig-headed child to ever roam the Earth."

To which Jim can only hum, running a finger along the rim of Carol's forfeited glass before slowly raising it to his lips.

"Option two," the blonde continues, tearing her gaze from Jim's face to assess her nails discerningly, "You do absolutely nothing."

Which... isn't what Kirk expected to hear. He can only manage to choke out a quick, "I— what?," staring slack-jawed at the woman before him. Is she serious...?

"I mean, not nothing," Carol quickly clarifies, sounding far too cheerful considering the topic at hand, "You keep doing whatever it is you want to do. Meanwhile, I settle down somewhere nice and quiet and raise the smartest, most pig-headed child to ever roam the Earth."

Which, okay. Jim's no idiot. He can connect those dots. "You don't need my help," he says, and it's not a question.

"Not in the slightest."

From there, it all sort of falls into place.

The thing about it is, Jim can't just give up the Enterprise.

Not only because he's worked so damn hard to get where he is (though that certainly does factor in). Not only because he's already committed to captain a crew of over four hundred individuals on a five-year mission into unexplored space, either. 

The truth of the matter is that Jim lives for this shit. Thrives off of it. He doesn't know who he is without command. Without being in constant motion.

And anyway, Jim reasons, he spent his formative years in the exact kind of tiny town that would fit quite well into Carol's 'somewhere nice and quiet' description. He knows for a fact that he wouldn't last a day cooped up in a place like that. He simply wasn't built for it.

Carol clearly knows it, too, because she sounds all too certain of Jim's answer before she even asks, "Could you give it all up?"

Jim couldn't. He can't. More than that, he doesn't want to. He never knew what it felt like to touch his destiny until he first stepped onto the bridge. He never felt like he belonged anywhere — not really, anyway — until he found himself in the chair. Until he put on that gold tunic.

He isn't ready to give that up. Doing so would only lead him to resent the kid, anyway.

(And Jim knows better than most how it feels to be resented by your own parent; no child of his needs to grow up carrying that kind of burden on their shoulders.)

When Kirk finally responds to Carol's question, he can hear the defeat in his own voice. "No," he whispers, suddenly unable to hold the woman's gaze. He looks instead at a spot on the wall, just behind her head. It takes everything in him not to fall apart right then and there.

But Carol just smiles, looking at Jim like she can see right through him, and tells him it's okay. Assures him that she's more than capable of doing it on her own. That she wants to.

When they eventually part ways — Carol leaning forward to press a chaste kiss against Jim's cheek, reminding him one more time that there are 'no hard feelings, genuinely' — Jim can't help but wonder if he's just made the biggest mistake of his life. He waves at her retreating figure, murmuring, "Goodbye, Carol," to an audience of zero. Then, he orders another drink.

What Jim doesn't know, in this moment, is that it will be the last time he sees Carol Marcus alive.

If he had known, he might've insisted on a hug.

✧ ✦ ✧

It makes sense not to tell anyone at first.

Jim certainly thinks about telling someone (namely Bones) on more than one occasion — especially the times when the two manage to get a bit of liquor in them — but, when it all comes down to it, Jim can never manage to form the words.

How do you tell your best friend, a man who spends half his time yapping about missing his little girl back on Earth, that space is about to gain another absentee father? That, unlike him, you are actively choosing this arrangement?

You don't. That's how.

And then there's Spock, who — god. Spock.

On paper, he should be a perfect candidate for spilling the beans. They're friends now, after all. Spock said as much, didn't he? It was the last thing Jim heard before everything faded to black — just Spock, sounding so broken. So unlike Jim has ever heard him.

'Because you are my friend.' 

The words still haunt Jim at night. That, and the sight of Spock — blurred through the veneer of Jim's dying, poisoned eyes, but recognizably Spock all the same. Hand to the glass. Touching Jim and yet not, so devastatingly close and yet far, so far, and—

It'd been faint, through the barrier, but it was there. A connection. A bridge between their almost-touching hands. An understanding. Of that Jim is one hundred percent certain.

And then there was nothing.

Then Jim died. Came back to life. Had a one night stand with a beautiful, intelligent woman — just one drunken tryst in a string of probably hundreds before it (Jim's not exactly keeping count) — and now he's about to be a father. It's not exactly rocket science how they got from point A to point B. Even if it was rocket science, it's Spock. The guy could give a lecture on that shit in his sleep.

Like Jim said, it should make sense for him to go to Spock about this. He should have no problem explaining the sequence of events rationally. And maybe Jim would — maybe he could — except for that whole thing where Vulcan imploded, and then Spock almost left behind everything he'd ever worked for (not to mention everything he and Nyota built together, which still sort of blows Jim's mind) just to do his part for the Vulcan people. Just to help rebuild. To fulfill a sense of duty — and probably, to some degree, to honor his late mother.

If it hadn't been for the other Spock stepping in, the younger of the two would probably be on New Vulcan at this very moment — doing his stupid duty. Changing diapers and filling bottles. Raising little pointy-eared children to be just as catty and gentle and infuriating as their father before them.

Because Spock is good, and honorable, and righteous. Spock is a man with a sense of right and wrong. Jim, on the other hand...

Jim can't bear the idea of either of his closest friends — or anyone, really, but especially Spock and Bones — looking him in the eye when he admits that he chose the life of a Starfleet captain over being a father. That he was more than willing to let Carol do it on her own.

So Jim keeps it to himself.

The Enterprise sets off on her next five year mission less than a month after Carol's bomb-drop. It's rough, at first — hard for Jim to do much else besides wallow in his own self-pity as it stews in the monotony of space — but eventually, missions pick up.

Eventually, shit gets interesting. 

So Jim spends the next seven-or-so months being Captain Kirk. Kicking ass, taking names — all the usual stuff. He rarely has time, other than the rare interlude between missions, to think about the not-yet-person carrying half of his DNA. Growing inside of a brilliant riddle of a woman, halfway across the galaxy. Jim relegates those thoughts to the times when he'll get an occasional update from Carol — things like ultrasound photos and stories of strange cravings —and lets himself wallow. Just for a second.

On a day-to-day basis, though, it all feels pretty... inconsequential. 

Which is probably why, when the comm comes in, Jim is utterly unprepared for his own reaction.

He's in the rec room, getting his ass handed to him in chess (as he so often does with this particular opponent, much to the delight of literally everyone other than Jim). Kirk has just made his next move, only around sixty percent sure it was the right one, when the device beeps quietly.

"One second, Mr. Spock," Jim murmurs. He lifts himself off of his seat just enough that he can grab the comm from his back pocket before plopping back down and grunting exaggeratedly. Jim's eyes scan the lit-up screen, barely registering the words. He's just about to put the device away and return to the game when—

Suddenly, Jim feels the floor fall out from under him.

Dr. Carol Marcus | 19:23: Thought you might like to know.

Dr. Carol Marcus | 19:23: [3 Photo Attachments]

"I have to go," he announces, ignoring several disappointed noises from the small crowd of crew members who regularly gather to watch their command team go head-to-head. "Sorry, guys, it's just— urgent. We'll have to finish this game another time."

"Captain?" Spock prods, moving to stand, but Jim raises a hand to stop him.

"It's fine, Spock. You should stay. This isn't ship business."

From her seat nearby, Uhura says, "Ship business or not, maybe we can he—"

"Thank you, Lieutenant, but that won't be necessary," Jim interrupts, wincing at the brashness of his own tone before promptly turning on his heel and high-tailing the hell out of there. He'll have time to apologize later. For now, he needs to see whatever the hell Carol sent him.

Jim stumbles into his quarters, fumbling to connect his comm with the large viewscreen where he usually takes personal calls. The screen flickers to life, blinking obediently at him. Jim commands the computer to pull up Carol's photos.

The first is a photo of Carol in a hospital bed, face flushed from exertion. She's beaming from ear to ear, holding an infant child securely in her arms. It's tough to see the kid from so far away, though the Captain is sure that he sees an almost-full head of sandy blond curls.

Jim's stomach feels hollow when he prompts the computer to go to the next image.

The second photo is what looks to be a scan of a birth certificate, complete two tiny, inky footprints in its bottom right corner (which Jim didn't even know they still did on Earth, mind you — so maybe it's a location thing, or maybe Carol's just that good at getting what she wants). The certificate tells him that David James Marcus, weighing in at just over three kilograms, was born to parents Carol Marcus and James Kirk on November 20th, 2259. Once the Captain's greedy eyes have scanned its contents, he prompts the computer to switch images yet again, and—

In an instant, Jim's entire world shifts.

There on the screen, clear as day, is an image of the most beautiful baby boy Jim has ever seen. He reaches out instinctively, running a hand along the digitized version of his newborn son's face. "Hi, David," he whispers, voice hoarse and near-unrecognizable to his own ears. "Welcome to the universe."

By the time Bones arrives outside Jim's quarters, grumbling about having received worried comms from Spock, Uhura, and several others, Jim is on the floor. It's anyone's guess, really, how he got there — or how long he's been frozen in position, face wet with tears. Staring up at a now-dark viewscreen and drowning in his own self-loathing.

"Jim...?"

And although the Captain hears his best friend's voice from the other side of his door, he finds himself incapable of responding. Jim can't move. Can't breathe. Can't think, honestly — much less turn those thoughts into words. He's frozen in place. Even as the door beeps, signaling that Bones has used his override code, Jim remains motionless.

"Goddammit, Jim! Are you injured? Is it your head? I knew I should've insisted on that concussion test—"

"Bones," Jim manages to choke out, forcing himself to meet his best friend's worried gaze. "Please. I can't— I don't know how to—"

Which is when the doctor comes closer, kneeling beside his shaking friend, and hoists Jim into a more proper sitting position. Kirk grunts. His head lolls back. Bones forces him to keep it straight with a hand on either side of his face. "You gotta breathe, kid. Gotta get yourself together so you can tell me what the hell happened, goddammit. What's got you so bent out-of-shape, Jimmy?"

"It's... Carol. She—" Jim cuts himself off, gesturing toward the black viewscreen, and says, "Just. Turn it on. I can't... I can't, Bones. I'm sorry."

With a curt nod, Leonard McCoy stands — going all stoic doctor, like he only ever does when a patient (usually Jim) is seriously at risk of bleeding out — and approaches the viewscreen. Kirk sort of feels like he might be sick with guilt if he looks at that little face for much longer, so he focuses instead on staring at his own shaking hands.

For a while, Bones says nothing. He just looks and looks. Keeps on looking for what feels like an eternity. It's only then, once he's seemingly processed all of the information at hand, that the doctor whispers, "He's beautiful, Jimmy. Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

And that, for whatever reason, is what breaks Jim completely. 

It's unclear how much time passes before Jim finds himself lying on top of his bed. He's cradled in the arms of one of the only people in the universe who has seen him cry — and certainly the only one who has seen him cry like this.

These aren't pretty tears. They're the ugly, snotty kind. The kind that leave Jim feeling gross and phlegmy even hours after they're gone.

Bones holds his best friend and captain in a strong, sturdy embrace. "It's okay, kid," he whispers, rubbing Jim's back in a circular motion. Showing the man more tenderness than he's had in years (maybe ever, if Jim's honest). "I know it hurts, Jimmy. I know..."

And it does hurt. It hurts so goddamn bad.

✧ ✦ ✧

The updates are pretty frequent at first. Jim gets a new message from Carol several times a week. Usually, it'll be a picture — captioned with a little anecdote about one thing or another — but other times, when Jim's lucky, he'll get a video.

The videos are amazing. They also break his heart.

He saves every single one, along with every photo and message. Jim can't bring himself to rewatch them, though. To revisit that pain. Not when almost every video and picture includes the small, stuffed rabbit that Jim arranged to be delivered to Carol's apartment after she returned from the hospital (along with a bouquet of yellow roses and a note that simply said 'From Jim'). 

So Jim watches through a viewscreen as his baby boy gets bigger and bigger.

With every photo and video, Jim sees more personality. Finds more things to love about the tiny little human with the fluffy blond curls. It's devastating and painful and perfect and wonderful and — god. He's never even met the kid.

Jim wonders again and again if he's made a horrible mistake.

The first time Jim hears David's laugh through the tinny speakers of his PADD ends with Bones threatening to put him on medical leave.

He finds Jim in his quarters, nursing a near-empty bottle of Andorian Ale, and all but explodes.

"D'you have a death wish or somethin'?" the Doctor questions, eyes wild, but then quickly adds, "Don't answer that. Forgot for a second just whose blood you've got swimmin' around in there. Can't imagine that helps with the sanity."

It doesn't. At least, Jim doesn't think it does. The whole Khan thing is one of those topics that he'd rather not touch with a ten foot pole, much less think about in great detail. Tarsus is another. Used to be that his Dad was, too, but Pike sort of bulldozed right through those walls.

"Listen, Jim. Off duty or not, this level of alcohol consumption is a cause for concern."

"M'fine, Bonesy," Jim counters, though the slurring of his speech doesn't exactly work in his favor. "Why don't you go and... I dunno. Save a life, or whatever?"

Bones sighs, reaching out to pat the top of his best friend's head, and murmurs, "I'm trying, kid."

Missions continue. Life continues. It's not that Jim forgets about David — hell, he thinks about the kid almost every second of every day. But slowly, over time, Carol's updates become less frequent. Her stories become less detailed. Jim tries to tell himself it's just the stress of motherhood — that Carol wants to reach out more often, but she simply doesn't have the time. Deep down, though, he knows it isn't as simple as that.

Carol meant what she said in that bar. She doesn't want Starfleet to be a part of her kid's life.

Jim understood it then, just as surely as he understands it now. It's not difficult to see why Carol in particular might want her child to be spared a life in the 'fleet's shadow. She lost a father in all of the bullshit that happened with Khan (regardless of the Admiral being more-or-less at fault for his own demise), and Jim — well. Jim lost Pike. Lost his actual Dad decades before that. 

He even lost his own life out there, which...

Yeah. Jim died. And the truth is, if it hadn't been for one particularly frustrating super-human's blood (and the genius bastard who managed to figure out how to use it), he would've stayed that way. Another in a long line of Kirks quite literally giving their bodies to the cause.

Carol's right. It isn't something a kid should be exposed to. Jim doesn't want that life for David, either. He wants the kid to get the quiet, simple upbringing he deserves.

So he lets go.

✧✦✧

The next time Jim hears from Carol — other than the twice-a-year updates she sends via holo, which amount to no more than a handful of vague sentences and the occasional picture — is right at the end of their five-year mission.

They talked in vague terms — mostly before they stopped communicating regularly — about Jim meeting David once he got back to Earth. Nothing special, really. Just a meeting. Just a chance to look one another in the eye.

Despite everything, Jim sort of thought he and Carol were on the same page about that.

Which is probably why he feels so blindsided when the woman on his screen says, "I'm sorry, Jim. David and I haven't lived on Earth for almost three years now."

"You— what? What does that even mean, Carol?"

"It means you won't be meeting him next month. It's better this way, Jim. Meeting you now would only be... confusing, for him."

And before Jim can ask if David, who is just under five years old at this point, even knows who the hell he is, Carol ends the call.

Jim spends his first month back on Earth in a haze of binge-drinking and sex, attempting (and failing) to forget just how fucking screwed up it is that Carol didn't tell him she was moving their kid off-planet. He wants to think about other things. Wants to be present in the moment. Hard as he tries, though, it all comes back to Carol. To David.

Where are they right now? Jim wonders. Are they happy? Are they safe? Is David as curious as Jim was at that age — always looking for answers in a never-ending chain of 'why' and 'how'? Getting into all sorts of trouble, tracking dirt throughout the house? Or is he more shy and reserved, like Sam was? Or maybe he's like something else entirely. Maybe he's like no one Jim's ever met.

(Jim can't know what David's like, though, because Jim doesn't know David. Every time he manages to remind himself of that fact, his heart breaks a little bit more.)

It ends with an intervention in which everyone — Spock, Bones, Uhura, Sulu, Chekov, and even Scotty (the traitor) — explains, in no uncertain terms, that they're worried about his health. That they can't let Jim go on like this. "It's just not safe, Captain," Nyota whispers. "I don't know how I'd live with myself if— if you—"

She cuts herself off then, stepping away from Spock's steadying hand on her waist, and disappears down the hallway. Scotty tries to talk — even opens his mouth, more than once — but it's like he has no idea what to say. Or maybe he's just afraid he'll start crying, too.

They leave the room one by one until the only one left besides Jim is Spock. "Captain," the Vulcan says after several seconds of drawn-out silence. He waits for Jim to meet his gaze, hands coming to grab the human by the shoulders, and for a second Jim thinks he's about to get strangled again. Instead, he gets... whatever this is. "Jim. Please. I have already watched you die once. I do not wish to relive the experience."

And Jim really has no choice but to get his act together, after that.

✧ ✦ ✧

It's unclear what it is that compels Jim to reach out to the elder Spock. It's a coin toss, really, whether he'll pull the old 'butterfly effect' excuse — god knows the guy's selective with his application of that particular rule. In the end, Jim decides it couldn't hurt to ask. To try.

So he does.

"Carol Marcus," he says, apropos of nothing, and the elder Spock raises a brow. Jim can work with that. "Heard of her? Blonde, beautiful, English..."

Spock's brow goes even further up on his forehead (which Jim wouldn't have thought was possible). "English?"

"Um, yeah?" is Jim's (frankly) caught-off-guard response. "As in, like... 'from England.' I mean, her Dad's not— or, I guess, he wasn't. I think he got stationed there, though? And presumably started a family with someone local..."

"Fascinating," the Vulcan murmurs, taking several seconds to think before he speaks again, "For what purpose do you speak of Dr. Marcus?"

It's hardly a trick question. Jim's not sure what about it has him tongue-tied — maybe just the idea of saying it out loud. Admitting the truth to someone other than himself. Because even though Bones knows, Jim didn't exactly tell him — so much as point at a photo and say 'look.' "She's, um—" Jim starts, swallowing thickly before he starts all over again. "We— she and I, that is— have a son."

"David," the elder Spock says instantly. From the look on the Vulcan's face, Jim's relatively certain he surprised himself with the outburst.

Jim sort of can't breathe. "You've met him? You've— in your timeline, was he— was I...?"

"I cannot disclose such things, Jim. I apologize for my temporary lapse in control."

"No, I get it. I mean— space, time, all that. I get it."

Spock starts to say, "That is—" just as Jim decides he's not done rambling, actually. Oops.

"... But what about Carol?" he sputters, smiling apologetically for having interrupted the man. "Sorry, it's just. I mean, clearly the other her — the presumably-not-English one, based on your reaction to me saying that — was different from this Carol. Different enough that you could tell me something about her. Right?"

Spock's eyes are wide and devastatingly honest when he insists, "I did not know her, Jim. Nor did I know David. I met him very briefly, at a time when I was not... wholly myself. That was the extent of our interaction. I wish that I could help you, but I must be cognizant of the unforeseen consequences of such an act. I hope you can forgive me."

"Nothing to forgive, Spock," Jim says honestly, quickly followed by, "Listen. I gotta go, but uh... live long and prosper, all right? That's an order."

"Peace and long life, Captain," Spock says, and Jim could swear his lips are tugging up into an almost-smile.

✧ ✦ ✧

They start their next mission a few months before David's ninth birthday. Jim knows it's ridiculous, framing his own life around the milestones of a child he's never even met, but it's the only way he can think to make sense of the gaping hole he feels in his chest whenever the boy comes to mind.

It took some convincing, especially with Spock, but Jim managed to get the whole crew back on board. He knows most of them got better offers — knows that Scotty, at the very least, could've had a ship of his own — but in the end, every last one of them chose the Enterprise. Chose Jim.

It's an honor he doesn't take lightly.

Jim is especially grateful that, despite whatever mysterious reasoning led to the pair's (frankly shocking) breakup, Spock and Uhura are doing a bang-up job of behaving like professionals. Which they are, of course, and maybe Jim shouldn't be surprised. They're Spock and Uhura, after all. Two of the most professional people he's ever met.

Still, though. Damn. Calling it quits after nearly a decade together is hard enough without having to see your ex's face every day at work. Jim's not sure about the specifics — has no idea who broke up with whom, or why — but he's grateful for their decorum all the same. He says as much over dinner, smiling at Uhura's tired face, and the communications officer actually laughs. 

"Even if it'd been the most explosive breakup in history, Captain, there's nothing that could've kept me from the Enterprise."

Kirk's not sure what it is, exactly, that compels him to ask, "And Spock...?"

"Jim," Uhura says flatly, looking at him with an expression the Captain can't begin to decipher, "Do you really need me to tell you that he's in the same boat? That we all are? I mean, look at Scotty—"

"I know, I know," Jim interrupts, offering a sheepish smile. "And I don't mean to play coy. It's just— I dunno. That whole almost-raising-Vulcan-babies thing really threw me for a loop. Made me feel like maybe I don't know him as well as I thought I did. And then... well. You know. You were there."

Uhura has a faraway look in her eye when she murmurs, "Yeah. I was there."

(Jim decides it's best to steer the conversation away from Spock, after that.)

Jim feels strangely hesitant when he finds Spock sitting alone in the rec room later that night. "Hey," he says, hovering in the entryway. Crossing both arms over his chest tightly, just so he can have something to not-do with his hands.

When Spock murmurs, "Greetings, Captain," in response, he doesn't even bother to peel his eyes away from the screen of his PADD.

Jim rolls his eyes, wondering if he's somehow incurred the Vulcan's wrath. Is Spock mad at Jim because he got dinner with Uhura? Was Jim supposed to go to him in the not-divorce? Or is it about Kirk going to Sulu for help with a botany-related question, because if so—

But then Spock sets the PADD down, finally meeting Jim's gaze, and clears his throat. The sound tears Jim away from his spiraling thoughts. "My apologies, Captain. That was a message from my father."

"Something wrong?" Jim wonders, suddenly a lot less anxious about the possibility of Spock being pissed at him. He slides into the empty seat across from the Vulcan. Rests his chin atop two cupped palms.

"Negative, Captain," Spock responds, and his voice sounds... different. Softer, maybe. "I have found that, as of late, if I do not finish reading his correspondence in one singular sitting... the likelihood that I will respond in a prompt manner diminishes greatly."

Jim snorts, because he knows that feeling all too well. Winona Kirk isn't the type to respond kindly to a letter going unanswered — much less an unreturned comm, god forbid — and there's something about getting chewed out by your mother at thirty-five that is particularly humiliating. Jim can only imagine what the Vulcan alternative might look like.

"Are you well, Captain? Perhaps we should discuss the events of—"

"Hey, hey. No ship business, all right? That's not why I came looking for you, so hush."

Spock cocks his head to the side, just slightly, but says nothing.

Jim bites back an amused smirk. "Listen, Spock," he says softly, rejecting the urge to reach out and grab the Vulcan by the hand, "I just... I wanted to see how you were doing. You haven't been around as much, and I thought maybe— well. With the breakup and everything, I could understand if—"

"Captain," Spock mercifully interrupts, bringing the human's words to a screeching halt. "... Jim. The gesture, whilst appreciated, is entirely unnecessary. I am simply re-acclimating to the experience of being in such close proximity with several hundred individuals, many of whom are psi-null and as such wholly incapable of controlling psychic output. It can be... overwhelming."

"Oh," Jim says, because... oh. He'd never really thought about it like that. "Well, um. In that case, I can just—"

Spock grabs his Captain by the wrist before he can move to leave. "Jim."

(It really shouldn't feel that good when Spock touches him.)

"You were not included in that sentiment."

"...That so?" Jim murmurs, skeptical.

"Indeed. Your psychic output is remarkably quiet for one so... audacious."

The way Spock says the word makes it sound like a compliment and an insult all at once. Jim hopes his cheeks aren't as red as they feel. "Chess?" he suggests, mostly just to change the subject. 

"I am amenable to that suggestion, yes."

✧ ✦ ✧

Just six days after David turns nine, Jim gets a comm from Carol. It's short and nearly impossible to decipher — mostly just a collection of static, with the occasional interjection of Carol's voice — but something about it strikes at the very core of Jim. He all but knocks down the door to Uhura's quarters, hardly waiting for the woman to allow him entry before storming in with guns ablaze.

"I need your help," he announces.

"Is something wrong, Captain? I'm not on duty—"

"Please, Nyota," Jim interrupts, voice cracking just slightly at the end. "I got a message from Carol Marcus. She's— well. I'm not sure what it says, exactly, but I just got this awful feeling, and..."

Uhura holds out a hand expectantly, smiling kindly up at her Captain, and promises, "I'll see what I can do."

At which point Jim hands over the device. He immediately begins pacing the room back-and-forth. Tugging at the ends of his own hair. Biting back little worried noises that keep trying to escape through clenched teeth. Eventually, the communications officer has no choice but to kick him out.

"I can't work with you being all... that," she explains, and Jim gets it. He hates it with a burning passion — don't get him wrong — but he does get it. He'd've kicked himself out much quicker. "Just go back to your quarters. I'll come grab you as soon as I know more, all right?"

And what's Jim gonna do? Say 'no, fuck you, actually' to the woman who is helping him? To his colleague and friend? "Thanks," he says instead, noting how his hand shakes when he reaches out to squeeze her shoulder, gently. "Really. You have no idea... just thanks."

Twenty-seven minutes later, Uhura's the one banging on the door to Jim's quarters.

"Computer, allow entry," Jim orders, and then there she is. Eyes red-rimmed and watery. 

Jim might actually be sick. "Come in," he murmurs, swallowing back bile. He can barely wait for the door to slide closed behind her before he desperately asks, "What is it? What did she say? Is she— are they— oh god..."

Rather than respond verbally, Uhura reaches for the comm dock. There's no video to go along with the message, but the viewscreen speakers are far superior to the ones on the tiny device. Jim almost opens his mouth to tell her it's a good idea, but then the audio starts. Sure enough, just as Jim suspected, it's Carol. And she's—

She's—

'Jim,' says the voice on the other line, desperate and pained, and even though it's a recording — even though Jim knows that — he still has to bite back the urge to say I'm here, yes, it's me!

Something crashes in the background. Carol yelps. 

'It's me. It's Carol, I—' then the audio cuts, just for a fraction of a second, and Jim nearly loses it '—we're at a research station orbiting a planet called Regula. My research, is extre—' more static, this time for longer '—and I don't think there's much they wouldn't do to— agh!'

Jim locks eyes with Uhura, who is covering her mouth with one hand, and has to grab onto the table to stabilize himself. The way Carol screams — low, guttural, pained — reminds him of how she sounded when Khan broke her leg.

It's getting more and more likely that Jim is actually going to be sick.

'Get away from me you motherfu—' Carol grunts, the end of her sentence drowned out by phaser sounds. Then there's just silence. Nothing but raw, open silence, for several excruciating seconds. Jim starts to wonder if that's the end of the recording, but then — 'okay. Okay. Goddamn Klingons, I swear to god— Jim. If you're still there, listen. Please. David is here, but he's— he's hiding somewhere, okay? I told him to stay there and—' more static, goddamn it; Jim's about to lose his shit '— only come out if— knows his middle name—'

She's cut off by her own ear-piercing scream, and then the recording ends.

Jim reaches for his comm, yanking it away from the dock, and presses a button on its side. "Captain to bridge. Is Lieutenant Sulu on duty?"

"Here, sir," is the helmsman's instant reply. "Everything all right?"

Rather than respond to that question, Jim says, "I need you to change course. Beta Quadrant. Get us to Regula as fast as you possibly can without compromising the ship or the crew. Understood?"

"Yes, Captain. Understood. I'll chart our course now and consult Lieutenant Commander Scott regarding speed."

"Thanks, Sulu. Kirk out."

The comm ends. Jim runs to the bathroom and promptly empties his stomach into the toilet.

The next thing Jim knows, he's lying on his back. He blinks up at several blurry figures, all huddled over him like goddamn vultures, and wonders for a second if he's in hell. Is this what dying feels like?

(Then he remembers, with soul-crushing certainty, that death felt nothing like this. Death was empty and cold. Death was nothing but pure absence, stretching out towards forever. Death was the noise Carol made just before the comm abruptly ended.)

Jim sits up, suddenly very aware of the fact that he's in a cot, in Medbay. "We need to call an emergency meeting."

"Are you certain that is wise, Captain?"

After blinking several times to clear his vision, Jim manages to decipher the general shape of Spock from the rest of the blurriness around it. Enough that he can look in the right direction when he says, "Doesn't matter if it's 'wise.' I'm telling you, as your Captain, that we need to call an emergency meeting. Are you disobeying a direct order, Mr. Spock? Is that what you're doing?"

Which is when Uhura steps in to ask, "Who do you want at the meeting?" Her voice is maybe softer than the Captain has ever heard it, which should be soothing, but... it's really not. Not right now. Though maybe it's just that nothing could be soothing for Jim at this particular moment. Maybe he's just past that point.

(He sure feels like he is, anyway.)

"Just everyone," Jim says, rubbing at his aching temples. "I mean— y'know. You three. Scotty, Sulu, Chekov..."

"Got it, Captain. I'll get right on it."

When she's gone, Bones says, "It'll be okay, kid."

Jim grits his teeth, biting back the urge to smack the man, and hisses, "You don't know that."

Which is when Spock steps in. Because of course he does. "We are estimated to arrive at our destination in approximately three point six-eight hours. Lieutenant Commander Scott has assured me that, barring any structural issues within the station itself, we will have no problem beaming a team inside. He is quite proud of the fact that he no longer requires the standard equipment to do so."

Jim snorts, pushing out of bed, and is immediately met with the realization that he's hooked up to a goddamn IV. They're giving him fluids. "Was this really necessary, Bones?"

"Maybe not," the bastard says, because, well — he's a bastard. "But this is."

Before Jim can even begin to react, he's being stuck with two hypos at once. One on either side of his neck. He yelps, moving to put the Doctor in a headlock, but is intercepted by Spock's steadying hand on his chest. "Captain. I believe you should change before we move to the conference room. Wouldn't you agree?"

And Jim, who is still breathing heavily and feeling somewhat murderous, (reluctantly) does.

"Okay," Jim tells the group once they're all settled in their seats. He, on the other hand, is still standing — too wired-up to sit still — and gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles go a bit white. His eyes scan every face the the room. Every single one of them is staring intently back at him. "So... As you all probably noticed, we've recently changed course."

Chekov makes a surprised noise, followed by a pained grunt when Sulu proceeds to (presumably) elbow him under the table.

"I'm not gonna sugar coat it, guys. These aren't 'fleet orders. I'm going to ask for permission to do what we're already doing, but— oh. Mr. Spock. Am I on the record right now?"

The Vulcan blinks. "Negative, Captain."

"Great. Well, in that case, I may as well say it outright: if they tell me no, we're going anyway. Not that that should surprise anyone here. You're free to leave the room if you disagree with my decision. I won't hold it against anybody. But if you stay — if you don't walk out that door right now — just know that I'm expecting a certain amount of discretion. Whatever I'm about to say doesn't leave this room unless it comes from my lips. Is that understood?"

Several crew-members hum in agreement. No one stands to leave.

It's Chekov who says, "We all want to stay, sir. We want to help."

"He's right," Sulu agrees easily. "But... can I ask what this is all about, Captain?"

Jim sighs, resigning himself to the action of melting into his yet-unoccupied seat. He then spends a whole minute just rubbing his palms over his face. Trying (and failing) to calm his nerves. A good amount of time passes before Jim clears his throat to say, "This is about Carol Marcus."

Everyone except for Uhura, Bones, and (naturally) Spock reacts to the mention of the blonde. Despite her brief stint on the Enterprise — and that whole lying-about-her-identity thing, which should've been a major turnoff — they were all quite fond of her.

Though Jim's sure most haven't thought of the woman in years. If it weren't for David, he probably wouldn't have, either.

(Carol sort of disappeared, after all. Not just from Jim's life, but from everyone. From everywhere.)

"Earlier today, Dr. Marcus sent me a comm. It was pretty much just static, but Lieutenant Uhura was able to amplify the audio..." And, although the last thing Jim wants to do is hear that again, he knows it'll be easier than explaining things out loud. In truth, Jim's not sure he could get through the words without bursting into tears. He locks eyes with Uhura, noting the way her brow furrows with worry, and says, "This isn't, uh... it's not a fun listen. Just to warn you all."

Nyota's gaze falls to her hands. Jim leans forward and reluctantly presses 'PLAY.'

When the recording is done, no one speaks for a long while. It's Spock (surprisingly enough) who decides to break the silence. "Even if we are to save this child, Captain — in the event that the Doctor has perished but he is alive, how will we know his middle name?"

"We know it," is Jim's instant response. He can't stand the idea of 'if' and 'alive' being used in the same sentence — not when the topic of said sentence is David. He just can't. "That's, uh— that's not gonna be an issue. But thank you, Commander. It's a good question. Are there any others?"

No one raises their hand or speaks up. Jim surveys the room once more, taking note of their slightly worried faces.

"Like I said, you guys... I'm the one choosing to do this. You don't need to risk your lives or your careers for some kid you've never met. I'm not asking you to — though obviously I'm not gonna turn down the help. This meeting, though — this is me saying, 'here's what I'm gonna do,' and, uh. This is me asking, as politely as I can, that none of you get in my way."

"We wouldn't dream of it, Captain," Scotty insists. Several others echo the sentiment.

✧ ✦ ✧

By the time they're thirty minutes out from the planet, Jim's even more of a wreck than he already was.

He feels like he's a kid again.

He feels like he's right back on Tarsus.

Jim doesn't realize he's displaying his anxiety until Spock pulls him aside, voice soft, to ask, "Are you well, Captain?"

"I'm—" Jim starts, but what is there to say? It's Spock. Jim can't exactly lie to the guy. But he can't exactly tell the truth, either — still can't make his mouth move to form the words, so... here they are.

"Perhaps I can be of assistance. A shallow mind meld would—"

"No!" Jim interrupts, because — no. The last thing he needs is for Spock to see the whirlwind that is his mind in this exact moment. No way he could manage the amount of shielding he'd need to do to keep from spilling every secret he's ever had, all at once. "Sorry, I just— I really need to go into this with a clear mind, y'know? And when I melded with the other you, it was a lot. It... lingered."

Jim's not sure if Spock actually believes him.

And when the Vulcan says, "Very well, Captain," stepping back and removing his hands from Jim's shoulders, Kirk can't help but wish he'd said 'yes' instead. 

They don't all beam onto the satellite. That would be overkill.

Jim takes Bones, Spock, and Uhura with him. He orders Chekov to keep an eye on their vitals. Orders Scotty to stand by for beam-up instructions. Orders Sulu to take the conn. "If the 'fleet calls," Jim says, looking Sulu in the eye for a moment before his mouth splits into a lopsided grin, "Don't answer. Sound doable?"

The helmsman grins right back, nodding enthusiastically, and asks, "If they continue calling, sir?"

"Stall," is Jim's instant response. "For as long as you can. You can tell them I'm... indisposed. Tell them whatever you want. I'm sure you'll have lots of fun with that."

Sulu is still chuckling quietly by the time Jim orders Scotty to energize.

The scene inside of the satellite is pure chaos. For one, the artificial gravity is fucked — which leads to random items floating everywhere. Leads to all four of them stumbling through trying to use their suddenly-weightless bodies.

Then there's the fact that at least three alarms are going off at once. The computer in the corner is on fire. Jim's afraid to look up, because he's pretty sure there are several dead bodies floating above them. So instead he pushes forward.

Spock grabs his arm just before he can head down a narrow hallway. Despite the fact that the Vulcan's mouth is moving, Jim can't hear a word of it over the alarms. He says as much, speaking as loud as he can, and then shivers involuntarily when Spock's mouth comes up close to his ear to make up for the noise. "I will target the alarm systems, Jim," he says, and his breath tickles Jim's neck. Holy fuck. "You should take the Doctor with you."

Jim pulls back enough to look Spock in the eye, nodding once, and then gestures wildly to get Bones's attention. It takes a second for McCoy to reluctantly float on over, clearly less-than-intrigued by the gravity situation. He had a hard enough time with the non-traditional transport method — which Jim told him he could avoid by remaining on the Enterprise, but Bones was insistent.

'I wanna be there for you, kid. Whatever happens. And anyway, someone might need a doctor.'

Which are all good points. Great ones, even. Didn't stop the bastard from complaining all the while. Jim rolls his eyes, looking for something he can grab onto so he can propel himself forward.

Jim's halfway down the hallway, making good time (if he does say so himself), when the first alarm stops. It's a strange relief — considering there are still two distinct blaring noises, threatening to blast through his eardrums — but Jim's brain feels less like it's about to explode now, so that's something. Nice one, Spock, he thinks, then promptly cries out in pain when the handle he reaches for turns out to be burning hot. "Goddamn it!"

"Y'alright, Jimmy?" Bones asks from somewhere behind him.

"Yeah, m'fine, just— don't touch this handle. The one under the red thing. It's hot."

"... Duly noted."

Alarm number two goes off just as Jim makes it through the hallway and into another, larger room. It looks a lot like the first one they were in — save for one major difference. The other room didn't have Carol Marcus in it.

And, unlike the other bodies — the ones Jim was able to ignore by averting his gaze — hers is front and center. She's strapped into her seat. Buckled up all nice, like she's waiting for takeoff. Like she might just open her eyes and say, 'Oh hello, Jim! I didn't see you there.'

But she doesn't say anything, because she can't say anything. Because she never will again. Carol's dead, and Jim doesn't need a doctor to confirm it (doesn't even need to check her pulse — he just knows) but he calls back to McCoy anyway. "Bones, she's— she's in here."

Jim pulls himself closer to the body, using the edge of a nearby table (which is, much to Jim's delight, nailed to the floor below it) as a sort of handrail. That's when he notices the contents of the table in front of her — sees a note that has his name on it, still clenched in her hand. He grabs the thing, shoving it into his pocket, and takes one last look at Carol. At the mother of his child.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers, pressing a gentle kiss against the woman's temple. "I'm gonna find him, Carol. I'll keep him safe. I promise." And maybe it's just Jim going loopy from the tri-ox wearing off, but he's sure he feels her presence. Just for a second. Just a tiny hint of Carol. Then the third alarm turns off.

Jim blinks back tears, scanning the room around him, and tries to imagine where someone might hide a kid in this place.

It doesn't take long for Jim to find the door. It's small — more of a cabinet than a door, really — but, unlike all of the other cabinets, this one's built into the wall. This one's part of the satellite itself.

Spock has just entered the room, propelling himself through the doorway using those strong arms of his (which Jim really shouldn't be admiring right now, but like he said before — tri-ox wearing off; it's not his fault). Jim doesn't have to say anything when he and Spock lock eyes — when the Vulcan looks between his Captain and Carol's body, several times. Spock just knows.

Which is why he quietly leans forward, unhooking Carol from her seat, and carries her body out of sight. Jim's not sure where Spock puts her, exactly — he's too busy staring at the tiny door and trying to figure out what the hell to say. What to do. How to —

Jim doesn't even know what he's trying to do. He just knows he has to try.

"David?" he calls out, keeping his voice soft but not too quiet to be heard.

No response. 

So he tries again. "Hey, kiddo," he says, then winces at the sound of those words coming out of his own mouth. Mom had enough boyfriends who called him shit like that — 'kiddo,' or 'buddy' — and he always hated it. Made his skin crawl.

The sound of Spock coming back in breaks Jim's concentration, just for a second. He considers telling the Vulcan to leave. Then he figures there's no use trying to keep his secret anymore. The cat's pretty much out of the bag as-is.

Turning back to the door, Jim says, "Your Mom told you not to open the door for anyone, right? Not unless they knew your middle name. Well guess what, David? I can do you one better. I know your full name. You're David James Marcus. How 'bout that?"

For several seconds, Jim hears nothing. He wonders if he's miscalculated. It's then, just as he's about to turn to look back at Spock and Bones, that he hears a quiet click. The sound of metal scraping against metal.

The tiny door opens to reveal a teary-eyed boy holding a stuffed rabbit.

Chapter Text

Jim has no idea what he's supposed to do.

He's thought about this exact moment approximately one billion times over the past almost-decade — imagining how he'd act, what he'd say, if he ever got the chance to look his son in the eye — but none of those would-be scenarios included Carol's death as a part of the equation. None of them started with the image of David, wordless and frozen in place with tears streaming down his cheeks. Shaking and crying silently as he stares up at Jim.

Call him an optimist, but Jim always thought their first meeting would be a bit less... horrific. He never even considered factoring in something like this.

So, yeah. All things considered, Kirk's more-or-less flying blind. No amount of obsessive rumination could've prepared him for the cold, harsh reality of this day. Nothing could've prepared him for the sight of a boy with eyes just like his own, shoulders shaking around silent sobs as he holds onto the only thing he's got left to tether him to something, anything, in this cruel universe: that tiny, stuffed rabbit.

(And honestly, Jim's just glad he had the foresight to purchase the thing in the first place.)

The Captain carefully lowers himself to David's level whilst he plans his approach. He grabs onto the leg of a nearby seat to anchor himself, maneuvering his own legs into a criss-cross position. Jim leaves what he hopes is enough room between himself and David that the boy won't feel trapped (or, y'know — no more trapped than he already does, given the situation at hand; some variables can't be eliminated entirely).

Jim hunches over a bit, craning his neck in an attempt to see the boy's entire face at once. Two big, blue eyes blink back at him, and—

It's like looking in a mirror. David's the spitting image of Jim at that age. 

He's crying. That's the first thing Jim sees. He's still clutching his rabbit between two shaky hands. The toy is much rattier than it was when Jim first picked it out for David (nearly a decade ago, now). One of its ears is almost completely gone — frayed at the base like it'd been torn from its body. Nearly every inch of the bunny's surface is visibly pilly. Its once-vibrant blue color has gone dull and muted. Jim's pretty sure one cycle in an old-fashioned washing machine would take the thing out for good.

It's the kind of toy his mother would've called 'well-loved,' had it been Jim's when he was a kid.

(It's also the kind of toy Frank always thought wasn't suitable for little boys — the kind he'd snatch right out of Jim's hands, just for the hell of it, and then toss into the lit fireplace when Winona wasn't looking. Jim saw many a fuzzy friend burned in his time — though he's not about to revive that particular tradition. Not with David.)

The first thing Jim Kirk says to his son's face is, "Hey there. I'm Jim," which feels... wrong, somehow. Anticlimactic. He follows it up quickly by saying, "Your Mom called me right after the trouble started. She asked me to make sure you get out of here safe."

The boy blinks. Says nothing. So Jim just follows his gut and keeps on talking.

"Jim is short for 'James,' actually"— David's eyes brighten, ever-so-slightly, at the mention of his middle name; the Captain takes it as a sign to keep on going —"I know it's sort of a strange nickname — like, how do you get Jim from James? — but us humans are just weird like that, I guess. You see that guy over there?"

David's watery gaze follows the line of Jim's index finger to where it's pointed straight at Dr. McCoy. His affirmative nod is so subtle and quick that Jim almost has to wonder if he imagined it entirely. Not that it matters. He'll keep on talking either way.

"That's my best friend. His name's Leonard, but I call him 'Bones.' That's an even weirder nickname than 'Jim,' don't you think?"

David nods again, a little more purposefully this time, but still says nothing. Wide, blue eyes flicker over to Spock, then quickly shift back to Jim — now looking impossibly wider. Jim bites back a smirk. He's never quite understood why so many humans are instinctually terrified of Vulcans.

"That's Spock," the Captain continues, shifting his finger accordingly so that it's pointed at his first officer instead of his CMO, "who is my other best friend. He's a Vulcan. He... doesn't really have a nickname. Unless you count 'Spock,' which is technically more like his last name, but that's a whole other story."

"Jim..." Bones grumbles from behind him, sounding wary. "This place isn't gonna hold forever."

As if on cue, another alarm starts up — this one accompanied by flashing red lights and a computerized voice saying, 'Regula I has been compromised. Please proceed to the evacuation pods immediately,' over and over. Jim holds the boy's gaze, smiling kindly, and extends a hand in his direction. "We gotta get you to safety, David. You think you can climb out on your own?" 

David looks around, clearly searching for something, but then doesn't seem to find it. He hugs the rabbit a little tighter against his chest before looking Jim in the eye again. "Where's my Mum?" he asks, and it breaks Kirk's fucking heart. He talks just like Carol.

"I'm not sure where she is," Jim responds instantly, which... isn't a lie. Not technically. He doesn't know the specifics of where Spock moved Carol's body after they found her — though that's obviously not what David is asking. He wants to know if Carol is okay. If she's alive. Which Jim can't make happen, so instead he says, "I think she'd want us to make sure you're safe as soon as possible, though. Don't you?"

The glassy-eyed boy nods, taking note of Jim's outstretched hand, and hesitantly adjusts the rabbit in his grip. "Are you from Starfleet?"

"We all are. See this little insignia on my uniform? That means I'm one of the good guys."

(It's never quite as simple as that, Jim knows, but the last thing David needs in this moment is a lecture on the merits of categorizing intelligent life forms into 'good' and 'evil;' that's a philosophical discussion for another, less horrible day. Or never. Never's good, too.)

There's another long pause before David begins to crawl out of the cabinet, rabbit in hand. He drags a too-large backpack out behind him. It takes several tries before he's actually able to swing the thing over his bony little shoulder.

When David stands, grabbing onto a nearby rail for support, he immediately takes stock of his surroundings. Wide blue eyes scan what's left of the ruined satellite, pausing for just a second in the place where Carol had once been strapped into her seat. Jim's just about to say something more when the boy meets his gaze — seemingly resigning himself to this strange, awful scenario — and stares.

Jim keeps his hand outstretched, palm up, and nods as if to say 'it's all right.'

He's somewhat surprised at the ease with which the boy takes it. Jim locks eyes with Bones just as Spock's hailing the Enterprise — letting Scotty know they've got two to beam up, with three more close behind. What he doesn't say (and what Jim has to hope he's omitted for David's sake, rather than as an oversight) is that they've got one more person in their party.

One very much deceased, but still very important person. Someone who deserves a chance at something resembling a proper burial. If they can manage to get her out in time, anyway.

All Jim can do is hope that Bones and Spock have enough sense between the two of them to read all of this on his face.

✧ ✦ ✧

When they first get to Jim's quarters, David says nothing. He just takes a seat at the edge of Jim's bed, blinking up at the Captain, and waits for... something. But Jim doesn't know what that 'something' is, exactly. Is he supposed to know? Is there a set of rules he can reference?

"Are you hungry?" he tries, and David nods, which — okay. Jim can work with that. "Any allergies I should know about? Any food you're not supposed to eat?"

David shakes his head. He's still got the rabbit in his arms and the backpack on his shoulders (the latter of which he declined to hang up when Jim suggested he use one of the room's built-in hooks).

"I guess that means it's my choice, then! I'm thinking... peanut butter and jelly?"

When the boy's eyes light up, Jim knows they've got a winner.

The way Jim sees it, there are two ways to replicate a sandwich. You can do it the boring way, where you just tell the machine you want a PB&J. That'll get you a run-of-the-mill (if not slightly subpar) result. Then there's the less-boring way, where you tell the machine you want each of the ingredients individually. This way leads to superior end results, if only because you get more control over how much of what ingredient goes where.

There's also the wildcard option — otherwise known as the 'Winona Kirk Protocol' — where you go to the store and buy the damn ingredients yourself because 'I don't care what anybody says, it tastes different when it's replicated!'

(That last one's more expensive, not to mention hard to achieve when you're in the middle of space, so Jim doesn't bother counting it among his options.)

In the end, it makes sense to go for option number one. "Is grape jelly okay?" he asks, already inputting the appropriate data into the replicator to start making his own sandwich.

"Yes please," is David's instant, oh-so-polite response.

"You sure?" Jim murmurs, looking away from the screen so he can meet the boy's gaze. "'Cause I can get you raspberry, if you'd prefer. I think there's even strawberry, if I can just remember the right sequence for that..."

But David just shakes his head, eyes going a little watery again, and Jim ends up replicating all three types — just in case. The kid's earned the right to have a few options.

Jim's expecting their meal to be more-or-less silent. David hasn't exactly been talkative so far — which is more than understandable, given the situation at hand. Then there's the fact that eating isn't really conducive to conversation anyway, which... yeah.

Needless to say: Jim's more than a little surprised when, just as he's bitten into his own sandwich, he hears the boy ask, "Are you my father?"

Simple as that. Like it's any other silly question. Like it's not a complete curveball headed straight for Jim's face at an impossible-to-measure speed. "I—" Kirk sputters, pausing to chew and swallow his mouthful (and definitely not to scramble for a response, because he's a captain goddammit; he literally gets paid to think on his feet). "What makes you, uh..."— Jim clears his throat twice, suddenly regretting his decision to go for such a sticky meal —"what makes you ask me that question?"

To which David actually rolls his eyes. "Your name is James, you're a starship captain, and Mum called you when we were in trouble. Plus you look just like me."

"Huh. I guess that makes sen— wait a second. Who told you I'm the captain?"

"No one."

Jim cocks his head to the side. "Then how...?"

"Everybody here does what you tell them. And you're wearing the uniform. It's sort of obvious."

Jim, who quickly looks down at his own command yellow tunic and then back up at the boy, can't exactly argue with David's logic. "That's— yeah. Those are some great observations, David. Nice... attention to detail."

To which the boy simply leans forward, grabbing for his yet-untouched sandwich, and flippantly says, "I'm a natural-born scientist," which is... odd phrasing, coming from a kid. Not that Jim wasn't a bit odd himself at that age — but still. 

It's then that David proceeds to dig in, getting copious amounts of peanut butter and grape jelly all over his cheeks in the process, and Jim becomes very preoccupied with wondering if it would be weirder to tell the kid his face is a mess, or to reach over and wipe it away himself.

Jim's communicator chirps just as he's finished clearing their plates. "Hey, Doc," he says into the device, not even waiting for Bones to explain his reason for calling. "Everything good for us to come down there?"

(What Jim's really asking, of course, is whether or not Carol's body has been moved to the morgue. He's asking if he can bring David into Medbay without further scarring the kid for life in the process.)

"Right as rain, Jimmy boy," is Bones's instant, slightly-strained reply. "I'll see you in a few."

His demeanor is... expected. Autopsies are always hard on Bones, especially when he knows the person. He usually needs a drink — or five — once it's over and done with.

It's not as bad as it was in the old days, of course. Medical professionals no longer have to cut anybody open to get an accurate idea of what might've happened to cause their death. Bones does, however, have to spend a lot of time in the company of the deceased patient whilst the machines do that difficult work. Then he has to make sense of the data said machines provide and, on occasion, run the whole thing again.

Jim would probably find the process unsettling, too, if he were in the bastard's (much less fashionable) shoes. He patently refuses to step foot in the ship's morgue unless it is absolutely, one hundred percent, unavoidably necessary. Even then, he'd still probably resist.

"Where are we going?" David asks softly, and Jim turns away from the replicator to meet his gaze. The boy's face is still a little puffy from crying — and more than a little bit covered in his dinner — but he's alive. Seemingly uninjured. Forever traumatized, naturally, but... alive. David is alive.

Which is more than can be said for his mother.

"We're gonna go see Bones," Jim responds, forcing himself to smile through that gut punch. Sometimes he wonders if his brain does this shit on purpose. "Also known as Doctor McCoy. Remember him, from earlier...?"

David nods, grabbing for his napkin, and begins to wipe at his messy face.

Spock and Uhura are both being discharged from Medbay when Jim and David arrive. Spock, who is still wearing his slightly-singed 'fleet tunic, stops short at the sight of them. "Captain," he says, and then flickers his gaze down towards the boy. "And David as well. Greetings."

Nyota pauses then too. She looks between Jim and David several times. Kirk can only imagine she's noticing their uncanny resemblance — same as he himself did, back on the satellite — and wondering what it might mean. Instead of asking (like she so clearly wants to), Uhura crouches in front of the boy. "Hi David," she says with a soft, kind smile, "My name is Nyota Uhura. I'm an old friend of your Mom's, from before you were born."

"Mum doesn't have friends," is David's short, matter-of-fact response. Uhura's smile doesn't falter.

"It's been a while since she and I have seen each other, I'll admit. Sometimes friends lose touch. But that doesn't mean they're not still friends. That's why we all came when your Mom called."

David nods, seemingly satisfied with that response, and then turns to face Spock. "Are you Mum's friend?"

Spock's posture stiffens ever-so-slightly. Jim is just about to step in with the whole 'Vulcans don't really have friends' bit — knowing how hard it is for his first officer to lie, and even more so for the Vulcan to do it convincingly — when Spock says, "I did not know her well. Despite this fact, I found her accomplishments on the ship to be quite... intriguing."

(That's one way to put it, Jim thinks, because Spock never quite did get over the whole lying-about-her-identity thing — reasons be damned. It's the only sensible explanation for his continued disdain towards the woman, even all these years later. Even after knowing she was trying to save all of their asses when she had the gall to introduce herself as 'Carol Wallace.')

"It was nice to meet you, David," Uhura says then, standing up straight. She starts to tug at Spock's sleeve, dragging the Vulcan further down the hallway with her, and Jim wonders if that means they're back together, or... something else.

Before Jim has time to think about it more, Nurse Chapel pops her head out of Medbay and says, "The Doctor is ready for you now, Captain."

Nyota and Jim lock eyes one more time before she turns around fully. Jim's pretty sure, based on how the communications officer's fiery gaze was just boring into his face, that he'll be subject to no small amount of questioning sometime in the near future. He can't even blame the woman, really, because he'd have about a thousand questions if the scenarios were reversed. Probably wouldn't be half as tactful about asking them, either.

✧ ✦ ✧

They're back in Jim's quarters, both with a clean bill of health, when David asks point-blank, "Is my Mum dead?"

This time Jim's heart actually stops. He's never felt more out of his element in a conversation than he does right now. His hesitation must be clear (or maybe it's just been longer than Jim feels like it's been since David last spoke), because the boy doesn't wait for answers before pushing further:

"Mum told me when Nan died that it's difficult for adults to talk about sometimes. Is that why you won't tell me what happened? Because she's dead?"

"Your mother showed a lot of bravery—" Jim starts. He stops short when the boy proceeds to break apart, plunging himself beneath the covers of the captain's unmade bed. "David..."

David's voice is barely audible from beneath his makeshift cocoon when he says, "I want my Mum. Why won't you tell me where she is?"

And he sounds so small. So broken. Jim stays there for a moment, standing motionless at the foot of his own bed, before he says, "You were right, David. Your Mom is— she passed away, back on the satellite. But I want you to know that she loved you very much, and—"

"Shut up!" the boy interrupts, still muffled, but the emotion in his voice is clear. "Go away! Leave me alone!"

And Jim, who doesn't particularly want to stay in the here in now, is all too quick to oblige. "I'm gonna use the bathroom, David, I just— I'll be right back. I'm sorry."

Jim isn't intending to open the letter. It sort of just... happens.

He's looking himself in the mirror, taking note of the worry lines starting to show on his face, when he remembers it's still in his pocket. It's impossible to stop himself once he's gone to reach for it (not that Jim really tries, honestly; he both wants and needs to know what Carol wrote).

Only once he's unfolded the thing in its entirety does it occur to him that it won't be an easy read. That maybe now isn't the time to subject himself to it.

By then, it's way too late.

Jim,

Where do I begin? If I had more time I would tell you every little thing about our son. He's so much like There's a lot about him that reminds me of you. He's even more pig-headed than I imagined any child of ours could be. He's also well on his way to being smarter than either one of us (maybe even smarter than the two of us combined). I'm not just saying that because he's my kid, either. David's a natural-born scientist. You should see his test scores, Jim. He's reading at a level equivalent to someone nearly twice his age.

He's got your ambition and my attention to detail, plus something else that's entirely his own.

He doesn't like to admit it but he's afraid of the dark. He likes to read old-fashioned books because they feel nice in his hands. Doctor Mighty is his favorite superhero, but he hates when the Night Nurse shows up. He always skips past the fighting part. He'll sneak sweets into his room and let them melt under his pillow if you're not careful where you leave them. Last week he hacked the replicator and ordered it to give him two extra servings of dessert every night. He's a handful, Jim. I'm sure your Mother knows a thing or two about that.

I want you to know that it wasn't an easy decision to move David off-planet. I didn't do it to keep him away from you. I meant what I said about Starfleet I just wanted to give him a chance at a life untainted by everything that I felt ruined my own childhood. He's so good, Jim. Even when he's being bad, he's good. 

My hand's gone numb. I doubt you'll be able to get here before I'm gone. Just promise me you'll take care of him, Jim. He needs to be with family. Promise you'll do this one thing for me.

Carol's letter ends there. She was still holding the pen when they found her.

Jim's chest feels tight as he stares himself in the eye now, forcibly blinking back any semblance of tears visible on his face through the mirror in his and Spock's shared bathroom. He makes sure to flush the toilet first — keeping that 'natural-born scientist' label in mind, since apparently it's a staple in the Marcus household — and waits what he hopes is an appropriate amount of time before running the water.

If David's really as observant as Carol seemed to think he was, Jim certainly doesn't need the kid calling his bluff on needing to take a piss. He even goes the extra mile and washes his hands for real. Never hurts to be thorough, right?

✧ ✦ ✧

"He's mine, you know."

Spock, who is sitting beside Jim in his ready room, raises a singular brow. "I assumed as much, Captain. Though I must admit to some level of confusion. For what purpose did you keep his existence a secret?"

Before Jim can even consider answering, his comm beeps. "That'd be them," he grumbles, placing the thing in its dock, and then—

Admiral Arora's smiling face comes into focus, followed by the soft tone of her voice when she says, "Greetings, Gentlemen. I hope you are both in good health."

"The sentiment is returned, Admiral," Jim insists. "Forgive my rudeness, but I have to note that this day has been... hectic, to say the least. If I'm in trouble, I'd really prefer it if you just ripped the band-aid off... Ma'am."

Arora actually cracks a smile at that. "I won't lie, Captain. Some of my colleagues are not as understanding as myself. Your decision to switch the Enterprise's course has led to several delays throughout the quadrant, including a shipment of dilithium that the Bajorans were counting on. There was talk of a demotion — if not altogether removing you from the 'fleet — but a particularly persuasive individual spoke in your defense. It seems you have friends in high places."

Jim can't help but ask, "Who was it?," because his 'friend in a high place' was always Pike, and he's been dead for years now.

But Arora just shakes her head, still smiling slightly, and insists, "The others will be arriving shortly, Captain. I look forward to hearing your explanation for the events of the last twenty-four hours."

It's a blur, really — talking to the Admiralty. Jim forgets nearly ninety percent of what he said the second the call ends. All he knows for sure is that he's not fired (and not demoted, either — thank god). He has a sneaking suspicion that a good number of the old bats felt bad for him. They probably assumed Jim had enough on his plate as is, what with the whole 'being in charge of another human life' thing.

Maybe the parents among them felt that suddenly gaining custody of a child with Kirk genes was punishment enough.

Whatever the reason, Jim leaves the meeting with his dignity (mostly) intact. He also leaves with no clearer vision of what the hell happens next.

The screen goes black. Neither Jim nor Spock says anything at first.

Then Jim sighs exaggeratedly, leaning over to grab the nearby chessboard. He begins to set it up as he speaks, grateful for any excuse to avoid Spock's unrelenting eye-contact. "Bones is the only one who knew," he admits, then adds, "But I didn't tell him so much as... let him find out. We've still never actually, like, talked about it."

Spock hums in understanding. "I would imagine, given his fraught relationship with the mother of his child, that Doctor McCoy may have been particularly... sensitive, perhaps, to such information."

"Yeah," Jim continues, still not meeting the Vulcan's eye. "It's— I mean, especially now that Joanna's, like, a person — not that children aren't people, but she's seventeen now, so she's got all these opinions — it's been... tough. At least it seems like it has. He doesn't really like to talk about it, hence..."

Jim gestures all around them. Spock nods. Their eyes lock, just for a second, and Jim feels entirely bare.

"I didn't want to add salt to the wound," he admits. "And I could tell— he'd never say it, of course, but I'm sure he resented my choice. Resented the fact that I got a choice — and that I chose wrong. I could've been in David's life, Spock, if only I'd left Starfleet. Got a normal job. That was Carol's one ask."

Spock is silent for a few long moments. Jim wonders if he's contemplating his answer or his first move (or both?). He's just about to start rambling again — just to fill space — when the Vulcan says, "I am familiar with the Earth idiom of 'salt in the wound,' though I must admit I find it quite illogical. In many species, including humans, the addition of salt to a wound — in conjunction with water — can in fact accelerate the healing process. Whilst momentarily painful, the action will ultimately lead to a positive outcome. Is it not true, then, that perhaps speaking with the Doctor on your shared experience could aid in accelerating his healing?"

And he's got Jim there. Damn Vulcans and their stupid, persistent logic.

It's a few minutes later that Spock quietly says, "You could have told me."

Jim sighs. "I could've," he agrees, though he quickly adds, "I just thought, with what happened to Vulcan — not to mention your Mom — it felt... I dunno. Wrong."

"Ah," Spock says, humming in understanding. "You feared you would be adding salt to my wounds as well."

"Yeah. I guess I did."

What Jim doesn't say, as he looks into those beautiful brown eyes, is that there was more to it than fear of hurting Spock. It's the same with Bones, if he's honest. Jim didn't want to cause either of them further pain, of course — that's the last thing he's ever wanted to do — but he also didn't want to see the judgment in their eyes.

He couldn't bear to see their faces when they realized the kind of man they'd aligned themselves with.

"In the future, Captain," the Vulcan begins, and Jim's stomach drops. He knows that tone. That sincere, gut-wrenching tone. It's the same one Spock used when he begged Jim not to drink himself to death. Kirk can still hear it clearly in his head, four years later: I have already watched you die once. I do not wish to relive the experience. "Should you ever wish to discuss your son — or any other topic, for that matter — you needn't fear my reaction. I wish only to be of help to you, Jim, just as you have been for me on countless occasions. It is not in my nature to pass judgment."

There's so much Jim wants to say to his first officer, but all he can manage is a quiet, "Thank you, Spock. That means more than you know."

"I am gratified to hear it," Spock says, and then, "Checkmate."

Chapter Text

The thing about thinking before you speak is that Jim sort of loathes doing it.

He's so against the practice, in fact, that he's gained a bit of a reputation for being physically incapable of doing so. And maybe that's warranted — maybe Jim's always struggled to bother looking before he leaps, and maybe it's gotten him into trouble more times than he can count — but he'd like to think, after so many years at the helm, that he's gained some semblance of tact.

(He just doesn't tend to use it, is all. Mostly because he doesn't often need to.)

Long story short: Kirk's not one to plan out a conversation ahead of time. He wouldn't even know where to start if he tried. This generally works in his favor — especially when things go south, as they so often do in his line of work — but it's also undoubtedly the reason why he ends up blurting out the news before Spock's counterpart has even said 'hello.' Or, y'know. Greetings, James. Whatever.

"Carol Marcus is dead," he tells the man on the screen. For a long moment Spock doesn't speak. Jim wonders if the Vulcan heard him — considers repeating himself, even — but then the elder Spock gets this look on his face. Jim's almost certain he's never seen his own Spock don that particular expression, and that fact alone is enough to make him uneasy.

"I offer you my deepest condolences, Jim," the Vulcan breathes finally, and his tone is as kind as his eyes. "She was, by all accounts, a brilliant individual." 

"She was," Jim agrees, because Carol was brilliant. She really, really was. He sucks in a sharp breath before he speaks again, knowing his chances of getting an actual answer are slim to none. Still, though. Jim has to try. "Did she— was this... how things went, in your universe? Carol getting killed by the Klingons?"

This version of Spock, for all his years of practice, can't seem to hide his emotions half as well as his younger counterpart does. Jim can read the surprise plainly on the old man's face. It's so obvious, in fact, that he has to wonder if the guy's even trying to hide it. Has he given up the act entirely?

"How about me getting custody of David at thirty-five?" Jim presses when it's clear he won't be getting an answer to that question. Not verbally, anyway. "Did that happen to your Jim, too?"

"Jim—" Spock starts, but Kirk finds he can't stomach the idea of another lecture. He has to interrupt.

"If you're gonna try and explain the butterfly effect again, please don't. I know the risks. I'm not asking you to do anything that'll fracture the universe, Spock. I'm just asking you to help me do right by them both. I'll take anything you can give me at this point. Anything. How did the other me handle all of this?"

A pregnant pause passes, its weight almost tangible atop Jim's shaking shoulders, before Spock finally admits, "My Jim did not meet David until the boy was twenty years old."

Which— god. Twenty. 

That's eleven more years, on top of what already feels so insurmountable to Jim, between when the other David was born and when he first looked his father in the eye. Jim can only imagine what that weight must've felt like on his counterpart's shoulders — not to mention David's, the poor boy. "Twenty," Jim breathes, testing out the word in his mouth, "Okay. That's— okay. So they met when David was twenty. What about Carol? Was she...?"

"It is my understanding that Dr. Marcus led a highly skilled research team on a satellite—"

"Regula I?" Jim supplies, unable to contain himself.

Spock nods, seemingly unbothered by the interruption. "That sounds correct, yes. Their work was... experimental. Some might say groundbreaking. It is unsurprising that the Klingons, especially at this point in their history, would resort to violent means in an effort to gain access to such power."

Jim pointedly doesn't ask for clarification on that 'this point in their history' comment, knowing he's already on thin ice as-is (but damn if he isn't curious; here's a man filled to the brim with decades upon decades of memories, and yet he's got nobody to share them with — not in good conscience, anyway). Instead, Jim says, "She mentioned her research in the distress call. When you say 'experimental'...?"

"I should not divulge further," Spock replies, and Kirk gets it. He does. It makes him want to scream — don't get him wrong — but he gets it. The elder Vulcan needs to be careful about what he does or doesn't divulge. Jim can't bite back his self-satisfied smirk, however, when Spock goes on to say, "However, given the near-zero likelihood that Dr. Marcus's work would have progressed far enough to resemble the outcome with which I am familiar prior to her death, I will say this: the Genesis Project was a visionary idea. It was also deemed far too dangerous, given its potential for destruction, for the Federation to allow its continuance."

Blue eyes widen almost comically in response to the Vulcan's words. To this mention of a project Jim has never heard of, with implications that sound... intense. Terrifying, even.

"This technology, when placed in the wrong hands, can be catastrophic in nature. Even those with the purest of intentions could unwittingly aid in their own destruction due to its sheer magnitude of power. As such, it is my sincere hope that whatever the Klingons were able to salvage from the satellite will be of no use to them."

Jim can feel the weight of the elder Spock's utter sincerity, heavy in each and every one of his words. Kirk nods — not quite understanding the Vulcan's reasoning, but getting it all the same — and says, "Thank you, Spock. This is... thank you."

They don't just talk about Carol and David, mind you. 

Jim asks about New Vulcan. He asks about Spock's father. He asks if there have been any developments in the attempts to revive the le-matya population (which, as it turns out, there have; Jim can't fully contain his excitement at the news).

Spock, on the other hand, asks about the Enterprise. About the crew. He pointedly doesn't ask about his own counterpart — not by name, anyway — though Jim gets the sense that he'd like to. He even wants to know about McCoy's daughter, Joanna. Does she still play the piano? Has she started university yet?

Long story short: the call is good. Spock's good. Jim's glad he decided to reach out.

Just before their conversation ends, however, the elder Vulcan gets this look on his face. Jim can't quite identify the emotion behind it, though something tells him it's related to grief (he's seen it enough times on his own Spock's face to have a pretty good idea of how the Vulcan tends to wear it, and this feels almost adjacent). "Captain. If I may provide some advice...?"

"Be my guest," the captain allows, albeit somewhat warily.

"Forgive me if I am overstepping, Jim, but it occurs to me that a member of your crew may be uniquely equipped to provide your son with some level of wisdom regarding the sudden loss of his mother. Whilst you may be inclined to label such an exchange as 'awkward' preemptively, I do wish to underscore my belief that this endeavor would be fruitful for all parties involved."

Jim smirks at the viewscreen, digesting each of the Vulcan's words carefully before he says, "Duly noted, Spock. Thanks again for the chat. You take care of yourself now, all right?"

"I shall endeavor to do so, James Kirk. Live long and prosper."

"Right back at ya, Ambassador," Jim counters, just to see the old man's lips quirk up into an almost smile.

✧ ✦ ✧

"So," Jim starts, dragging a chair over to the opposite side of McCoy's tornado of a desk. He deposits himself onto the seat, maintaining eye-contact with his best friend all the while, and does his best to keep his voice level when he asks, "How'd it go?"

Bones surprises him by laughing. It's loud enough to risk being heard through the singular sliding door that separates them from David and Chapel (the pair of whom are currently in the midst of grueling game of Go Fish). It's this fact, ultimately, that causes Jim to huff aloud in annoyance. Bones barely even sounds sorry when he speaks again, this time at a more acceptable volume: "Kid's about to give you a run for your money, Jimmy."

As if Jim needed anyone to tell him that. David's already managed to surprise him several times since they first locked eyes back on that damn satellite. "Is he healthy, though?" he prompts, and the doctor nods earnestly. Thank god.

"As a horse," he assures his captain with a friendly clap to the shoulder. "Not a scratch on 'im. His Mama made sure of it."

"Yeah," Kirk agrees. He tries his best to ignore the unending wave of grief that crashes through the very core of him at the reminder of Carol's untimely demise (key word being 'tries'). "She was a good Mom, Bones. A really good one."

Which then prompts the doctor to ask, "How much does he know?"

"More than what I've told him," is Jim's honest reply. He's careful to keep his voice low and clear when he continues, though he can do nothing to control how his speed increases with every word: "God, Bones. He guessed who I was all on his own. Asked if Carol was dead before I could even consider how I might break the news myself. It's— I'm not cut out for any of this. There's no way I can be what he needs right now. Or ever."

Jim knows his best friend well enough to predict, before Bones has even opened his mouth, that he's about to get a healthy dose of truth thrown at him. It wouldn't be a heart-to-heart with Leonard McCoy if Jim didn't leave with his ego at least slightly bruised.

It's still a punch to the gut, though, when the doctor calmly asks, "Do you really have a choice?"

Dammit, Bones, Jim grumbles internally. How can someone be so mean and so right, all at once?

Gut-punch or not, it's a fair question. Jim's been asking himself the very same thing ever since Uhura deciphered Carol's message in the first place. Does David have anywhere else to go? Anyone else who falls under the criteria of 'family' with whom he could have a semi-normal existence?

On the Kirk end, there are exactly two options: Sam and Aurelan on Deneva, and Winona and Frank in Iowa.

(Neither of which are actually options, mind you. Especially not that second one.)

On the Marcus end...? Well. Carol's father, the now-infamous Alexander Marcus, is dead as a doornail. Murdered by the very man who later killed Jim (albeit temporarily). The man whose blood still runs through Kirk's veins, however faint of a trace it might be. The man who still occasionally haunts his nightmares. Jim can only assume that Carol's mother is similarly deceased, especially considering how David had referenced 'when Nan died' in their recent trainwreck of a conversation.

So, short answer: No. Probably not. And even if there was someone — some distant cousin, or great aunt, who might take pity on the kid — would that really be fulfilling Carol's wishes? Would it really be the best thing for David?

"I think I'm all he's got," Jim admits. It hits him like a ton of bricks to say it out loud. "Oh god, Bones. I am! I'm all he's got..."

"Hey, hey," the doctor quickly counters, hushing his friend and pulling him in for a too-tight hug. "C'mon now, Jimmy. Don't sell yourself short. You're great with kids. Joanna loved you when you came to visit, remember? She still asks about 'Uncle Jim' whenever I can manage to wrangle her into a call."

Jims voice is muffled by his friend's 'fleet tunic when he says, "That's different."

"It's always different when it's your kid," Bones allows, pulling back just far enough to look Jim in the eye. "But you're wrong about that last part, Jimmy. You're not all he's got. I don't know a soul on this ship who wouldn't put their life on the line for you. Hell, most of 'em have! You really think they wouldn't do their best to help you with this, too? You think Spock wouldn't?"

"What's Spock got to do with—" Jim starts, but his friend cuts him off.

"He wouldn't be the first kid to be raised on a starship. Not by a long shot. They say it takes a village, but I think four hundred souls is a pretty good compromise. Especially when most of 'em worship the ground you walk on, Captain."

Jim winces, biting back the impulse to remind the doctor that it's four hundred and thirty-one souls, actually. As if Bones doesn't know. As if the crazy bastard doesn't have every last one of their medical charts memorized like a total creep.

It's true, though. David wouldn't be the first kid to grow up this way.

Hell, Jim himself had been destined for that particular lifestyle — if only the Narada and the Kelvin had never crossed paths.

(And if only his father hadn't, y'know, sacrificed himself. That sort of put a damper on the whole 'growing up in space' plan he and Winona had so carefully laid out for their two boys.)

"You're right," Jim admits, because it's true — and because there's really no point in arguing with Bones about this. Or anything, once the bastard's made up his mind. It's one of the things he and Jim have in common. "Thanks, Bones."

Jim reenters Medbay several minutes later with McCoy at his side. David looks almost happy to see him (if not happy, then certainly relieved), and his contentment only grows when Jim verbally relieves Chapel of her temporary babysitting duties. The Captain offers a small, grateful nod in the nurse's direction — vowing to give her a more proper thank you, sometime later — and then turns his gaze onto the boy.

His boy. Jim still can't believe it. "You ready to go?" he asks, and David slowly nods. That's when Jim realizes he's still wearing the too-big backpack. He wonders if it'll stay on all night. "Got everything?"

Another nod. Jim bites back a frustrated sigh at the non-answer. This would all be so much easier if David would just speak in full sentences.

But Jim knows that's not fair.

He tries to think back to how he felt, after Tarsus. How he interacted with the world around him in the days and weeks that followed his rescue from such a harrowing situation. Jim was only a few years older than David is now when it happened (though he sure didn't look much older than nine at the time, on account of the whole nearly-starving-to-death thing).

It'd been difficult for him to trust anyone after his rescue — even members of his own family.

Hell, it was difficult for Jim to trust himself half the time. To trust his own perception of reality.

Jim didn't speak in full sentences for at least a week after he got back. It took even longer than that for him to let anybody touch him. They all tried to tell him it was okay. That he was safe. But this huge, looming threat had been following him for months on end, never giving him a break, and then suddenly Jim was supposed to believe he was 'safe'? Just because some adults said so?

But how could they possibly know that?

Hadn't they told him Tarsus would be safe, too?

With that in mind, the Captain forces himself to shake off the lingering desire to make this easier on himself. This isn't about him, after all. It's about David.

"Have a good night, Chris," Jim calls out once they're at the door. Chapel's responding smile is... polite. Pitying, maybe. Jim can't say for certain — it's been awhile now since he's been truly pitied, after all — but he's not sure what else to call it. He waits until they've made their exit from Medbay to address David again. "You still full from lunch, or should we go grab some dinner?"

David shrugs. The look on his face, for some reason, strikes Jim as hungry.

(Maybe it was something he learned on Tarsus — or maybe he's just projecting — but Kirk's got a sense for these things. He decides it's early enough in the evening that the mess hall shouldn't be too crowded. Maybe that'll make for a softer introduction.)

"Let's go, then. I heard they're serving quiche."

Jim pauses for a moment, assessing the boy's non-reaction, and then leads the way.

The mess hall is (thankfully) emptier than Jim's used to seeing it. He doesn't usually stop by until at least 1900, at which point the place is more-or-less packed.

Now, though, it's almost... peaceful. Far quieter than Jim would've thought the room could sound. A handful of crew-members are in attendance — chief among them being Spock, who appears to be grabbing a meal with three of his little science protégés — but, for the most part, the place is a ghost town. 

"You ever eaten a meal on a starship before, David?" Jim wonders.

The boy shakes his head. He watches in silence as Jim grabs for a tray — pausing for just a moment before reaching with his little hands to do the same. Jim smiles involuntarily at the action. 

"How 'bout on Regula I?" Kirk prods, because he really is curious. The satellite must've at least had replicators, right? Surely David would be used to cafeteria-style eating. "Did you guys have any sort of mess hall there?"

A nod. Jim grabs two sets of silverware, setting one down atop David's otherwise empty tray, and smiles to himself again. The boy doesn't say 'thank you' out loud. He does, however, offer Jim a small, shy smile in return. Just for a second.

Blink and you'd miss it. 

When they approach the hot food, Jim surveys their options thoughtfully. "You like bacon?" he asks, eyeing the boy for any sort of reaction. He's expecting a 'yes' — 'cause what kind of Kirk boy doesn't like bacon? — but then David shakes his head, and Jim's forced to contend with the fact that the kid's not really a Kirk boy at all. He's a Marcus. "How 'bout the vegetarian option, then?"

David nods semi-enthusiastically. Jim reaches for the veggie quiche and gently places it on the boy's tray. He grabs some of the bacon-riddled variety for himself, personally enamored as he is with that particular flavor profile, and then beckons for David to follow him to the table he's got his eye on.

Jim notices, just as they're turning in that direction, that David's eyes have locked onto the slice of chocolate cake sitting right in the center of a nearby ensign's otherwise-empty tray. Kirk smirks, placing a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder, and insists, "We can grab something for dessert once we're done, okay? Don't wanna spoil our dinners."

For a second David just squints up at Jim — seemingly trying to figure out if he's lying — and then he nods. "Okay."

"Great! You want anything to drink before we sit down?"

"Is there ginger ale?" David asks quietly, tone still so devastatingly sheepish. Still so unsure of himself.

Jim nods enthusiastically as he says, "Oh, man. You're gonna love this."

And, from the look on the boy's face when Jim orders the replicator to bring up the drinks menu, Kirk was one hundred percent correct. The kid's absolutely ecstatic about his options. He's practically vibrating with it.

David ends up going with the ginger ale after all, though not before scrolling through his options at least five times. Despite the delay, though, Jim can't complain. Not when the kid's smiling from ear-to-ear like this.

It's only once they're seated at their table that Jim decides to ask, "Not a fan of bacon, huh?"

David shyly nods. "Mum and I are vegetarians."

Which immediately sparks excitement within Jim, because he knows a vegetarian — one who just so happens to be seated only a few tables away. Before he can think better of it, he's saying, "Oh! That's awesome. You know who else is a vegetarian? Commander Spock!"

That last part is said louder than necessary — loud enough to get anyone's attention, not just those with super Vulcan hearing — and then, before Jim knows it, he's got a whole table of scientists turned around and looking directly at him.

(Correction: they're looking at him and David. When Jim sees the boy stiffen out of the corner of his eye, clearly uncomfortable with the sudden influx of attention, he knows he needs to act quickly.)

"Sorry guys, I wasn't— I didn't mean to interrupt. I just wanted to get my first officer's opinion on something."

Both members of the command team lock eyes. After a moment's hesitation, Spock stands — adjusting his uniform, just slightly — and murmurs something to the rest of his table that Jim's not able to hear. Then he approaches Jim and David, tray in hand, and asks, "Is something amiss, Captain?"

"Not at all, Mr. Spock! Please, grab a seat. David and I were just discussing dietary habits, and it turns out you two might have something in common."

Spock's eyes flicker between the two available seats — one beside Jim, and the other next to David — before he ultimately slides in beside his Captain. While Jim's happy for the physical proximity (not to mention the company), he can't help but feel sort of bummed out. It's a lot harder to sneak glances at Spock from this angle, after all. It'd be obvious to both of his table-mates if he tried.

Spock is looking directly at the elder of the two humans when he prods, "And what might that be...?"

"David here is a vegetarian."

"Is that so?" Spock muses before turning to capture the boy's gaze. "For what reason do you abstain from eating meat?"

Which... really? Does Spock have to use complicated words like 'abstain' when he's speaking to a literal nine-year-old?

Despite being nine, however, the little genius has no problem with elevated Vulcan diction — or, at least, that's how it seems, based on how quickly David responds to Spock's question. "Mum says, since the invention of replicators in the twenty-second century, all of the benefits of a carnivorous diet have been made accessible without needing to hurt anyone or anything in the process. She says it only makes sense for anybody with a brain or a conscience to be a vegetarian."

"A logical conclusion indeed," Spock agrees, sounding almost... approving. "Even replicated meat, which is purported to be a more ethical alternative to the standard, processed variety, contains trace amounts of the real thing. It is what provides the 'authentic' flavor that many prefer and, as such, is not truly 'vegetarian.'"

"That's what Mum says! They also do it with fish."

Jim's suddenly feeling a lot less interested in the contents of his own plate. He pokes at the not-vegetarian quiche with his fork, wondering if it would be a bad look to get seconds before he's even finished his firsts. He doesn't want to set a bad example — not for his crew, and certainly not for his kid — but he's also not sure he can stomach what's on his plate anymore.

Then David asks, "Why are you a vegetarian, Mr. Spock?," and it's more interest than he's shown in anything since his arrival, so Jim decides to stay put.

"It is the Vulcan way. I was raised to believe that all beings, regardless of size or intelligence, are to be treated with the utmost respect and dignity. It is for this reason that we, as a people, make the choice to refrain from consuming other creatures — just as we have for centuries."

And wouldn't you know it, the kid is actually intrigued. Visibly intrigued.

David asks another follow-up question. And another. And another. Spock just keeps on answering them, both looking and sounding as patient as Jim's ever seen him, and the Captain's chest swells with an emotion he can't quite name at the sight of it.

Spock and David are a few minutes into weighing the pros and cons of different meat substitutes when Jim finally stands, announcing, "I'm gonna grab a drink. Either of you want anything?"

When all he receives in response are two negative head shakes, Jim has to bite back an amused snort. He brushes past Spock, placing a hand ever-so-gently atop the Vulcan's shoulder as he goes, and lets his pinky finger brush against the exposed skin of Spock's neck. Just for a second. Thank you, Jim thinks pointedly, hoping he's not misunderstanding the logistics of this whole 'touch telepathy' thing.

It's only once Jim has stepped away from the Vulcan, locking eyes with him for just a moment, that he gets his answer. Spock nods in his direction, just once, and his eyes say what his mouth wouldn't dare: 'You are welcome.'

(Not 'thanks are illogical,' which is Spock's usual go-to; Jim finds he much prefers this alternative.)

✧ ✦ ✧

Jim's room is a mess. Not that it isn't usually a mess, if he's honest. He can't fully blame the recently-introduced nine-year-old — especially considering David's only spent three nights in the place, so far — but it'd be pretty convenient if he could.

In truth, Jim has dismissed every single yeoman assigned to tidy his quarters since he became Captain in the first place. He tried, at first — bit back his discomfort when they'd come in and rearrange his stuff, or strip his bed — but he'd have to prep the place before they came, every single time, and it just... wasn't sustainable. 

It came to a head the day Yeoman Byrd came upon his stash of non-perishable goods, stacked all along the back of his closet, and decided it would be a good idea to relieve the Captain of his burdensome clutter since 'it's not like you needed all of that, anyway.'

Needless to say: Jim stopped letting them touch his shit after that.

So when Spock interrupts their game of chess to inform Jim that he will be relocating to the quarters down the hall — vacating his first officer suite in order to clear the room for David's benefit — the Captain is... conflicted.

On one hand, David needs his own space. Jim needs his own space. On the other hand, though?

Jim likes living next-door to Spock. He likes being able to enter the Vulcan's quarters through their shared bathroom. He likes how Spock will integrate puzzles into his entry codes — increasingly more difficult each time Jim manages to thwart them — and he likes how sometimes, when they're both working Alpha, they'll brush their teeth side-by-side in front of the mirror.

"Spock, you don't have to—" Jim starts, but the Vulcan shakes his head.

"It is already done, Jim. Shall I inform David of the news?"

Jim sighs, looking away from the chess board and into the sleeping area of his quarters. David is all wrapped up in blankets at the center of his bed, eyes boring into the pages of one of Jim's old-fashioned books, and he's got his rabbit tucked safely under the crook of his arm. He seems to like Jim's quarters well enough, though Kirk has a feeling he'll be more than happy to have a space of his own.

"I'll tell him," Kirk decides, smirking when he notices Spock's last move has left an opening on the Vulcan's side of the board. "Hey now. You paying attention, or what?"

"Hey, David," Jim says once Spock's gone, keeping both his tone and movements gentle when he sits at the end of his own bed (which is, at this particular moment, not his). "How would you feel about getting your own room on the Enterprise?"

The boy, much to Jim's surprise, looks... well. Surprised. "I'm staying here?" he asks, tone and expression both so devastatingly genuine.

In the back of Jim's head, Carol's words from her letter ring out: He needs to be with family, she'd insisted. But Carol was an only child, and now both of her parents are gone. Other than Winona and Sam, Jim's all he's got. And surprisingly, of the three options, Jim is the most stable. So Kirk says, "Yeah, I— I think so, bud. Is that okay?"

(Jim's not sure why he asks. It's not like a 'no' would really change anything.)

When David says nothing, Jim pushes forward: "Mr. Spock moved his things across the hall so you and I could have adjoining rooms. We can access his quarters — which are now your quarters — through the bathroom here. See?"

It takes a second, but eventually the boy shrugs off Jim's comforter and slinks over to the sliding door. The awkward silence as they traverse through the bathroom is worth it for the smile that spreads across David's little face when he steps into the now-empty room and realizes it's all for him.

Chapter Text

In his first act of true paternal mediocrity — other than leaving Carol to raise David all on her own in the first place, that is — Jim completely blanks on the whole 'school' thing. It doesn't even occur to him that David might have homework assignments until the poor kid has knocked on his door via their adjoining bathroom, hovering in the threshold with a PADD in hand (and even then, it takes a minute).

"That yours?" Kirk half-yawns whilst drowsily eyeing the device in question. He's got no reason to be tired — especially considering it's not even 2130 yet — but here he is, biting back signs of exhaustion all the same. Attempting to appear even half awake for his audience of one.

(The thing they don't tell you about being a Kirk is that it means defying the odds in all of the worst ways, too. You're a genius but you're also a mess. Your mind's moving so fast, it seems, that the body struggles to keep up. It's a real double-edged sword of a situation, if you ask Jim; and not one he got any say in being a part of either.)

"Mum says it's only for school," David responds, both looking and sounding so damn shy. So hesitant. It breaks Jim's heart and returns him to the waking world all at once. "But if I finish all my work, she sometimes lets me play games..."

Kirk resists the urge to whistle aloud at the boy's explanation. It's becoming clearer and clearer, with every passing day, that Carol is — or, rather, was — a very different kind of mother from Jim's own. The mere idea of Winona Kirk limiting her kids' exposure to anything that could've served as a form of distraction is, frankly, ludicrous. So much so that Jim doubts his son's truthfulness — just for a second. He's got no frame of reference, after all, for what that sort of upbringing might look like. How it might feel. Hell, even just the fact that it actually exists outside of holos and storybooks.

Rather than focus on that little tragedy of a revelation, however, Kirk takes note of the boy's words. 'If I finish all my work,' David said, which would mean—

Shit. Goddammit. How the hell could Jim have failed to consider something as obvious as school?

With a cleared throat and a forced smile, Kirk tries his very best to feign nonchalance. To pretend like he hasn't spent the last five days operating under the apparently-false assumption that David had no real responsibilities of his own. "And... have you? Finished your work, I mean?"

David nods wordlessly. He looks positively sheepish, gaze shifting away from Jim's, but for the life of him the elder of the two can't imagine why. When the boy speaks again, his words are so quiet that Jim can just barely hear them over his own heartbeat in his ears: "I've completed the entire curriculum."

"You've..." Jim starts, pausing to carefully digest each word. Did he just say...? He ends up gesturing for David to join him on the bed, pointing at the still-technically-made (though significantly mussed) corner closest to the bathroom. "Can you c'mere? I wanna make sure I heard you right."

After a brief moment of hesitation, David complies. His posture is stiff when he seats himself on the very edge of Jim's bed, legs hovering a few inches above the plush, crimson rug below. He doesn't look up from his own tightly-clasped hands when he says, "I completed the curriculum."

Which then prompts Jim to ask, "The whole thing?"

David shrugs. The fact that he's not wearing a self-satisfied smirk — paired with the boy's sudden inability to look Jim in the eye, goddammit — tells Kirk with near-perfect certainty that the kid's not lying. David isn't simply attempting to impress the man responsible for half of his genetic makeup through larger-than-life storytelling (like Jim might've, were he in the boy's surprisingly unscuffed shoes).

Which means David really did finish the entire damn curriculum. It's a revelation which, inexplicably, causes amusement to bubble up from somewhere deep within the captain.

Before Jim can even think to stop himself, he's laughing out loud. 

David's posture straightens in an instant. His demeanor shifts from an air of uncertainty to one of defiance — reminding Jim once again of his younger self, always so willing to jump headfirst into a fight — and when he turns to meet his father's gaze, those familiar blue eyes are ablaze with something like fury. Something that stings. "What's so funny, then?"

"Nothing!" is Jim's instant, honest reply. He sucks in a sharp breath, biting back the still-present urge to resort back to giggles, and continues, "M'sorry. I'm not laughing at you. I swear! I just— we're not even halfway through December, David! Are you telling me you've completed all of your assignments from now until June?"

Rather than respond verbally, David nods. It's quick and simple movement. Easy to miss.

He then proceeds to cross both arms over his chest in a way that clearly isn't meant to be adorable (though the poor boy manages to succeed with flying colors nonetheless). "Yes. I have."

"Shit, kid! Or, wait— sorry. Language. I'm still working on that. What I meant to say is... wow! That's really impressive, David."

At which point the boy's indignant frown morphs into a tiny, hopeful smile. "You think so?"

"Hell yeah I do! Your teachers must be really proud."

"A bit," David allows, sounding once again sheepish. "Though they won't let me skip another grade..."

And Jim can't help but balk for a few moments before he asks, "You skipped a grade?"

David smiles again, so clearly proud of himself — and with good reason, it seems — before correcting his father's erroneous assumption: "Actually, I skipped three."

Jim's jaw just about hits the floor.

He reaches for the device — mostly just as an excuse to do something, anything — and, after a few seconds of (frankly, warranted) shock, his hands start to move on their own.

Fifteen minutes and five device reboots later, Kirk is forced to concede to Carol's (clearly superior) coding skills. For now, at least. "M'sorry, David," he murmurs as he meets the boy's gentle gaze. "I don't think we'll be able to fix this tonight."

"That's all right," is David's immediate response, and he's so... mature. So damn measured. The boy is already moving as if to leave, reaching out for the PADD, when Jim stops him with a singular raised hand.

"Wait! I wasn't finished."

David silently meets Jim's gaze, eyes still so wide and innocent, but he says nothing. Does nothing. He looks almost... apprehensive. 

"If you, uh— if you don't mind waiting just a minute, I can grab my PADD for you..."

"Your PADD?" the boy echoes, incredulous.

Jim nods wordlessly. Then he reaches for the device that lives on his bedside table. He can't help but smile as he unlocks the thing. Even after being out of practice for so many years, the captain can still remember the exact coding he'd used to keep Sam from snooping around in his stuff when they were kids.

He utilizes those same security measures now — with a few modern tweaks, of course.

"Okay," the captain says decidedly once he's done. He uses one steady hand to hold the device out for the boy to take. "We'll trade. I put a two-hour limit on here, but you've got your own profile with limited permissions to do what you want 'til then..."

David takes the device after a few seconds' hesitation, whispering a near-inaudible, "Thank you."

"You're welcome, bud."

Jim winces at his use of the nickname, reminded once again of Winona's old boyfriends. Of cigarette breath and drunken squabbles. Of sounds of struggle just barely muffled by too-thin walls, and the inevitable relationship-ending fight that would send his mother into bouts of depression for weeks on end.

It's not the same thing, obviously — Jim's not some temporary fixture in David's life, and there's no tumultuous romantic relationship to speak of — but the idea of even vaguely resembling Frank and the others is... sobering. Jim wants better for David.

(If Jim's honest, though, he wants better for himself too. He doesn't want to be like those men any more than he wants to be like his own mother. He's not sure he could handle the self-loathing if he was.)

David shifts in his seat at the end of the bed. He clearly wants to ask something — though Jim's not quite perceptive enough to say what — and yet, every time he opens his mouth, he ends up slamming it shut again. Jim lets it happen twice more before he gives in, prodding, "Anything else you wanna ask me?"

"... Yes."

Jim bites back a smirk at the boy's adorably hesitant tone. "What is it?"

"Does—" David starts, cutting himself off with a frown. Jim's just about to murmur his assurance when the boy pushes on, clearing his throat and then asking, "Does your PADD have the new Doctor Mighty game?"

"Not yet. I'll tell you what, though: you have my permission to download whatever your heart desires."

It's past 2200 by the time David leaves, PADD in hand, via that same bathroom door. He promises to go to bed at a reasonable hour (per Jim's request) and thanks the captain yet again for his supposed 'generosity.'

In all honesty, though? Jim feels anything but generous.

He takes a moment to steady his breath. To process the entirety of their interaction — the news about David's absolute domination at school, the reminder of Carol's programming prowess, and David's clear and genuine surprise at Jim offering to lend him his personal PADD. It's a whirlwind of emotion — most of it positive, though Jim can't completely fight back the apprehension that bubbles up within him — but luckily, Jim's had practice. He files the thoughts away with relative ease.

And finally, once he's had sufficient time to mope, the Captain reaches for his comm.

It barely rings two times before a familiar voice fills Jim's ears, somehow groggy and alert all at once: "This better not be a booty call."

"Hey! I resent that," Jim counters, making sure to keep the smile audible in his voice. Not that this particular individual needs that sort of convincing. "I've come a long way since the Academy, Lieutenant, and so have you. I'm actually calling to ask you for a favor."

Jim half expects the Orion woman to ask if, when he says 'favor,' he really means the sexual kind. What he gets instead is an exaggerated sigh followed by the rustling of sheets. "You're no fun anymore, Jimmy," Gaila complains, though Jim can hear her gathering her belongings as she speaks. Zipping up her bag before (presumably) slinging it over one slender shoulder. "Your place, I presume?"

"My place, yeah. I'm ready whenever. And Gaila— I'm serious. It's not that kind of favor."

"So you say," the green-skinned woman purrs before abruptly ending the connection.

It's only then, once Gaila has truly left the call, that Jim wonders if maybe, just maybe, he should've reached out to Chekov or Scotty instead.

When Gaila arrives at Jim's door a few minutes later, she's wearing an outfit almost identical to his. They've got the same gray 'fleet sweats, paired with the same red Academy t-shirt — though Gaila, unlike her Captain, has elected to don a pair of bright pink bunny slippers to go with it.

She's also got the majority of her near-perfect face covered in what appears to be an exfoliating skin mask, framed by a mane of red curls pulled into a sorry excuse for a bun atop her pretty little head.

Jim opens his mouth, following the instinctual urge to comment on his friend's less-than-perfect appearance, but Gaila holds up one hand to silence him. "Don't even think about it, Mister. Let's try and remember who's asking who for a favor here. Which you owe me an explanation for, by the way. Especially since you're clearly unwilling to put out."

And so Jim — who has elected to ignore that last part entirely — begins to paint the picture of his present predicament: namely, the PADD that won't do anything other than what its now-deceased programmer tells it to do. The one with about fifty firewalls and code so tangled Jim can feel a headache coming on just thinking about it.

He even attempts unlocking the device again — despite knowing such an attempt is, ultimately, futile — in order to further underscore the issue at hand. "I tried everything, Gaila. Including those cheats you taught me back at the Academy, but—"

"Say no more, handsome," Gaila interrupts, and Jim has to frown. "Oh, come on! I can't even call you 'handsome' anymore?"

"I'm your superior officer," Jim says, though it sounds weak even to his own ears. 

In truth, they're still working on it. This is the first time Gaila will be working directly under Jim, after all, and he's sort of determined to ensure that she doesn't also end up — well. Directly under Jim.

Rather than lash out in response — like she might've done, back when they first started hooking up at the Academy — Gaila simply smiles. She reaches out to squeeze Jim's shoulder, the curve of her lips only growing when the Captain proceeds to flinch, and drawls, "You've got nothing to worry about, Jimmy. Don't get me wrong — you're still a fox — but the whole 'Dad' thing just... doesn't do it for me."

And for a few brief seconds, Jim genuinely thinks he's died and gone to hell.

What other explanation could there be for Gaila referencing his newly-minted fatherhood so brazenly? And how does she know about that, anyway? Is it really that obvious?

(Does everyone on the ship already know about their Captain's new-but-not-new kid? The one whose arrival coincides with the recent uptick in proverbial floggings from the brass that have affected even the lowest ranking on the ship in the days since their missed shipment fiasco?)

"Hey now, hot stuff. Listen to me. You gotta breathe. In and out, real slow. You're looking a little blue in the face—"

"How'd you find out?" Kirk interrupts, grabbing for Gaila's wrist. "Does— does everybody know...?"

"Relax, Jimmy. Most people on the ship have no idea the kid even exists, much less that he's yours" —the Orion woman pauses, allowing Jim a moment to breathe, before she presses on— "but they are gonna find out eventually. Someone outside of your little circle of trust is gonna see him, and if Nyota's telling the truth about your and his uncanny resemblance..."

"I'm screwed," Jim supplies, and Gaila smirks.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. You've gotten yourself out of far stickier situations — and I don't just mean that one time on Risa..."

✧ ✦ ✧

The next morning, Jim comes to breakfast with a plan.

Well. Technically speaking, breakfast comes to him. Still, though. The point stands. He's smiling when he says "Hey, David," from across the table in his quarters, pausing to wait until he's sure he's got the boy's attention before pushing forward: "How would you like to come to work with me today?"

David stops mid-chew to gawk at his father. "Wha…?"

Jim chuckles and pretends not to notice how the kid surreptitiously swallows his mouthful of food before he speaks again.

"Sorry," David continues, his cheeks going pink. "I just thought— Are you sure I won’t be in the way?"

"One hundred percent. If you’re not interested, though—"

"I’m interested!" David interrupts, face fully red by this point. He seems to hesitate a moment before he asks, "Will Mr. Spock be there?"

(A boy after my own heart, Jim thinks, though he can't help but feel a slight pinch of apprehension. Is it simply inevitable that anyone with Kirk genes will latch onto the Vulcan like a barnacle? Did David ever stand a chance?)

"For part of the day, yes. He has some experiments to tend to in the labs after lunch."

Jim pretends not to notice how David's face falls, ever-so-slightly, at the news. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't a bit bummed about the development himself. Alpha's always more bearable when Spock's around.

A hush falls over the entire bridge crew when Jim reports for duty some forty-five minutes later with David in tow. The Captain pauses for just second, eyes scanning the room haphazardly before he says, "Good morning everyone. I’d like to introduce you all to my son, David."

And somehow, against all odds, his colleagues' silence seems to get even quieter.

Jim’s eyes flitter over each member of the crew's face, one by one. They eventually land on none other than Lieutenant Uhura (looking as gorgeous as ever, to the surprise of absolutely no one), and it’s like the eye-contact springs her into action. Nyota stands, brushing down the edges of her uniform skirt, and then waves excitedly in the boy's direction. "Nice to see you again, David. I'm Lieutenant Uhura, in case you forgot."

"A welcome surprise indeed," Spock adds, and Jim bites back a giddy smile at the bare honesty in his tone.

"Thanks, guys. Now, I know some of you must be wondering—"

"Wait," Sulu interrupts, sounding uncharacteristically confused for someone who always seems to know exactly what his friends are up to at any given time (it's both his blessing and his curse, if you ask Jim; which, naturally, nobody has). "This is Carol’s boy?"

"And he is also your son, yes?" Chekov adds. Jim almost wants to laugh.

"He's both of ours," he says plainly instead, forcing a bright-eyed smile before he adds, "And that's the miracle of life, everybody! Now, I know you’re all very busy people, but I also know we’re in a bit of a lull while we wait to reach our next destination. So I was hoping, if anyone would be willing, that they might show David a bit of what we do around here?"

Several eager hands shoot up to offer their service within an instant of Jim's sentence ending. Chekov is the first of their owners to speak. "I was about to recalibrate some of the tertiary transporter functions, Captain," he insists, smiling wide. "Perhaps David would enjoy this...?"

At which point the boy's posture straightens, eyes lighting up with unmistakable wonder, and Jim has to laugh. "Seems like a ‘yes’ to me," he says, offering a quick nod of permission that sends David barreling over to Chekov’s station. Kirk raises his voice, injecting a bit of extra levity when he adds, "By the way, Pav: this one might have you beat in the early bloomer department. Don’t waste your time trying to simplify shi—stuff— for him. Seriously."

Several members of the crew chuckle in response to their captain's almost slip-up. Kirk bites back a smile of his own as he lowers himself into the captain's chair, fingertips drumming against the cool, flat stretch of metal that lives just below his control panel.

(Maybe, Jim thinks as he settles further into his seat, this 'fatherhood' thing won't be so hard after all. Maybe he'll be a natural at it.)

"All righty, then. Now that we've got that out of the way, are there any recent developments I should know about...?"

The bridge crew tends to eat their meals in staggered clusters — namely to avoid the issue of arranging a new chain of command on a twice-daily basis — but there's no rule on the books that says both members of the command team can't have lunch at the same time.

(Not one that’s written, anyway. Maybe it's assumed to be common sense — and maybe Jim is just what the 'fleet needs to stop making such stupid, outdated assumptions about humanoid behavior.)

Rules or not, however, Jim knows that Spock is unlikely to accept that kind of offer. Especially considering he's the one in charge of organizing the aforementioned command chain in the event that his Captain should be otherwise occupied in a time of crisis.

In the end, not one of those factors does anything to stop the Captain from asking. 'Cause really, where's the harm in that? Asking's not a crime.

"Mister Spock," Jim murmurs, coming to stand at the science station while his boy listens intently to Lieutenant Uhura's lecture on the many unknown functions of the Universal Translator. “Would you care to join us for lunch today?"

The Vulcan falters for a moment, clearly caught off-guard, before he manages to say, "I would be most amenable to that suggestion. I will be able to discuss further upon the completion of this final task..."

And so Jim watches his first officer. He takes special note of Spock’s lithe hands as they caress the brightly-colored buttons — flicking switches and turning knobs seemingly at random, though the Vulcan's face betrays nothing other than razor-sharp focus. Jim's forced to admit that, in all actuality, the motions are probably painfully intentional. Just like everything else Spock does.

"You ready?" he asks once the Vulcan's hands have officially left the console. "I was thinking—"

"Captain," Spock interrupts, and Jim stops short. Blinks into Spock's wide, honest eyes. When he finally speaks again, the Vulcan's voice is barely above a whisper: "You are aware of the concept of the ‘rumor mill,’ are you not?"

Jim snorts and takes a step closer to his friend, lowering his voice so that only someone with advanced Vulcan hearing can hear his words. "Acutely, Commander. Why do you ask?"

"It is only logical to assume that the news of your newfound fatherhood will circulate rapidly in the coming hours. When similar events occurred in my own childhood, my mother would strategically remove me from my schooling—"

"Wait. Your Mom let you ditch class?"

"—until the point at which such gossip had 'died down.' In the spirit of this tradition, I would suggest that we take our meal in my new quarters — where David can exist in relative privacy, rather than in the effective panopticon that is our shared dining area."

"Done," Jim responds instantly. He's filled with the strangest combination of excitement and apprehension at the prospect of so much time with Spock — alone-but-not, which he has the feeling is about to become the new normal for the two of them. Especially considering David's clear affection for the guy.

Then he realizes what Spock's just said. Repeats it several times in his head for good measure.

"Was that a reference to... eighteenth century Earth philosophy?"

"Indirectly," the Vulcan allows, "Though I was introduced to the concept through the lens of feminist theory."

Jim stares at his first officer for several seconds (though 'gawks' may be a more appropriate word). Spock's eyes act as mirror into Jim's own twinkling affection, and he has to try several times before he can shake off the strange and sudden urge to kiss Spock square on the mouth in front of everyone. "You're an enigma, Commander," he insists instead, because it's true. Then, softer, he adds, "How 'bout David and I meet you at your quarters in ten?"

"That is acceptable. I will replicate a vegetarian dish of suitable nutrition and flavor profile for us three to share."

Before Kirk can say anything more, his first officer has turned on his heel and exited the bridge entirely. Jim ends up catching the tail end of Nyota's lecture when he approaches David to leave, feeling somewhat guilty about stealing away such a captive audience.

"There will be time later for more nerding out," he assures them both, and Nyota fixes him with a playful scowl.

"You're just jealous."

(Which is true, mind you. Jim would give just about anything to have even a fraction of the woman's talent when it comes to language — not that he'll ever admit to something as embarrassing as jealousy in front of anyone other than himself. And even that is a big old 'if' of a concept.)

Jim lets David knock on Spock's door with one small but forceful tap of the knuckle — followed quickly thereafter by two more identical noises.

Although Jim can't hear the Vulcan say 'Enter' — like he used to be able to, when he visited Spock through their shared bathroom — the swoosh of the door opening for the two of them is proof enough that it happened. He cranes his neck to see into the place, frowning when he realizes the entrance must curve in some way — rendering his favorite Vulcan entirely invisible from this particular vantage point. What a shame.

"Thanks for having us, Spock," Jim calls out anyway, gesturing for the boy to step past the threshold before himself. "I know we don't have too much time—"

"Woah!" David exclaims once he's rounded the corner, quickly disappearing from Jim's line of sight. "Is that a harp?"

Jim's just about to admonish the boy, already stomping on after him, when he hears Spock oh-so-patiently explain, "It is a ka'athyra. Sometimes referred to as a Vulcan lyre."

Which is when the Captain finally enters the main living space. He's greeted by the familiar scent of Vulcan incense — followed quickly thereafter by the sight of Spock's rather eclectic decor — when he rounds the same corner as David. Jim's irrationally glad to find that, despite the change in venue, Spock's room is still... well. Spock's.

In other words, it still makes Jim feel all warm inside when he enters. Which is sort of all a guy can ask for in a room.

Then his eyes fall upon the hunched form of the Vulcan himself — far too busy plating three identical pasta dishes to meet either of his visitors' eyes — and Jim's closed-mouth smirk morphs into a full-blown, cheek-splitting smile. "Spock, you didn't!"

Which is when the Vulcan finally meets his gaze, gesturing for Jim to sit in one of three open seats, and insists, "On the contrary, Captain. It was the replicator that 'did it' in this particular instance." There's a pause before he softly adds, "David, please be seated. I will give you a detailed tour upon the conclusion of our meal — should time permit such an action, of course."

Jim can't help but silently mouth 'of course,' mimicking the Vulcan's oh-so-proper tone within the confines of his own mind. It isn't until David lets out a quiet snicker that he realizes he had an audience. "C'mon, David," he says, praying that Spock's skill with the replicator will be enough to make the kid forget all about his father's silliness once lunch is served. "We wouldn't want our food to get cold, would we?"

"It is not a hot dish, Captain," Spock insists — so sincere in that distinctive (not to mention adorable) Vulcan way of his. It almost makes Jim forget that he'd been trying to help the poor bastard. "However, in the interest of time—"

"We should dig in?" the Captain interrupts, gaze flickering between his two companions as he tries and fails to keep the awkward smirk off of his face. "I wholeheartedly agree!"

And so they do.

Chapter Text

"Have you found life on the Enterprise to be acceptable thus far, David?" Spock asks, and at first the boy just shrugs. Jims heart sinks, wondering just what he's done wrong in the short time David has been under his care, but then the boy's eyes light up like a damn Christmas tree (not that Jim has much experience with those).

"Today was awesome! I’ve never seen so many consoles in one place! Did you know that Mr. Chekov—"

"Lieutenant Chekov," the Vulcan corrects, and David's cheeks redden.

"Sorry. Did you know Lieutenant Chekov can control all of the ship's transporter functions from his station? Not all at once, 'cause of fail-safes, but still. It's so cool! And Miss— I mean, Lieutenant Uhura — says, if I want, she can teach me how to speak Andorian!"

"Andorian, huh?" Jim muses, and David’s posture shifts into something resembling defensiveness. The Captain makes sure to smile invitingly before he adds, "That sounds pretty cool."

To which the kid simply shrugs.

There's another minute or so where the only sound is their silverware hitting the sides of their bowls. Jim clears his throat, swallowing his most recent mouthful before prodding, "How ‘bout you tell the Commander here what you told me last night— y’know, about your schooling?"

"Oh!" the boy exclaims, holding Jim's gaze for a second before allowing it to flicker on over to Spock. Kirk doesn't miss how those blue eyes light up once he continues, "I’ve finished the curriculum, Mr. Spock— Commander Spock, sorry—"

"You needn’t feel obligated use my title when we are alone," Spock assures him, and Jim’s almost tempted to point out that he didn’t get permission to do that until he and the Vulcan had known each other for literal years. How is it that David's managed to do the same in a matter of days? "Irregardless, however, that is quite the accomplishment. Have your instructors arranged for an independent study of any kind?"

David’s face falls then, and Jim gets the inexplicable urge to crush whoever — or whatever — has managed to fill the poor kid with such insidious self-doubt. To make him question every single thing he says. "Not officially. Mum lets me help in the lab. Usually I just watch, but sometimes she needs someone with little hands..."

(Jim's lost count of the amount of times a simple sentence from the boy has made his heart break. He wonders, just for one fleeting moment, when he should start worrying about how David only ever refers to his deceased mother in the present tense — then decides that's a problem for a later date.)

"Would you be interested in joining me in the labs this afternoon?" Spock prods, quickly meeting Kirk's gaze with a look of uncharacteristic surprise on his face — almost like the Vulcan himself hadn't quite expected the words to come out of his mouth. It's inexplicably adorable. "I have several experiments to attend to and could use your assistance. That is, if the Captain is amenable..."

"If you’re fine with it, Mr. Spock, I see no reason to object. We could meet back up for dinner maybe? Or earlier, if David gets bored before then…"

"I won’t!" the boy insists. He then begins shoving forkfuls of lunch into his mouth, voice muffled by partially-chewed food when he asks, "Can we go now, Mister Spock?"

Jim can't help but let out a lighthearted chuckle. "Ever heard the saying 'patience is a virtue,' kiddo?" he asks, then silently adds, Or not chewing with your mouth open?

And David, who is always full of surprises, shakes his head. He does, however, swallow before speaking again. "Mum always says 'patience is the enemy of progress,'" he asserts, gaze darting between both members of the command team. "Have you ever heard that...?"

"Negative," Spock deadpans, and Jim bites his tongue to refrain from laughing again.

"Sounds like a Marcus original to me," he says, making sure to fix the boy with a warm, kind smile. "Carol's creativity knew no bounds."

There's a split second where the boy returns his smile, eyes twinkling with something hopeful, before his face becomes unreadable. Jim wants so badly to ask what went wrong — is it something he said? — but he's afraid of scaring the boy further into his turtle shell. Of bringing them all the way back around to where they started. Back when the poor kid could barely manage a word. 

David doesn't look up from his food again until he's finished it entirely.

Jim pulls his first officer aside whilst David is clearing his dishes to ask, "You sure this is all right?" for what must be the third or fourth time in the last ten-or-so minutes.

Instantly, Spock nods. "Indeed, Captain. As I have said four times now, you needn't fear. David will be safe with me."

"Oh, I don’t doubt that for a second. You're the most responsible person I've ever met. I just— I hope you know what you’re signing up for with this. Human kids aren't like Vulcan kids. They're... illogical. Even precocious ones like David."

Which is when Spock shocks his captain by admitting, "As the eldest of twelve cousins on my mother’s side, I am hardly inexperienced in the realm of interacting with human children. I feel compelled to assure you, despite having done so already, that I can, as you might say, ‘hold my own.’"

"You sure about that?"

"Believe me, Captain. No singular child could be even half as difficult as my cousin Cole."

Jim snorts, making a mental note to ask about this ‘cousin Cole’ at a later date. "Fine, you've convinced me. But I'll have my comm on me—" he pauses, raising his voice to ensure the boy can hear this last part "—so don't hesitate to reach out if either of you need anything. Seriously."

"Noted, Captain."

David both sounds and looks adorably serious when he mimics the Vulcan's tone: "Noted."

Which is when Spock, in typical Spock fashion, announces, "You will need to vacate within the next thirty-four seconds if you are to arrive on the bridge prior to the official conclusion of your 'lunch break,' Captain."

Jim nearly sprains an ankle rushing back to his post.

The rest of Kirk's shift is, in a word, uneventful. Maybe even boring.

It certainly doesn't help that can't stop thinking (read: worrying) about David and Spock the entire time. He half expects the poor kid to show up back on the bridge, eyes wide, and beg for something — anything — to save him from Spock's endless droning and lecturing. What he gets instead is complete and total radio silence.

Which isn't exactly surprising, mind you — Spock's not the kind of guy you'd expect to be sending out personal comms on the job — but... well. Jim's still worried, okay? He's flying by the seat of his pants here.

It must show on his face, or maybe through his body language, because about an hour or two post-lunch Jim's PADD lights up with a not-so-subtle comm message:

Lt. Nyota Uhura | 14:37: Calm down. You're making everybody anxious.

Jim rolls his eyes, sparing a few seconds to lock gazes with the smirking communications officer before focusing once more on the device in hand.

Capt. James Kirk | 14:38: who says everybody's anxious?

Lt. Nyota Uhura | 14:38: She does.

Lt. Nyota Uhura | 14:38: [1 Photo Attachment]

The Captain knows what the image is before he's even finished reading the message. He still nearly laughs aloud at the sight of a smirking Nyota, pointing at herself with a singular manicured thumb. Smiling ear-to-ear. Even in a still photo, Uhura's eyes seem to glisten with amusement — clearly getting a kick out of teasing her Captain — and damn if it's not just a little contagious. 

It only gets worse when the two of them actually lock eyes. Jim has to quite literally bite his own tongue to refrain from laughing out loud in response to Nyota's tiny, knowing smirk. 

It's at least ten minutes later, just as Jim's managed to calm himself down somewhat, that his PADD pings again with another personal message.

Lt. Nyota Uhura | 14:53: It's natural to worry, you know.

Lt. Nyota Uhura | 14:53: Though I do feel compelled to remind you that he's in the safest hands possible at this particular moment. It's kind of illogical to ruminate.

Capt. James Kirk | 14:55: please pick a word other than illogical to convey your point. that one's already taken

This time it's the Lieutenant who has to disguise her laughter via a well-timed cough. Jim stands, pretending to be far more interested than he truly is in whatever Chekov was showing David earlier. He leans forward, making sure to catch his friend's eye. "How'd those transporter functions turn out, Lieutenant?"

"Very well, Captain! With David's help I was able to complete the task nearly fifteen minutes ahead of schedule..."

Jim's nearly bursting with anxiety by the time his shift finally ends. He all but sprints off of the bridge and into the lift, tapping his foot like an impatient child whilst he waits for the door to slide shut behind him. Then he raises the comm toward his face, typing in a familiar set of numbers, and waits.

But Spock doesn't answer. Jim consults the computer to ensure he's right about their whereabouts — confirming that, yes, he is going in the right direction — before he steps off of the lift onto a floor he seldom visits. 

At which point his footsteps quite literally echo off of the walls in the corridor.

Jim tries his best to tiptoe his way to the science labs, drawn in by the quiet hum of a familiar voice speaking in an even, confident tone: "Whilst these results are indeed quite promising, we cannot rule out the possibility that they are in some way... anomalous. Coincidental, even. But if we were to repeat the experiment several more times..."

"... We could average out the results!" David exclaims excitedly.

"Precisely," Spock agrees. He's already looking in the direction of the doorway when Jim arrives. Kirk smiles sheepishly, wondering if the Vulcan heard his footsteps. The barest hint of recognition flashes across Spock's face before those brown eyes dart back to David (whose expression is currently obscured from Jim's view, much to the captain's disappointment). Jim's strangely grateful for the excuse to listen as Spock drones on, "It can also be beneficial to consider the data holistically. An outlier, whilst inconvenient, may serve as an indication of..."

Jim loses track of the Vulcan's sentence then.

The sight of David's plush rabbit, looking as tattered and pilly as ever, captures his attention entirely. Rather than remaining tucked under the boy's arm, as it so often does, the animal has been propped up atop the console. Its time-worn face is pointed toward the place where Spock and David sit. It's almost like even the toy itself can't help but listen intently to the Vulcan's presentation.

(And Jim can't really blame the thing, can he? He's just as enthralled.)

David's still wearing the damn backpack — just like he always does whenever he leaves the safety of his new bedroom (and sometimes even while he's still in there) — but the fact that he's finally let go of the bunny is genuinely shocking. Jim wouldn't believe it if he weren't quite literally seeing it for himself.

The Captain waits a minute or two more, just watching and listening as his boy gushes about science, before he finally clears his throat to alert David of his presence. "Evening, boys. You have a good afternoon?"

When David whirls around, eyes just about as wide as his beaming smile, he nearly blinds Jim with the light he radiates — seemingly without even realizing it. "It was awesome! I wanna come here every day, Jim! Can I come back tomorrow? Please?"

And Kirk doesn't even have time to unpack how he feels about being referred to as 'Jim' by his own son — not when he's got two pairs of eyes boring into his skin. Waiting intently for the Captain's almighty answer.

"We can talk about it at dinner," Kirk murmurs, once again meeting Spock's soft gaze. "My quarters...?"

His whole body fills with warmth when the Vulcan nods. "I am amenable to that suggestion," Spock says, blinking once at Jim before looking again at the boy. "David, please pay attention to how I indicate the progress we have made together in my notes. This will allow me to more easily 'pick up' on the experiment when I return in several days' time."

"Do you have a crush on Mister Spock?" David asks. The kid (apparently) possesses just enough tact to wait until they're alone in Kirk's room for his latest bomb-drop — though not enough to realize this might be a topic better suited for after dinner.

Jim nearly swallows his tongue. "I— what? Where'd you get that idea from?"

"Was it supposed to be a secret?" the boy counters, and. Damn. It's effortlessly cutting in the way only a child can manage. David looks genuinely surprised when Jim's eyes dart all around the entryway in response to his words. "Oh! It was. I'm sorry."

"No, that's not—"

"It's okay. I won't tell," David promises. He adjusts the position of his backpack atop bony shoulders, looking so tiny but so grown-up all at once, and Jim wonders — just for a moment — if Winona Kirk ever looked at either of her boys and felt like... this. Proud for certain, but also a little bit scared. Maybe even terrified. Because the truth is that it's one thing to have a kid with big dreams — every parent loves to see that spark of ambition reflected back at them, regardless of how realistic the desired outcome in question might be — but it's another thing entirely to have a kid with big potential. A kid who is more than capable of meeting his own lofty goals (and then some) before you've even noticed that he set out to try.

And if Jim's sure of anything in this big, scary universe, it's that David James Marcus is practically made of potential. The kid's just overflowing with the stuff.

"What are we making for dinner?" David asks, all wide-eyed and excited, and Jim can't help himself. Especially not when it means changing the topic from his apparently obvious crush on Spock.

"What do you want us to make for dinner?"

David's eyes scan over the Captain's hardly-used kitchenette, pausing for several seconds on the electric stove. Then he looks back at his father and smiles oh-so-excitedly, sounding absolutely genuine in his curiosity when he asks, "Does Mister Spock like grilled cheese?"

To which Jim emphatically counters, "Who the hell doesn't like grilled cheese?"

Spock, as it turns out, is somewhat ambivalent towards grilled cheese. Maybe even outwardly hostile. From the way the Vulcan stares at his sandwich, you would think the man had been served a plateful of wriggling serpent worms.

Jim can't stop himself from scoffing aloud before he says, "C'mon, man! That's some of my best work right there! Don't you know how hard it is to get replicated bread to turn that shade of golden brown?"

"I do not doubt your artistry, Captain," the Vulcan mutters somewhat wryly, eyes still boring into the grilled cheese.

Which is when David pipes in, speaking through a half-chewed mouthful: "It's really good, Mister Spock!"

"Swallow, bud," Jim mutters, instinctually reaching out to pat at the kid's head affectionately. He's pleasantly surprised when David doesn't flinch in response to the action, seemingly comfortable enough in this space to let his guard down (though it's possible that Jim's cooking is just that good).

David waits until he's cleared his mouth of any remnants of his meal to ask, "Do Vulcans eat cheese, Mister Spock?"

"We do indeed, though Vulcan cheese varies greatly from the Terran variety. I have, however, consumed both, and am amenable to repeating experience. My apprehension at this particular moment is not due to the ingredients, nor the Captain's cooking skill, but rather the nature of the dish itself. As a Vulcan I am... unaccustomed... to eating with my hands."

"Oh!" Jim exclaims, slapping his palm against his forehead exaggeratedly. "I totally forgot about the hand thing, Spock. I'm sorry. Let me grab you some silverware—"

"There is no need, Captain," the Vulcan interrupts, but Jim has already scurried off to grab a fork and knife. 

Spock ends up proving Jim right in the end, of course. Everyone likes grilled cheese. Especially his grilled cheese.

(Some might not love it, mind you — Jim's not so sure the Vulcan will be adding it to his regular meal regimen any time soon — but, at the very least, Spock manages to finish everything on his plate. That's gotta count for something, right?)

They've just finished clearing their dishes, flirting with the idea of teaching David to play chess via demonstration, when Spock's communicator pings. Jim can tell by the way his eyes scan the device's screen, focusing for several seconds longer than usual, that something is up.

"My apologies, Captain," he announces, standing in an instant. He turns his attention to the kid then, eyes going almost imperceptibly softer, and adds, "David. I must delay our proposed game for now. I am needed in the labs."

"Is everything all right...?" Jim prods, suddenly anxious, but Spock calms him with a gentle hand to the forearm.

"You needn't worry, Captain. There is no immediate danger."

"'Immediate?'" Jim repeats, incredulous. "Does that mean—"

Spock fixes him with a look. "It means I must go, Captain. If I do not arrive within seven point oh-eight minutes, there is a twenty-three percent chance that one or several ensigns will be consumed by the reawakened carnivorous plant—"

"Oh my god, Spock!" the Captain interrupts. "Message received. We'll take a rain check."

For a few seconds, nobody moves. 

"Go!" Jim encourages, hoping to knock the Vulcan out of whatever trance he's under.

Which is when David decides to ask, "Can I come, Mister Spock?"

"No," both adults respond in unison, causing the boy to let out a quiet sound of annoyance.

"But—"

"We said no, David," Jim counters decidedly. He hates how much he sounds like his mother.

In yet another example of the boy's capacity for tact, David waits until Spock's been gone for at least a minute before announcing, "I changed my mind."

Then he fixes his father with a look. It's the kind of expression that indicates wisdom beyond one's years. Jim's reminded once again of just how many grades the kid managed to skip before ever reaching double digits — as well as Carol's insistence that he's a 'natural born scientist'  in her handwritten letter — and it seems almost silly to think he might be able to get anything over that little blond head.

And so, although he's more than a little hesitant to hear the answer, Jim prods, "How so...?"

"Now I'm pretty sure Mister Spock is the one who has a crush on you."

And, god. Jim's almost entirely certain this kid's gonna be the death of him.

✧ ✦ ✧

When Jim was young, Winona always used to tell him he carried too much tension in his shoulders.

'You're gonna give yourself a hunchback,' she'd insist, pointedly eyeing her youngest son until he corrected his posture accordingly. 'And don't believe what the movies tell you, Jimmy. In the real world, the hunchback never gets the girl.'

Jim learned pretty early on that it was useless to remind his mother that the hunchback didn't get the girl in the movie — much less to question her use of a term like 'hunchback,' which never seemed to go well. It was easier for Jim's younger self to simply straighten his posture. To follow what was ultimately sound advice (even if the delivery left something to be desired) until it became second nature.

And all that might've been fine, mind you, if it was just about Jim's posture. If Winona didn't have a habit of picking an aspect of her youngest boy's personality or demeanor — seemingly at random — and ripping it to absolute shreds. Jim has been under her microscope for as long as he can remember — always beholden to Winona's apparent inability to refrain from policing her offspring. If it wasn't Jim's posture, it was his chewing. Or his choice of friends. Or his performance at school.

Though the posture thing was certainly Mom's most frequent concern.

If you asked her about it now, Winona Kirk would probably call the whole thing 'tough love.' She might even consider it proof of just how great of a mother she is. 'He's not slouching now, is he?' she'd joke, pointing at her youngest son — only it wouldn't be a joke. Not really. And if you pushed her too much on it, she might just burst into tears.

Like Jim said, it was always much easier to adapt for Winona's sake. To take the damn high road. And so he did.

(Usually, anyway. Nobody's perfect.)

There were times, of course, when Jim would go for the nuclear option instead of silently complying. He's a Kirk, after all. It's not in his nature to bite his tongue.

So Jim would use his big, stupid brain to turn his mother's words around on her. He'd compare Frank — or whichever unlucky man Mom might've been entertaining whilst she pretended she was finally done with the bastard — to the aforementioned character from a centuries-old adaptation of an even older story. 'How come you're dating Quasimodo, then?' he'd ask. Then he'd point to the snoring lowlife in question, smiling deviously around every word, and Winona would just about lose her damn mind.

But even that stopped being fun after the first dozen or so screaming matches. So again, in the end, it was easier for Jim to correct his posture. To completely remove slouching from his physical vocabulary so that Winona no longer had any reason to make such comparisons in the first place.

(Then there was Tarsus, which both did and didn't talk some sense into the woman when it came to her youngest boy. Mostly 'didn't.')

All of this crosses Jim's mind now as he sits in front of his viewscreen and wills himself to answer his mother's impending call. He's sure she'll have something to say about his appearance. About his hair and his clothes and the bags beneath his eyes.

Jim also knows that it'll only be worse if he doesn't pick up. Knows Winona will only be that much more unhinged when he eventually does answer. Which Jim will, because choice is an illusion when Winona Kirk is your mother.

So Jim makes sure his posture is up to snuff, breathing in deep once more, and then leans forward to accept Winona's call. The woman just barely blinks into existence, as beautifully unkempt as ever, when her demanding tone rings out through the Captain's speakers:

"Lemme talk to the kid."

Jim eyes the disheveled woman on his viewscreen for several silent seconds. In all honesty, he considers ending the call right there. "Hello to you too, Mom," he responds instead, forcing a faux smile to crawl across his twitching lips. "I'm doing great, actually. Thanks so much for asking."

"Oh no you don't," Winona retorts, already wearing that signature 'disappointed mother' frown of hers. It seems that thirty-five years of exposure still isn't enough to render Jim immune to her powers, especially when he's got something to feel guilty about (which, mind you, he sort of does). "You don't get to hide your son from me for years—"

"I wasn't hiding him, Mom—"

"—and then act like I'm the bad guy for wanting to make up for lost time. For wanting to know my own grandchild!"

The captain sighs, pinching at the bridge of his nose. He doesn't bother mentioning the three other grandchildren Winona has, none of whom she has bothered to meet (namely because she cares more about her own damn pride than maintaining a relationship with her eldest son). "You're not the bad guy," he counters instead, and he knows he's playing right into Winona's hand — appeasing her, the same exact way he has for as long as he can remember — but what other choice is there? "And you'll get to meet him, Mom. Just... not today."

At which point Jim's mother actually rolls her eyes, giving him a far-too-intense look, and says, "I'll believe it when I see it."

Jim wonders, not for the first time in his life, if his mother has always been like this. Was Winona born bitter and judgmental? Would she have been just as callous and brash towards Jim if George were still in the picture? If he hadn't died so suddenly — so tragically — on the very day Jim was born? Would every sentence she spoke have a hidden double (or triple) meaning, all of which seem to aim directly for Jim's goddamn heart?

Was it George's death that turned her into the kind of woman who could raise a boy like James T. Kirk, or was all of this simply... inevitable?

Winona's voice is much softer when she goes on to ask, "What's he like?"

It's crazy, really, how she still manages to fluctuate between doting mother and comically evil adversary. And after so many years out of practice, too.

(Which consequently means that Jim, who managed to build up somewhat of an immunity to her charms during his time under Winona Kirk's roof, is entirely incapable of defending himself against her admittedly effective tactics. Especially not when he really, really needs somebody to talk to.)

"He's... quiet," Jim admits after a few moments' contemplation. "Observant. But he's so fucking smart, Mom, you wouldn't—"

"Language!" Winona interrupts, and Jim bites back a scoff. Really?

But then Frank comes into frame. He's wearing his usual getup — namely: a stained white tank, jeans, and a lit cigarette in his mouth — but he gladly frees his lips of the poison stick just long enough to grumble, "I'd ask if you kiss your mother with that mouth, but that'd require you actually bothering to visit." 

Winona winces. It's solely for her benefit that Jim resists the oh-so-tempting urge to hurl insults in his stepfather's direction. To remind Frank that one of them is the captain of the goddamn USS Enterprise — living out his childhood dreams, doing the things his father couldn't — while the other is wasting away at the side of a broken woman.

Occupying the space once held by a much more impressive man.

And it's a pity, really, how little Frank compares to the ghost of Jim's own father. How he's managed to build an entire life in the shadow of a dead man without ever producing anything of worth in the process. At some point you have to admire the skill it takes to fail so thoroughly.

There's a lot Jim could say to his stepfather right about now, but instead he smiles. "Long time no see, Frank," he says through gritted teeth, and the motherfucker laughs.

"What's this I hear about you having a secret kid?" Frank prods (as if he doesn't know). He's wearing that ugly, self-satisfied smirk of his — the one that still manages to make Jim feel so goddamn tiny and worthless whenever it's pointed at him — and Kirk has half a mind to forgo the plan for peace entirely.

Instead of going nuclear, however, Kirk simply shrugs. "Not much of a secret if it's made its way to Riverside, but yeah. I've got a kid. His name's David."

"He as fresh as you and your brother were at that age?"

"As a matter of fact, no. But considering his mother was just murdered in cold blood, I'd say he's more than earned the right. Wouldn't you, Frank?"

"You're lucky I'm not there to knock some sense into you, boy—"

"James T. Kirk!" Winona admonishes — as if Jim is the one in the wrong here — but even she looks relieved when her husband makes his speedy exit. "It's like you enjoy making him angry."

Jim scoffs. "I don't enjoy it, Mom. I just have a much lower threshold than you or Sammy ever did, which— you know what? Whatever. It doesn't matter. I need to go now."

"What, that's it? No 'I love you'?"

"I love you, Mom," Jim mutters, and it's like Winona relishes in taking the chance to not say it back. 

"Make sure you have the kid with you next time. I wanna meet him before he hits double digits."

Jim doesn't bother explaining to his mother that David only just turned nine — that, barring an unprecedented ten months of silence between her and her youngest boy, Winona will most certainly 'meet' David before the kid turns ten — and instead twists his grimace into a smile and promises to call her soon.

"I'll hold you to that, kid," Winona promises, and Jim knows she's not bluffing. Mom's never been the type to bluff (outside of all the times she swore she'd leave Frank for real, that is).

As he sits at his desk, relishing for a moment in the quiet comfort of a Winona-free living space, Jim begins to assemble a concrete plan for his son's extracurricular education. 

Chapter Text

"You sure you're all set?" Jim asks for either the third or fourth time.

"Yes," David responds once again, fixing him with a look. He takes a few moments to assess Jim's expression before he adds, "Are you all set?"

It's a fair question. Jim certainly doesn't feel 'all set.' He hardly even feels slightly set. They've gone over the plan several times already this morning — plus once last night — but he can't shake the feeling that he's overlooked something important. "You know what to do if you need me, right?"

"Ask the computer to contact the Captain," the boy recites. He sounds almost bored.

"And if you get hungry before lunchtime, or if you need help—"

"Contact Yeoman Rand."

Jim sucks in a breath, wanting so badly to shirk his captainly duties entirely. To play hooky and spend the day with his kid instead. But that won't help them in the long run — especially not when he's needed on the bridge yet again tomorrow — so instead he says, "Okay. My shift starts in six minutes, but I'll be back around lunchtime."

Which prompts the kid to ask, "Will Mr. Spock be with you...?"

"Not for lunch, no. Captains and First Officers aren't really supposed to take their lunch breaks at the same time. If you finish all your tests, though, maybe he'll be around to join us for dinner."

David breaks into a smile then, all but racing over to his now-unlocked PADD — courtesy of Gaila, who dropped it off at Jim's quarters an hour or so before breakfast (and who proceeded to pout quite dramatically when she realized the boy wasn't yet present to meet her in person). Soon enough, David is so enthralled by whichever aptitude test he's decided to tackle first that he doesn't even bother looking up from the screen before saying 'goodbye.'

Jim exits his son's quarters, forcing himself to look straight ahead instead of turning around like he so badly wants to — knowing that looking back at David will only strengthen his desire to feign illness and relinquish the conn to Spock — and focuses instead on making it to the bridge on time.

Which he does manage to do, mind you.

(Just barely.)

"No shadow today, Captain?"

Kirk's just settling into his seat when Sulu asks the question. He fixes the helmsman with a practiced smile, sitting up a bit straighter, and then speaks loud enough for the entire bridge crew to hear: "David won't be joining us today. As fun as it was bringing him along — and as grateful as I am to those of you who kept him entertained for all that time — I think we can all agree that, in the event of an emergency, this is the last place any child should be."

There's a hum of agreement, characterized by the slightest hint of disappointment, that rings through almost every member of the bridge crew. It fills the Captain with an undeniable sense of glee.

A few seconds later, Jim and Spock lock eyes. The Captain is surprised to realize the usual warmth he is so used to finding there — that twinkle in the Vulcan's eye that seems to be reserved for Jim and Jim alone — is inexplicably absent. In its place is a cold stare and the slightest hint of a frown on those gorgeous, oh-so-kissable lips.

So naturally, Jim frowns too. Then the Vulcan becomes very interested in something at the science station — gaze flickering away from his Captain with a practiced sort of ease — and Kirk is left to stew in his own confusion until work inevitably tears his attention away once more. 

"You're eating lunch with me today," Uhura tells Jim — tells, not asks — when he approaches her station an hour or so into their shift. "In the mess hall. That's an order."

"An order, huh?" Jim muses, meeting his friend's playful gaze with his own sparkling amusement.

"Mhm. You heard me. And don't you dare try and use David as an excuse to say 'no,' 'cause he's invited too."

Sometimes, it really sucks having friends who are all literal geniuses. Can't get anything by the fuckers.

Jim sighs, just staring at Nyota for several charged seconds. Trying and failing to think of a believable reason why he and the boy simply can't join her for a meal with so many onlookers hovering like vultures. Hanging in the wings just for the barest chance to overhear something gossip-worthy. Maybe even wanting to introduce themselves to the ship's newest passenger — as if that's even remotely appropriate, given the circumstances.

"I get that you want to protect him, but—"

"I haven't even rejected you yet, Lieutenant," Jim teases, eyes crinkling as he reaches forward to squeeze his friend on the shoulder. "Tell you what: we'll stop by and see if David's feeling up to the task. If he is feeling up to it, then... yes. The two of us will gladly join you for lunch. How's that sound?"

Uhura shrugs, smirking amusedly as she returns her friend's glistening gaze. "That sounds like a plan to me, Captain."

David, as it turns out, is more than willing to have lunch with Jim and Uhura — and in the mess hall, no less. Jim's sort of appalled at the show of bravery.

Which, mind you, doesn't stop the kid from freezing up when the time actually comes for him to stand at the entrance, tray in hand, and feel the collective gaze of nearly everyone in a room turning to look at him all at once. "You're okay," Jim promises, gently guiding David further into the room with one hand on the boy's left elbow. "Let's grab some food and then we'll find our seats, okay?"

With a wordless nod, the boy allows himself to be shepherded towards the replicator (having seen, just as Jim did, that today's hot dish is decidedly not vegetarian). The Captain forces himself to go for something a bit more balanced than the plateful of grease that he truly wants to replicate — even going so far as to order himself some Brussels sprouts for good measure. Then he turns to face the boy standing at his side.

"You know what you want?" Kirk prompts, earning a quick nod in response.

David reaches out with one hand, insisting, "I can do it," and then begins inputting his own request into the machine. 

Jim watches with thinly-veiled astonishment as the replicator materializes another meal beside his own — an unfamiliar yet perfect-looking bowl of soup with some bread and veggies on the side — and smiles openly at the subsequent addition of a cup of ginger ale. "Wanna get me one of those as well?" the Captain prompts, gesturing toward the drink, and David wordlessly moves to comply.

(If Kirk's honest, he's never understood the appeal of ginger ale. Not outside of trying to rid oneself of bellyaches, anyway. But the kid's clearly enamored by the stuff — having ordered it with nearly every meal since arriving on the ship — and so Jim decides it's worth it to give the drink another try.)

Soon enough they're seated across from Nyota, whose steaming bowl of beef stroganoff is... tempting, to say the least. Jim pokes at his own cold, unappealing dish — forcing a forkful of replicated mush into his mouth. He's just started chewing when a familiar figure approaches their table with far too much spring in her step.

"Look who it is!" Gaila exclaims, sliding in to sit beside Nyota before Jim's even processed the fact that she's here (much less finished chewing what's still left in his mouth to make space for a greeting). "I was starting to think they made you up, little one! Glad to see that's not the case. My name's Gaila, by the way."

"Hello," David responds, soft and sheepish, as he stares at the woman's extended hand. A second later, recognition flashes across his face — instantaneous, honestly, but Jim still manages to see it somehow — and then David swiftly adds, "You're the person who fixed my PADD."

Gaila's smile grows even wider when the boy accepts her offered handshake. "That I am! Glad to know our good captain didn't take all the credit for himself. How's the thing treating you so far?"

"Very well, thank you," is David's easy response. His gaze flickers to Jim, just for a second, and then floats back towards Gaila. Jim nearly swallows his own tongue when the boy goes on to matter-of-factly state, "You're an Orion."

It's a relief that Gaila immediately bursts into laughter. "I was wondering why my skin looked so green today," she muses, causing both Jim and Nyota to let out soft — if not slightly uncomfortable — noises of amusement in return. A second later Gaila's voice and face change, both at once, and her eyes go incredibly soft around the edges. Jim's not sure he's ever seen her look so damn sincere. "I was so sorry to hear about your Mom's passing, by the way. She was a brilliant woman."

"You know my Mum?" David prods, eyes suddenly wide with interest.

Gaila falters. "Not personally, no," she admits, clearly not wanting to lose such a captive audience (but not wanting to lie, either), "Though I sort of feel like I did, after spending so much time with her code..."

David says nothing. He simply stares up at Gaila with slightly-wet eyes, blinking somewhat confusedly. Jim can't decide if he's furious or grateful at the mention of Carol. (Maybe both...?)

"I saw you got past the first firewall — which means you must've seen her original warning message — but the others were completely untouched before I came along. There are seven, maybe eight, unique messages left for you in your mother's code. Some of them are funny. Kinda reminded me of my own Mom..."

Gaila gets a faraway look on her face then, voice trailing off. Jim clears his throat pointedly. "Did you happen to write them down anywhere?"

Which is when the Orion woman fixes him with a wide, wolfish grin and insists, "Nope! I left them right where I found them, Captain. Just changed the parameters so that the thing would listen to you as well. I figured if your mini-me tries to get past the other firewalls, he'll run into 'em just like I did. Which I'm assuming was the point of Dr. Marcus including them in the first place, so..."

And, though Jim's admittedly not exactly thrilled at the idea of encouraging a child under his care to bypass parental controls, he's also not about to forbid David from attempting to access what little his mother managed to leave behind for him in this world — physically, anyway.

So much was destroyed on the satellite (not to mention the death of the woman herself, and the subsequent loss of innocence). David barely had three shirts to his name when they first brought him onto the Enterprise, much less a personalized message to look back on.

Jim thinks of his own letter from Carol — thinks of the combination of relief and anguish that he felt upon reading it — and he can't bring himself to tell the kid 'no.' He thinks of how he keeps it in the drawer beside his bed, just in case he ever needs to read it again. Thinks of the comfort it's given him to have something concrete to point to and say 'Here's how I know what she wanted for him. Here's how I know if I'm doing any of this right.'

Shouldn't David get something like that, too? Isn't it only fair?

"Thanks for the heads up, Gaila," the Captain says through a forced grin as he considers all these factors. As he ultimately decides not to discourage the boy from attempting to bypass the systems his mother put in place to keep him safe. He turns to look at Uhura, smile softening somewhat, and then adds, "Now, Lieutenant: what's this I hear about you teaching my kid to speak Andorian...?"

That evening, when Jim tries inviting Spock to dinner, the Vulcan cites some bullshit excuse about needing to work late in the labs. "David is welcome to join me there after dinner," his first officer allows after several moments' silence.

Jim wonders if the decision not to include him in that invitation was intentional, or simply an oversight on the Vulcan's part.

Then he wonders if Spock's ever had a singular oversight in his entire goddamn life. 

✧ ✦ ✧

"I'm telling you, Spock. The kid's a damn genius. He skipped three grades — three! — before they cut him off. Do you know how hard that is to do?"

The man on Jim's viewscreen raises an eyebrow before he admits, "I suppose I do not."

And something about the elder Vulcan's response is... sobering. Makes Jim realize he's been more-or-less monopolizing their conversation this entire time. "I dunno why I'm bothering you with all that, though!" he announces, cupping his hands together with enough force for it to make a clap! sound. "How's, uh... how's life been treating you on New Vulcan?

"Please, Captain," the Vulcan counters, and his voice is thick with sincerity. Jim sort of feels sick. "Do not stop on my account."

"Are you sure? 'Cause I can— I mean, if you'd rather—"

Something about the look on the elder Spock's face has Jim stopping short. He wonders if he's fabricating the expression — getting all wrapped up in his own boundless imagination, as he's been known to do — but then the Vulcan says, "The James Kirk I knew often felt regret for the years lost between himself and his son. He would surely be listening with rapt attention were he present now. As such I cannot deny that I feel a certain desire, however illogical or sentimental it may be, to bear witness to these truths on his behalf."

"Oh," Jim says softly, because. Oh. He can't decide if it's more tragic or sweet that Spock still cares this much, even after spending what must've been decades apart from the other Jim. That he still feels sentimental enough to listen to these stories, if only for the tiniest chance that it'll get back to the man across time and space, somehow. "You could meet him, y'know. If you wanted to, obviously..."

"I do want to meet the boy," the Vulcan instantly admits, surprising Jim somewhat with the intensity in his tone. "I do, however, feel compelled to inquire as to whether or not you have truly assessed the ramifications of such a choice. If David is to learn that I come from an alternate timeline, will he not wonder — just as you have — about his own fate? Or perhaps that of his mother?"

Jim hadn't considered that. In truth, the last thing they need is for David to start asking those kinds of questions. Especially when hardly any of them have concrete answers. "So... that's it, then?" he asks, swallowing thickly. "You never get to meet my kid?"

"I see no reason why David could not be introduced to the honorable Ambassador Selek."

"'Honorable,' eh?" Jim teases, though he can't help but smile. It's always amusing when this Spock uses his undercover title in casual conversation (and even more so when Sarek or the younger Spock is forced to join in on the farce). "I don't think you're hearing me, though. Kid's observant. The years might've changed your appearance in a lot of ways, Ambassador, but I guarantee you David knows my Spock well enough to see right through every single one of 'em. Especially those eyes—"

The Vulcan looks more than a little amused, brow raising again. "My eyes...?" he prods when the Captain cuts himself off, but Jim pays him no mind.

"We'll have to say you're Spock's... I dunno. Great uncle, or something. Do Vulcans have those?"

"Are you inquiring as to whether our grandparents are capable of having siblings...?"

Jim has to scoff at that. "Not literally, Spock— my god. I was asking in more of a cultural sense. Like... would it make sense for me to know Spock's great uncle on a personal level? To be friendly with him, even?"

"It is no more or less likely than yourself being acquainted with my counterpart's brother, or cousin."

Which... sort of answers Jim's question, though he gets the feeling the guy is dancing his way around something major. Then he blinks, remembering his Spock's earlier mention of a troublemaking cousin named Cole, and decides to say 'fuck it' and ask the man straight-up: "Does Spock actually have a brother, or were you just using that as an example?"

This time, the Vulcan doesn't even bother with the segue. He just brute-forces his way past that topic, eyes shining in silent warning when he asks, "How is David occupying his time after conquering the inadequate curriculum?"

"Funny you should ask, actually..."

Jim doesn't leave the call with everything figured out — far from it, if he's honest — but something about just talking through things out loud makes it all feel just a bit more bearable.

"I'll be in touch," Kirk promises, eyes crinkling as he smiles at the man on his screen.

"I shall await your correspondence with bated breath."

Jim snorts, deciding not to comment on the blatant — not to mention decidedly un-Vulcan — use of sarcasm (mostly for fear of scaring the man out of repeating the offense in future interactions, as it's one of his favorite things that the other Spock does). "Thanks again," he says honestly, and Spock nods.

"You are quite welcome, Captain. It is my sincerest wish that yourself and David shall live long and prosper."

And Jim, who is at least equally as dedicated to exactly half of that sentiment, doesn't have to force his lips to curve up into a blinding grin. It just happens naturally. "You too, Ambassador."

✧ ✦ ✧

"For what it's worth, kid, I think you may be overthinking this just an eensy bit."

Jim scoffs at his best friend, reaching for the bottle on the table between them and raising it to his lips. "Yeah?" he mutters into the mouthpiece, voice echoing fainly off of the half-empty container, "Which part? 'Cause from where I'm standing, this reaction feels pretty damn warranted."

"Maybe he's just—"

"Don't you dare say 'busy,'" Jim interrupts, pointing one singular finger at his friend (not unlike how a cliché caricature of an angry person might). "'Cause he's always magically available whenever it's David who wants to hang out. What the hell is up with that?"

McCoy stares at Jim for several too-long seconds, eyes squinting like he's trying to decipher a riddle. Then he sits back in his seat, gesturing for Jim to hand him the bottle, and sighs. Only once Kirk has handed over the whiskey does his best friend murmur, "M'only tellin' you this 'cause I'm three sheets to the wind, Jimmy."

Jim nods wordlessly, afraid of scaring the honesty right out of his perpetually tight-lipped friend. Bones might have a whole lot to say about other peoples' lives — namely: Jim's — but when it comes to his own...? Man's a damn steel trap. A mystery.

So Kirk watches his friend swallow a healthy swig of whiskey. Notices him hardly even reacting to the taste. Then Bones says, "I've never felt more jealous of anyone than I did of you on the day you met Joanna," and Kirk's entire body goes tense.

"What?" Jim sputters, genuinely shocked. Did he hear that right...? "But I only—"

The man silences him with a singular raised hand. "Lemme finish my thought, kid. S'hard enough to get it out without the yapping."

In the brief pause that follows, Jim retrieves the bottle from where his friend discarded it on the table between them. He raises it to his lips. Takes one quick swig, wincing at the burn, and then goes right in for another. Partially to keep himself from talking, and partially because he'd like to be drunker for this.

(And because Bones has damn good taste in booze. Jim can't pretend that doesn't have something to do with it, too.)

"It's always been tough, getting through to her. Even before the divorce. I wasn't around much during my residency — not when Jo was still awake, anyway — and my Ma would always tell me, 'kids just love their Moms at that age,' y'know? She'd say 'It's only biological.' And maybe if Jocelyn hadn't been dead set on takin' the whole damn planet with her when she left, it'd be different, but... I never could make Jo laugh the way you did within five minutes of meeting her, Jimmy. Hell, I couldn't even make her smile most days."

Jim is at a complete and utter loss for words when he breathes, "Bones," but his best friend pays him no mind.

"I'm not sayin' any of this to make you feel bad. My point is, you're my best friend. I know you pretty damn well — better than you think, smartass, so don't give me that look — and I can tell just by lookin' at your sorry ass that you've been beatin' yourself up for the same idiotic reasons as I was."

Which... isn't entirely untrue. It's not like Jim hasn't noticed how his son clearly favors Spock over himself. How the Vulcan seems to connect with him so easily, opening doors within the boy that are still very much locked for Jim. It's like the guy doesn't even have to try.

"Say nothin' if I'm right," Bones adds, both sounding and looking so damn smug.

With a roll of his eyes, Jim takes another small swig from the bottle. His stomach lurches (luckily calming itself before they end up with a real disaster on their hands). It seems as good a sign as any to quit while he's ahead.

Bones must feel the same — or, at the very least, he must not care enough to complain — because he doesn't say a word when Jim stands, bottle in hand, and carries it away to the doctor's kitchenette. "Y'want any water, Bonesy?" he calls out, already grabbing a glass for his friend.

"Sure, kid. Why the hell not?"

Chapter Text

Jim is only a little surprised to learn that David went for the math assessment first. "You a fan of numbers?" he asks, eyes not looking away from the results on the boy's newly-unlocked PADD for even a second.

The Captain is admittedly quite fascinated by the state of the thing. More specifically, he's fascinated by the clear and evident ways in which Carol took the time and energy to modify the device to better suit her son's needs. To suit David, specifically, as an individual. Growing and learning just as he does.

When he doesn't get an immediate answer, Jim tries again: "Is math your favorite subject?"

"It's the easiest," the boy responds, short and simple, and Jim has to laugh (though he reins in the amusement as much as he can, not wanting to scare the poor kid). There's a slim stretch of silence before David continues, sounding almost petulant: "But you do know it's called maths, right? Plural."

Something about the juxtaposition between the boy's sweet face and his scathing tone — so clearly unimpressed by his father's apparent idiocy — has the Captain fighting back a smile. "Not where I'm from," he counters, not fully able to hide his amusement when his lips start to twitch upwards. It's then that Jim finally, finally allows himself to meet David's gaze. He sees the quiet confusion reflected there and feels compelled to add, "It's just a weird language thing. Some people say 'math,' and others say 'maths.' Just depends on who taught 'em, I guess — and maybe where they're from."

David hums in response, soaking in each word. He seems genuinely stunned by this new revelation. It's nearly a minute before he speaks again, wondering aloud, "Is that why everyone here says the word 'Lieutenant' wrong...?"

He pronounces it like 'lef-tenant,' which makes Jim snort. He'd forgotten about that particular linguistic discrepancy. It came up once or twice during his Academy days — mostly with students from Carol's side of the pond — but he hadn't made the connection that a kid who says 'Mum' might also suffer from that strange collective delusion.

"I'll give you the 'maths' thing, kiddo — it's mathematics, plural, after all, so maybe you guys are right on that one — but I draw the line at 'Lieutenant.' Where's the 'F' in that word?"

Which stops the boy in his tracks. Makes his eyes go all wide and round.

"...There isn't one," David mutters after yet another stretch of silence. He's clearly somewhat peeved by the question (or, maybe more accurately, by his own inability to come up with an adequate rebuttal). 

"My point exactly!" Jim exclaims. Only once it's clear that the boy has nothing further to say on the topic does he allow himself to return to the task of checking David's (truly impeccable) work. It almost feels redundant to continue looking, unlikely as it seems that Jim will find even one mistake hidden in the test, but he forces himself to concentrate anyway.

Even little geniuses make mistakes, he reasons — same as the big ones do.

The Captain clears his throat then, sitting up a bit straighter, and brings the device closer to his face.

David opted to use his PADD like a sheet of paper for this particular assessment, utilizing the special pen Gaila gifted to him at the end of their shared lunch with Nyota ('It can decipher most peoples' handwriting,' she'd explained, eyes darting between all three of her table-mates with far too much glee reflected in them, 'Though I can't make any promises about Jim's.').

David's handwriting reminds Jim of an architect's, almost. It's the complete antithesis of his own chicken scratch — which, mind you, is rivaled only by the stereotypically illegible doctor-scrawl belonging to one Leonard H. McCoy — and Jim wonders, off-handedly, if that sort of thing is genetic or learned.

Would David's handwriting be just as shitty as Jim's, if not for Carol's meticulous influence?

(Even in her rushed letter, written as she slowly bled out, the words were impossibly neat. Any messiness that remained came from damage to the actual paper — wetness from tears or blood smeared across the text — rather than any fault of her own.)

As promised, the modified PADD has no trouble deciphering the carefully drawn lines into digital text, comparing David's answers with its database to ensure that the boy is credited for his achievements accordingly. Checking his work as well as his answers (same as Jim did with his own inferior human brain).

The device makes note of the way David works — how he thinks, even — in order to better understand his intellectual needs and adapt accordingly. Jim's not so jaded by the glamorous life of a Starfleet captain that he can't recognize how objectively cool that is. And his head's not so far up his own ass that that he can't see how it's all thanks to two brilliant women — Carol and Gaila, respectively — that they're able to access this technology at all. 

Jim delivers a silent thank you to Carol, wherever she may be now, for creating something so damn magical. Then he realizes she created the boy holding the device, too (with limited assistance on Jim's end) and he's grateful all over again.

How can one person be responsible for so much good?

(And how the hell is he supposed to do any of this without her?)

It's no surprise to anybody, Jim least of all, that the kid passes his math assessment with flying colors. Kirk is, however, surprised at just how quickly David manages to get through what was supposed to require several days' work.

"You're really good at this," Jim announces once he's finished scanning the contents of the PADD. "I know you said math is the easiest, but— wow, David. I didn't realize how easy! This is awesome. You should be really, really proud."

The boy's cheeks turn a little red. His eyes shift to avoid Jim's questioning gaze.

"What're you worried about?" Kirk prods, earning himself a sheepish shrug.

"It won't be enough for my teachers. They know I'm good at maths. The reason they won't let me skip any more grades is 'cause of the 'maturity gap'—"

David cuts himself off then, blinking confusedly at the sight of Jim's cheeky smirk. The Captain relishes in that palpable confusion (lined with the faintest hint of excitement) for several long seconds before he muses, "Who said anything about teachers...?"

"But the assessment—"

"Is meant to discern your understanding of basic arithmetic. We'll also be looking at how you handle geometry, trigonometry — basically all the 'ometries — so we can establish a baseline. That way we'll know if you need more lessons, or if you're ready for... well. You'll see, once we get to that point."

Jim has to bite the insides of his cheeks just to stop himself from laughing at the look of wide-eyed shock he receives in response to his teasing words.

"Anyway. You up for the next one, or what?"

✧ ✦ ✧

"What is the purpose of this meeting, Captain?" Spock asks once he's stepped into Jim's ready room, door swoosh-ing shut behind him. His hands are clasped together behind his back.

They communicate nonverbally for a few charged moments before the Captain straightens his posture, forcing himself to maintain eye-contact, and says, "It's not— it's a chat, Spock. Not a meeting. I specifically said that in my comm..."

And so the Vulcan amends his question: "What is the purpose of this 'chat,' Captain?"

It's almost as adorable as it is infuriating — especially when Spock throws in that damn raised eyebrow of his (the bastard). Jim digs his fingernails into his palms just to keep from lashing out out of pure instinct. Saying something he'll regret just to get a rise out of the guy. "Did I do something to upset you?" he asks instead, tone horrifically sincere. "Was it something I said...? 'Cause you know I've got a bigger mouth than I know what to do with, Spock, but I never—"

"Captain," the Vulcan interrupts, silencing Jim with just two syllables and a stern look. "Please."

Jim's brow furrows when he meets those brown eyes — so sincere, even now. His voice is whisper-soft when he asks, "What...?"

"I do not expect understanding where I have not provided explanation. I am aware that my actions as of late have been... illogical in nature. Your questioning is warranted. Please know that you are not at fault, Jim, and that you have in no way wronged me. I must ask, however, that you do not 'push' on this matter."

"But Spock—"

"Please, Captain," the Commander once again interrupts, his eyes going just the tiniest bit wild around the edges, "I require several hours of uninterrupted meditation in order to counteract the adverse effects of—"

Then he cuts himself off, and. God, if Jim could just wring that sexy Vulcan neck. "The effects of what, Spock? What were you gonna say?"

But the Vulcan simply says, "I require meditation," and then looks at Jim with enough sincerity to kill a lesser man. "I apologize, sir, but this cannot be postponed. I must go now."

"Spock, wait—" Jim starts, but he's already halfway gone.

What the hell...?

✧ ✦ ✧

Carol's service happens exactly three weeks after David's initial rescue.

Spock, who is finally done being weird toward his Captain for no apparent reason, stands sturdy at Jim's side the entire time. He even goes so far as to steady the man with his hand at one point — projecting calm through the skin-on-skin contact of his palm against Jim's trembling wrist — and then murmurs something in Vulcan that brings warmth despite being utterly incomprehensible to Kirk. 

"Thanks," Jim breathes into the space between their huddled forms. Then, before he can think better of it, he adds, "I'm really glad you're here, Spock."

The Vulcan both looks and sounds so damn sincere when he catches Jim's eye, insisting, "I shall remain by your side for as long as you desire, Captain."

Something about the comment makes Jim think it's about a whole lot more than this particular moment in time. Lets him know the Vulcan isn't going anywhere anytime soon — maybe even ever — unless Jim wishes for him to do so. Which, of course, Jim never would. It'd go against his very nature.

The two of them watch, along with the rest of the small group of folks on the ship who actually knew the boy's mother, as David whispers unheard goodbyes to the urn sitting stationary at the center of the cloth-covered table. He eventually returns to Jim's side — though not before turning back to stare at what's left of his mother for several centuries-long moments — and the whole time, that ratty old rabbit stays tucked under his arm. Just like the torn-up backpack stays perched on his tiny, nine-year-old shoulders.

It's moments like these that Jim is struck by just how young the boy still is — how, despite being wise beyond his years, David is still undoubtedly a child. He looks so small with the backpack dwarfing his little form. Looks so helpless with tears brimming in his blue eyes.

Jim wishes he could shield David from that sort of pain for the rest of eternity, but he can't. He can't even shield the boy from it right now.

It's a minute or two later that Jim steps forward, ignoring the sting of so many pairs of eyes latching onto his skin all at once, and says, "Thank you all for coming. I know we usually do this part a bit differently on the Enterprise, but Carol was very specific in her— uh. Her wishes..."

Bones takes a step closer to Jim, offering comfort through his sheer proximity, and the Captain has to blink back hot tears.

"Carol Marcus was many things. She was a scientist, of course. A researcher. She was absolutely brilliant in that way where, when you talked to her, you could just tell she was running at least twelve experiments in the back of her mind"— Jim pauses, catching David's eye, and feels his own chest clench in sympathy at the bare grief reflected there; it takes everything in him not to fall apart on the spot —"When we first met, she, uh— she lied about her identity, actually. Called herself Carol Wallace. She—"

(McCoy's gentle hand coming to grip Jim's shoulder is what grounds him in this moment. That, and the fact that David's still looking him right in the eye.)

"The thing is, if Carol hadn't done that — if she hadn't snuck onto the Enterprise and pretended to be someone she wasn't — I'm almost certain none of us would be standing here now. She's the reason we weren't blown to smithereens. Her father would've sacrificed every one of our lives just to start a war with the damn Klingons, but Carol... even though she didn't have to be a part of any of it, she put herself there. Here. And I'll always be grateful to her for that, 'cause, as Scotty can attest to, my stubborn ass... let's just say I might not have wised up if it weren't for her.

"So I guess I'll add 'hero' to the list of things Carol was. Maybe also 'brave as fu'— sorry, 'brave as hell' — and a whole lot of other adjectives to go along with that, but—" Jim's voice cracks on the word, sending him spiraling for just a moment, and then Spock grabs his wrist again and he feels a sense of undeniable calm that gives him the strength to continue "—but, uh. Something most of you probably didn't know, up until recently, is that she was also a mother. And a damn good one, too, as I'm sure anybody who has spent more than five minutes in David's presence will agree."

The boy, who is clearly embarrassed to be the center of attention whilst crying openly in front of so many near-strangers, buries his face in the blue rabbit's pilly pelt. Jim blinks away a few tears of his own, sniffling audibly, and steps back into his place in the semi-circle of mourners.

Softly, Kirk adds, "She will be missed." Then he turns his watery gaze to his own two feet and says nothing more.

Bones steps forward a minute or two later, clearing his throat and pulling a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket (because of course the cranky bastard would refuse to read off of a PADD like a normal person). He hesitates for just a moment before he speaks in his usual gruff tone: "The Captain asked if I would read this next part. Before I start, though, I just wanna say: David, you're a bright kid. Maybe a bit too bright — god knows your Mama must've had her hands full — but what else do you expect when two spitfires like Jim Kirk and Carol Marcus come together? I'm surprised you aren't more destructive. That's gotta be a testament to Carol, 'cause you sure didn't inherit obedience from him."

Jim's eyes follow his best friend's finger as it points directly at himself. He resists the urge to fight back against the accusation, knowing it'd only prove the asshole right (and a funeral isn't really the venue for that sort of confrontation, anyway; in Riverside, at least, folks tend to save that shit for the family meet-up afterwards).

"If you're hearin' me now, Carol, I hope you know that you raised a good one. And I hope you know that he's got more than just his father interested in lookin' out for him, now that you're gone. The kid's destined to charm all four hundred some-odd souls one by one. He'll have the whole damn ship just as invested as we are in no time."

Then Bones clears his throat again, flipping and smoothing the paper in his hand, and begins to read from the actual document Jim gave him:

"'I, Carol June Marcus, declare this to be my last will and testament and revoke all wills made previously. I have one child, David James Marcus, who is currently seven years of age at the time of this document's creation. I appoint his father, Captain James T. Kirk, as the executor of this last will..."

David makes his exit almost as soon as the ceremony is over.

Jim ends up following the boy to the hallway outside of their quarters. David turns to face him once they arrive, eyes still wet with tears, and insists, "I would like to be left alone now."

"Are you sure? 'Cause—"

"I would like to be left alone now," David repeats. The look on his face is one of fierce determination — teary eyes going hard around the edges, just slightly — but Jim knows better. He almost wants to open his arms and pull the boy in for a hug. Almost wants to burst into tears himself.

Instead, the Captain says, "Okay, David. I hear you. I'll be in my quarters if you need me, all right? I'll send a message to check in—"

"No," the boy interrupts yet again, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'll message you."

"Okay, David. That's— that's fine."

And then, just like that, he's gone.

Only once the boy has disappeared into his quarters, separating himself from Jim with that pesky sliding door, does the Captain realize he's not alone in the hallway. He's not sure what it is, exactly, that tips him off — Spock's not visible from this angle, and he's sure as hell not audible — but he feels it. A presence.

Or maybe he just got lucky. Stumbled into being right without any real effort on his end.

Either way, when Jim clears his throat, he just knows the Vulcan can hear him. "May as well show yourself," he calls out, smiling just slightly around the words, and a second later Spock does. He looks adorably sheepish, shoulders hunched and lips tight, but his face is as stoic as ever. Jim can't help but ask, "How much of that did you hear?"

He knows before Spock even opens his mouth that the answer is 'everything.' 

But the Vulcan, ever the diplomat, says instead, "I have witnessed far worse."

Jim wants to die a little bit. He forces himself to take a deep breath, holding the Commander's questioning gaze, and then asks, "You wanna come in...? I could go for a game."

"I am amenable to that suggestion, Captain. May I use your replicator to make some tea?"

"Like you even have to ask."

Only once they've finished setting up the game, staring at one another over Jim's most treasured chess set, does the Captain speak again. "Can I ask you something?"

Spock must be tired — or maybe he's just taking pity on Jim — because he doesn't comment on the fact that that, in and of itself, was a question. Instead he nods, letting out an affirmative hum, and then reaches for his chosen pawn.

"Do you have any advice for me?"

Spock pauses, eyes flickering up to meet Jim's gaze. He's just opening his mouth, probably to question Kirk's meaning, when the Captain speaks again.

"Sorry. That was unspecific. It's just— I'm trying to put words to something that's so fucking amorphous, and it's— I'm—" Jim cuts himself off, palms coming up to cover his face. It'd be so much easier to explain if they could just do a damn mind meld, but Jim's having a hard enough time shielding his big fat crush on the Vulcan without telepathy, so...

Suffice it to say: he'd rather not take the risk. Not now. He'd feel differently, maybe, if the circumstances were dire. 

Jim doesn't bother removing his hands from his face when he asks, "How do I help him through the loss of his Mom?"

When the only response he receives is silence, Jim opts to peer between two of his fingers. He watches with one eye as Spock makes his first move. It isn't until the Vulcan has returned to his normal sitting position, hands coming to clasp together on his lap, that he says, "It is my understanding that experiencing such a loss in one's early youth is a unique form of agony. As such, I am uncertain—"

"They say that, you know," Jim interrupts, smirking at his first officer as he reaches out to make his own first move. He's got a pawn between two fingers, hovering above no spot in particular, when he goes on to say, "And maybe it's true. Maybe I'm biased. I wouldn't know what it's like to be a well-adjusted person who reaches eighteen without ever seeing someone else put in the ground, but... I dunno. From where I'm standing, it doesn't matter how old you are. Grief is grief, and there's really only one way to work through it. 

"But it's one thing to lose a neighbor, or even a friend, when you're a kid. That shit's hard, and it's confusing, but it's not— losing your Mom... that's something else. I've got no idea how to help with that kind of loss. And, I mean, you of all people would know. I've got a bad track record."

It takes a second for recognition to flutter across Spock's face. Then he cocks his head to the side, almost like he's assessing Jim. It's at least a minute more before he says, "I suppose I would advise you to refrain from questioning the boy's love for his mother."

"Was that— did you just make a joke, Mr. Spock?" Jim sputters, utterly beside himself. "Did you just make a joke about the time you nearly choked me to death?" 

But he’s laughing now, completely incapable of keeping up the ruse, and the look in Spock’s eye is warm. "I felt you needed some levity," the Vulcan murmurs, tone going soft. "In truth, Jim, I am... mildly confused. Vulcans are not known for exhibiting social tact. I myself am inexperienced in the realm of providing comfort to those who grieve. Setting aside the loss of my mother, I feel that I am quite the illogical choice for this particular conversation. Are there not others aboard the Enterprise who are more skilled in this regard? Lieutenant Vro, perhaps...?"

Jim doesn't have the time or energy to wonder why Spock would bring up Gaila, of all people, when it comes to getting any form of rational advice. The woman wouldn't know tact if it hit her in the face. "I'm not asking for an expert opinion on the matter, Spock. I'm just asking for your point of view. Yours, not Gaila's, or— god, whoever else's. If I wanted to ask them, I would've. I wanna know what you, Spock, think I should do here. You."

A few agonizing seconds pass between them before the Vulcan nods, expression thoughtful, and then states, "I must mediate on the subject before I can provide a thorough answer. I will note in the meantime, however, that I believe your actions thus far have been more than adequate. There are times when all one can do is be consistently present — which you have surely been in these recent weeks, despite the chaotic nature of your personal schedule — as well as willing to listen. I believe you have done both of these things."

That's when Jim huffs, finally making his move, and says, "You flatter me, Mr. Spock. Is this an attempt to distract me from my game? 'Cause if so, it's working. Tell me more about how good I am at everything."

"I am under no obligation to follow your orders at this time, Captain. Perhaps you can repeat your request on the bridge tomorrow."

"You know what, Mr. Spock? I just might."

The Vulcan makes his exit three games later, citing a need to check on an experiment in the lab. Jim smiles and thanks Spock yet again — though he's not even sure what for, really; just... everything — and then suddenly he's alone, staring at the place where the board had been before Spock was good enough to help Jim put it away.

It's then, as Jim sits alone in his quarters, that he admits to himself the real reason why he asked for the Vulcan's advice. Why he needed to hear from Spock, specifically, when it came to the topic of losing one's Mom. When it came to helping somebody else through that.

'Cause the truth of the matter is just like Jim said: he does know loss. He knows how loss feels at a young age. He knows what it's like to grieve.

But the other part of the truth — the part Jim didn't say, and the part he'd be hard pressed to admit to even Bones — is that he wasn't looking for advice on grief. He was looking for advice on mothers.

If Winona Kirk died today, Jim would be sad. Of course he'd be sad. But it wouldn't be like it was with Spock's Mom. Wouldn't be like it is with David and Carol. That fabled connection between Mother and child — that unshakable bond that humans and aliens alike are so damn obsessed with discussing ad nauseam — is, in truth, completely foreign to him. He's got about as much knowledge about the relationship between Mother and child as he does about being a Dad.

Which is to say: very little.

If it weren't for the fact that he's seen the results of that love firsthand, echoed in the lives of others, he'd probably think it was a myth. But Jim has heard too many people crying out for their mothers in their last dying breaths. He's seen fire in the eyes of women whose childrens' blood had yet to dry on their hands, and he's seen weeping turn to unbridled fury in an instant. He's watched mothers and children alike fight and die for one another.

It's real. It has to be. It's just not real for Jim. And if he doesn't know what that bond feels like when it's allowed to flourish how it's meant to, how the hell is he supposed to help someone else through its loss?

"Goddamn it," he says to nobody in particular — cursing the universe and fate itself for being so damn unrelenting in its cruelty. "Can't a guy catch a break?"

The responding silence feels like answer enough.

Chapter Text

"I'm kind of insulted, you know."

Jim pauses mid-chew, locking eyes with Sulu over his own heaping plate of grease. He'd come to dinner earlier than usual in the hopes of avoiding this sort of confrontation — though, ultimately, he's glad that it's Sulu and not Bones. The last thing he needs is yet another lecture on the merits of healthy eating and the dangers of high cholesterol.

That's when the helmsman slides into the seat across from him. Jim hurriedly finishes his mouthful of hamburger, intending to ask a clarifying question, when Sulu presses forward: "Were you ever gonna ask for my advice?"

"Aw, Hikaru," Jim coos, fixing his friend with an exaggerated pout, "Are you feeling neglected?"

Which earns him an annoyed eye-roll. "More like underutilized! I mean, imagine you spend ten years raising the most perfect little girl, only to be overlooked by your buddy when he lands himself a surprise kid of his own."

"That's not exactly—" Jim starts, only to be cut off.

"By the way, where is the little squirt? I thought he usually joins you in the mess."

"He does," Kirk mutters, bringing the burger to his mouth again. Just before he bites into it, though, he reluctantly adds, "After yesterday, he— I dunno. I think he just needs some space."

It's as the Captain is stuffing his face that Sulu asks, "You sure about that?"

Jim hums around his mouthful, cocking his head to the side inquisitively.

Sulu — bless him — fills in the blanks with ease. "I mean... would you wanna be left alone if you were him? Sitting in your room all by yourself without a shoulder to cry on, after everything he's been through?"

"But he said—"

"Kids say all sorts of things, my friend. Especially when they’re upset. Demora once threatened to run away and join the Klingons if we didn’t revise her bedtime."

To which Jim huffs, covering his face with both palms, and pointedly swallows the rest of his mouthful. "Fine," he murmurs, reluctantly forcing himself to breathe in and out several times before he lowers his hands just enough to meet Sulu's gaze. Jim's voice is slightly muffled by his own skin when he asks, "How do I know whether he's setting a real boundary or just... I dunno, testing me? Seeing if I'll bother to stick around when the going gets tough?"

Sulu lets out a quick, humorless laugh. "I'll let you know when I figure that one out, buddy. Best advice I can give you is to let him know it's okay if he wants to be alone right now, but also make sure he knows he's not really alone. That he can come to you if he needs to. Not much else you can do after that besides wait. Maybe pray, if you're suddenly into that sort of thing..."

Jim huffs. It's not the most complex advice he's ever received. Not by a long shot.

And yet he finds he's grateful to hear it all the same.

Only once Sulu stands again, citing a need to fill his still-empty tray with something a bit more nutritious than Jim's enviable feast, does the Captain consider his friend's initial point more thoroughly. Why hadn't he come to Sulu for parenting advice?

The reality of the situation, of course, is that Jim didn't go to anybody for parenting advice. 

(Not anyone who was born in this particular timeline, anyway.)

Jim's got his reasons, chief among them being the fact that there's no real way to talk about this sort of thing without exposing himself as a shitty father in the process. There's also the seemingly perfect marriage that Sulu has managed to nurture for over a decade — ultimately resulting in a beautiful child who seems determined to keep both of her fathers on their toes at all times. How's Jim supposed to compete with that? 

By the time the helmsman re-approaches the table, tray nearly overflowing with all things boring and nutritious, Kirk has managed to come up with a suitable string of questions relating to the topic at hand. He clears his throat, catching his friend's eye, and asks, "How's the family, then? Ben still teaching at Yorktown...?"

Sulu smirks, eyeing his Captain for a few long seconds, and then slides back into the seat across from him. "He just got promoted, actually. Dean of students. Demora's absolutely obsessed with his new office."

"Dean of students, huh?" Jim echoes, like he's trying out the taste of the words in his mouth. "You must be proud."

When Sulu says, "Very," he has a wistful sort of look in his eye.

It's all too easy for Jim to push his half-empty tray to the side, all thoughts of hunger long gone, and lean forward on his elbows. He can tell by the way Sulu sits up a bit straighter that the helmsman is expecting a lecture of some sort. What he gets instead is a singular, half-aborted sentence: "Y'know, if you wanted..."

To which Sulu, who is still surprising Jim even after more than a decade of friendship, raises a singular silencing hand. "Don't bother," he says, and Jim frowns.

"But what about—"

"I appreciate the thought, Captain, but trust me. Demora's better off where she is. Ben, too. I'm not saying it's easy, being away from them — especially not when the comms get all iffy — but I wouldn't be here if I thought we couldn't handle it as a family."

When all Kirk does is blink and gawk like a fish, Sulu presses onward.

"I won't lie to you. I've thought about it. I've also thought about taking a position at Yorktown..." Sulu pauses, expression wistful, and then fixes his gaze back onto his Captain. "But Demora's got a great group of friends where she is, and Ben's kicking ass at his job, and— I mean, don't get me wrong. I miss them every damn day. But I'd also miss this, if I hadn't said 'yes' when you asked me to come back."

To which the Captain smiles, holding Sulu's gaze for a moment, and says, "I'm damn glad you did, my friend. Not sure I could bring myself to trust another soul at the helm."

They share another smile, eyes twinkling in familiarity, and then proceed to dig into their respective dishes (or what's left of them, in Jim's case). Several minutes of companionable silence pass before Sulu speaks, sounding uncharacteristically hesitant:

"Here's the thing, Jim. I know you didn't ask for my advice. I'm sure you had your reasons for that, and maybe it's none of my business — hell, maybe you should throw me in the brig for even saying this — but... Well. I'm just gonna say it. You can't just expect a kid to tell you what he needs and when he needs it. Especially not one who just lost his mother."

Jim stops breathing for a second, staring at his kind-eyed friend with what he can only assume is an expression of pure mortification on his face. He opens his mouth to speak but Sulu pushes onward before he can utter a syllable.

"We can change the topic right after this," he says. "In fact, I insist that we do. But before that, just— don't forget that he's still a child, all right? Even if he doesn't always act like one."

A few seconds pass before Jim lets out the breath he'd been holding, muttering something under his breath that vaguely resembles a 'thank you.' Then he goes back to stuffing a hamburger into his mouth.

Sulu chuckles, returning his attention to his own meal, and softly says, "Any time, my friend."

✧ ✦ ✧

Kirk rap his knuckles against David's bathroom door twice. He pauses, waiting for an answer that never comes, and then softly murmurs, "Hey, bud. It's me."

No response. 

"David?" the Captain calls out, a bit louder now. He knocks on the door again. Pauses to listen for the boy's voice. When all he hears is silence, Jim adds, "Everything okay in there...?"

Still nothing. Kirk's stomach starts to feel like it's filling up with rocks.

"I'm about to use my override code, David! Please say something now if you'd rather be left alone..."

When nothing but more silence follows, Jim's mind is made up. What other choice does he have? The kid could be seriously injured. With that in mind, Jim murmurs a string of numbers and letters to the computer, waiting on bated breath for several too-long seconds. He nearly hollers in excitement when the door pings.

The sound gets caught in his throat, weighed down by a disarming surge of surprise when the expected wall of heat doesn't slam into Jim's person upon the door sliding open. Some subconscious part of him still associates this room with Spock — still expects to see that neat arrangement of furniture when the door slides open.

What Jim sees instead, however, is a room in disarray.

Items are strewn about everywhere around the place. Loose pages and open notebooks litter the floor. Even the pillows and comforter from the boy's bed have made their way onto the ground. At the center of it all is David, sound asleep in his makeshift nest of blankets. Seemingly unbothered by the still-bright overhead lights shining above him. His rabbit is there amid the clutter, its ratty form lying limp just a few inches from the boy's still-open palm.

It's an adorable sight to behold. It's also more than a little bit concerning.

(And not only because it's barely 1800 and the boy's already fallen asleep.)

"David...?" Kirk calls out, voice soft, as he steps further into his son's quarters. David twitches ever-so-slightly in his sleep when the door slides shut behind Jim. His furrowed brow and half-hearted grunt make it clear that he's still not back in the land of the living. Not fully, anyway.

So Jim tiptoes closer to the boy, kneeling at his feet, and repeats himself.

"David."

The boy is still very much unconscious. That much is abundantly clear. Jim is tempted to leave him just like this, curled in on himself in a sea of blankets, but the angle of David's neck looks... uncomfortable. He's afraid the kid might hurt himself if he stays like that too long.

It takes approximately five minutes and a whole lot of maneuvering to get David back onto the bed without waking him in the process. Jim tries not to get worked up at the weight of him — somehow both so tiny and so big in his arms — and blinks away unwanted tears when his brain decides to wonder what it would've been like to hold David as a baby.

Then he wonders what it would've been like to be there, in person, for every moment and milestone.

He wonders how it might've felt to be something other than a stranger to this boy for the last nine years.

David huffs aloud when he's placed onto the bed, shifting slightly, but he doesn't wake. Jim pulls back a few steps to get a better look at him. His chest swells at the sight of that tiny, innocent face — somehow even younger-looking in sleep — and he feels the sudden urge to run a hand through David's soft, blond curls. To brush them out of the way so he can get a better look at his son's restful visage.

Then David lets out a soft noise of contentment, curling in on himself, and reaches out as if to grab for something.

It's instinct that drives Jim to retrieve the discarded rabbit on the ground.

It's curiosity that inspires him to also grab a loose sheet of paper on his way back up.

Only once Jim has managed to tuck the rabbit under David's arm, his movements slow and purposeful, does he let his eyes scan the contents of the page. Then he moves to sit in a nearby chair, eyes squinted in concentration, and wonders if maybe Bones was right when he said it's 'lunacy' to live in the twenty-third century and not even consider fixing one's farsightedness via medical intervention.

At the very least, Jim's stubborn refusal to wear contacts — paired with his propensity for misplacing his reading glasses on a near-daily basis — has been a major inconvenience. It has led him to many moments just like this one, in which he spends several too-long seconds squinting at the paper in his hands. Wondering whether its contents are truly gibberish, or if his brain is just struggling to put together what little information it has in a way that's half-comprehensible.

Only once he's brought the paper close enough to touch the tip of his nose does Jim decide it's the former. "Computer," he murmurs, voice whisper-soft, as he continues scanning the crumpled page, "What language is this written in...?"

For a few seconds, there's no response. Jim wonders if he wasn't loud enough. Then the computerized voice tells him, 'Language unknown,' and he can't help but frown. Jim's eyes flicker between the page in his hands and the boy tucked into bed just a few footsteps away. He finds himself kneeling on the ground again, fishing through the sea of papers with greedy hands.

Every single page that he holds up to his face is covered in the same indecipherable writing. 

The still-intact notebooks are filled with more gibberish and nonsensical blueprints. Something about the handiwork is... familiar. It captures his attention. Jim can't help but take one of the loose papers with him when he leaves via that same bathroom door a few minutes later.

I'll bring it right back, he thinks pointedly, as if that makes a difference. I just want to see something...

Back in his own quarters, Jim uses his forearm to push the contents of his cluttered desk off to one side. He then places the crumpled page in the newly-cleared space, smoothing it out as best he can with both hands.

Jim stumbles on over to his bed, delirious with excitement, and tugs at the handle of his bedside drawer. The thing groans reluctantly before it opens to reveal a mess of clutter, topped with one familiar note — slightly crumpled and smudged, but still legible. He bounds back over to his desk, smoothing out Carol's letter beside the page of gibberish, and says, "Computer, run a handwriting analysis on these two documents. See if you can tell whether the person who wrote the letter is the same one who wrote... whatever the hell that is. Oh, and scan all available databases for linguistic similarities. Use my security clearance if you have to."

Fifteen minutes and several queries later, Jim is certain of exactly one thing: Carol is the person wrote the indecipherable document. He's not sure what it says, mind you, and he's not sure why she wrote it. He's not even sure how David got his hands on the stuff — much less what he was trying to do before he fell asleep surrounded by it.

When Jim reenters the boy's quarters, tiptoeing around more loose papers, he half-expects to find David awake and furious. In reality, however, the boy is still sleeping soundly. He's still clutching the rabbit close to his slow-moving chest. Jim gingerly places the page back atop the rest of the pile, hoping to god the kid didn't memorize the location of each and every document before zonking out.

"Sleep well, David," he murmurs as he stands once again in the doorway. "I'll see you in the morning."

The responding silence is expected. It still hurts for some reason.

It's two hours and one headache later, once he's all but given up on deciphering the scanned document, that Jim hears a faint sound coming from their shared bathroom. He waits on bated breath for any sign of life, half-convinced that he fabricated the noise in his head, and then the toilet flushes.

Jim stands, practically creeping across his quarters, and hovers right by the sliding door. He can just barely hear the water running when David washes his hands. 

When Jim's knuckles tap against the cool surface of the door, he wonders for a moment if he's making a mistake. Then he remembers what Sulu had said — how you can't expect a kid to tell you when they need help, especially when you're basically a stranger — and his mind is made up for him. "David," he calls out, forcing his voice not to wobble as he speaks, "Can we talk for a minute?"

Several seconds of silence follow. Jim wonders if David can even hear him through the reinforced metal. Then the door slides open, revealing a messy-haired nine-year-old, and Jim has to bite back a laugh. "What do you want to talk about?" David asks, deadpan, and the Captain swallows down his amusement.

"Just— uh. Making sure you're okay. You mind coming in...?"

David hesitates for just a moment before stepping past the threshold, gaze wary. Jim wonders if he'll ever truly gain the boy's trust.

"I wanna respect your wishes, David. I heard you when you said you wanted to be left alone. I just need to make sure— it's important to me that you know I'm not going anywhere. I'll be here if you ever decide you wanna talk, or even just watch me and Mr. Spock play chess. We could watch an Andorian movie with subtitles... whatever you want, kid. All you gotta do is ask.

"It's okay if you change your mind, and it's okay if you don't. That's your decision to make. All I ask is that, if you need my help, you come and ask — or, y'know, send me a comm. I don't care if it's the middle of the night. All I care about is you."

A stretch of silence that feels more like hours than seconds passes between them. Jim sort of forgets how to breathe. Then David nods — just a quick, near-imperceptible movement of the head — and says, "Thank you."

Then he leaves, and Jim decides he needs a drink.

Chapter Text

Contrary to what Bones might tell you, Jim doesn't actually hate Christmas. He wouldn't even say he dislikes it.

If anything, he's... indifferent. To Christmas specifically and to holidays in general. Maybe that's a consequence of his father dying on the very day he was born, or maybe it's got more to do with Frank's insistence upon ruining every family gathering the bastard ever attended throughout Jim's entire childhood. Either way, the point is this: most years, Jim only knows Christmas is right around the corner because of how much everybody else cares about that fact. 

This year, however, is different. One particular member of his crew is making sure of that.

"C'mon now, Captain Grumpy," Gaila says, gesturing for him to step further into her quarters. "You'll let all the hot air out if you keep hovering like that."

So Jim shakes off his apprehension and enters her well-decorated living space. He can't help the way his eyes sweep over the scene, dazzled by a sea of light and color. "Y'know, for someone who wasn't raised on Earth, you sure do love your Terran holidays."

"Of course I do," the Orion easily agrees. Then she fixes her Captain with a look — one that says he's missing something obvious — and somewhat begrudgingly adds, "Jimmy. I've got red hair and green skin. You wouldn't believe how many guys at the Academy made jokes about me sitting on their lap and telling them what I wanted for Christmas. It used to piss me off. Then I figured if I couldn't escape it, I might as well embrace it, which— I mean, you can clearly see that I have."

"Damn," Jim responds, because. Damn. Are all of his fellow men really so... unoriginal? He considers this question as he follows the movement of Gaila's hand all across her living space. "Guess I was an outlier, huh?"

Gaila snorts. "At first I thought you were one," she admits, fixing Jim with another look. "Then you called me 'Carrot Top,' like, twelve times, and I realized you were just... I dunno. A different kind of corny. And maybe a little weird about the holidays."

Jim makes a noise of mock insult, dramatically grabbing at his chest. Gaila just rolls her eyes and gestures for him to sit at the end of her bed.

"Nyota and Chris should be here any minute. You want wine, water, or whiskey...?"

With a gulp, Jim remembers the bitch of a hangover he'd suffered two days prior (after a long night of drinking himself silly to forget how much he sucks at being a Dad). He ends up going for water, earning a knowing look from his far-too-perceptive friend. "We having a girls night or something?" he asks, mostly joking.

Gaila's responding smile is devastatingly sincere. "How'd you guess?"

Both Chapel and Uhura feel the need to gush about Gaila's decorations when they finally arrive. Jim would think they were pushing it, maybe, if Christine weren't such a damn bad liar. There's no way she's faking it when she looks at Nyota, eyes twinkling, and insists, "We need to step up our game."

Then Uhura steps further into the room, gesturing at one of several starry garlands hanging above their heads, and asks, "How cute is this, Chris?"

(Jim's still not entirely sure what's going on between the two of them, though the way Chapel reaches out to lace their fingers together certainly paints a picture.)

"I hope you girls don't mind that I've invited a guest," Gaila murmurs, gesturing to their still-seated Captain. "He just looked like such a lost puppy in the mess, I couldn't help myself."

Chapel makes a quiet sound of surprise at the announcement, quickly tugging her hand away from Uhura's, and Jim suppresses an amused smirk. "Captain, wow!" the blonde announces, clearly struggling to hide her discomfort. "It's, uh— it's been a little while. How are you? How's David?"

"David's good," Jim manages, forcing a smile before he quickly adds, "Y'know, all things considered. He's getting dinner with Mr. Spock tonight, which is why Gaila found me alone in the mess— though I do have to disagree with the 'lost puppy' claim. I wasn't lost! I was simply struggling to figure out whether I wanted soup for dinner, or—"

Nyota interrupts Jim with an exaggerated clearing of her throat, capturing the attention of himself, Gaila, and Chapel all at once. "Haven't you told him the rules, Gaila?"

"The 'rules'?" Jim echoes, eyes darting between all three women. "What—"

This time it's Chapel who interrupts, both looking and sounding a bit more confident when she states, "No disputes during girls night." Which is certainly... new. Jim can confidently say he hasn't heard that one before.

"You just made that up. There's no way—"

All three women speak in unison when they insist, "No disputes during girls night!"

Holy shit, Jim thinks, eyes darting between the faces of his three attackers. This is a goddamn ambush.

But by then, it's far too late for him to escape.

As he looks between his three so-called 'friends,' stomach churning with unease, Jim gets the feeling he won't be sticking to just water for long.

"You know," Jim slurs, nearly spilling his wine when he leans forward to catch everyone's attention. "Last I checked, there's more than three women on this ship. Like, a lot more. How the hell does this constitute as 'girls night'?"

Gaila giggles beside him, taking a quick sip of her drink. She waits until Jim meets her gaze to say, "This is our off-shoot."

"Your... off-shoot?"

It's Chapel who adds, "We divested," as if that explains anything.

Before Jim can ask for clarification, however, Uhura says, "We used to do it by floor. Everything was going fine 'til Rand decided to become a literal tyrant—"

"You can say the word 'bitch,' you know," Gaila pipes in, laughing into her drink when Nyota holds up a hand to silence her.

"—and instate a time cutoff. I mean, seriously! Who ever heard of girls night having a cutoff?"

Every single one of them, Jim included, is slurring their words like a motherfucker. The ladies are talking over one another, all providing examples of the yeoman's apparent misgivings. Speaking as if everything they say is well-understood fact.

Which, to be fair, it sort of is.

Even Jim, who is admittedly unfamiliar with the ins and outs of 'girls night,' can agree that a cutoff is ludicrous. Why should any one person get to decide just when the festivities end? He says as much, adopting Uhura's verbiage of 'tyrant' — much to Gaila's evident dismay — and earns a sloppy kiss on the cheek from one very intoxicated communications officer for his trouble.  

It's an unknown amount of time later, once Jim has succumbed to his strange desire to be seated on the floor, that Gaila pointedly asks, "See what I mean, ladies?" Then she leans forward to ruffle Jim's sandy hair with slender green fingers, nails scraping deliciously at his skin for just a moment. "I knew he'd be a great addition to girls night. Jimmy Kirk's one of the best shit-talkers I know!"

Then all three women burst into uproarious laughter, filling the room with contagious glee, and Jim doesn't even care that it's at his own expense. He's just happy to be a part of something easy, for once.

Jim listens for a while longer, his head finding its way atop Gaila's thigh, and listens to several seemingly unimportant pieces of gossip from the humming voices that surround him. It's simple stuff, really. Things like how Scotty's only growing out his beard because he lost a bet to Keenser, or the fact that Chekov's latest fling ended after only nine days of being sorta-technically-official.

('She told him the phaser wasn't invented in Russia,' Uhura explains, her tone deadly serious, 'Which it wasn't, obviously, but that's beside the point.')

Kirk is pretty content to remain where he is, fading in and out of consciousness as he bears witness to what is clearly a sacred feminine ritual. He's nearly lulled to sleep by the hum of their voices... the feeling of Gaila's fingers in his hair...

But then the Orion breaks the spell by saying his name out loud: "Jim."

Kirk blinks, slowly bringing the world back into focus, and murmurs, "What...?"

"Christine asked if you already finished wrapping David's presents, or if you need our help. She also said Nyota's, like, scary good with the corners — though I'm pretty sure that was just an excuse to gush about her fingers..."

"Gaila!" Uhura hisses, swatting at her friend good-naturedly. She says something else, too — something Jim can't quite hear over the buzzing in his own ears — and, for at least half a minute, he's lost in his own spiral of exhaustion and guilt (and, against his better judgment, booze). 

"Don't tell me you forgot about presents," Gaila mutters, tone flat like she's being sarcastic. When Kirk doesn't refute the claim, she gasps aloud. The fingers that went still in the Captain's hair tighten, tugging at the strands just slightly, and her human puppet hisses with discomfort. "Jim, oh my god! It's the twentieth!"

"Which means Christmas is still several days awa— ow, Gaila! That's— you're hurting me—"

"That's kinda the point, Jimmy. I'm trying to smack a little sense into you..."

That's when Chapel mutters something under her breath that Jim can't quite hear, earning a hiss of admonishment from her maybe-girlfriend. Then the whole room springs into action.

✧ ✦ ✧

Jim wakes the next morning to find himself tucked neatly into bed, still wearing yesterday's clothes, with a hypo all ready to go on his bedside table. He grunts as he reaches for the thing, reluctantly jabbing it into his neck, and then sighs aloud at the near-immediate release of pressure on his aching skull. Thank god for modern medicine.

Here's the thing: hypos aren't miracle workers. Not by a long shot. That being said, they're certainly better than nothing. Especially considering Jim has no recollection how he got home last night, which can only mean bad things for the state of his stomach. 

It's only once the Captain has forced himself into a sitting position, rubbing at his eyes with two sleep-heavy palms, that he notices an unfamiliar shape in his periphery. He whips his head around in an instant. Rather than the attacker that he expects to find, however, Jim sees a pile of neatly-wrapped presents. He rubs at his eyes again, not entirely certain of his own consciousness.

It's a miracle that he remembers to grab the reading glasses from his nightstand before he wobbles on over to the strange arrangement. Even once the glasses make it onto the bridge of his nose, providing much-needed clarity as he leans forward to examine the pile, Jim has to blink several more times before he can read the nearest label clearly:

To: David

From:

Jim's struck by a vague, foggy memory of himself leaning against this very wall with a booze-happy smile on his lips. He remembers watching through half-lidded eyes as Gaila — or was it Nyota? — maneuvered her way through tying a bow, blissfully unaware of his internal anguish whilst she hummed happily to the soft sound of music he couldn't hear.

"Which one do I write...?"

Jim's pretty sure it's Uhura's voice he remembers hearing next, so soft and patient in her response: "Which what, Jim?"

"In the from spot," he remembers grunting impatiently, grip tightening around the uncapped pen in his hand. "'Do I write 'Jim,' or do I write 'Dad'?"

It all goes a bit fuzzy after that, so Jim can't say for sure what his friend's response was. What he can say, though, is that it clearly wasn't sufficient — as illustrated by the still-empty section on each and every box's label. It seems even girls night can't solve every problem.

Jim's alarm pings then, alerting him to the fact that he's supposed to take David to breakfast in exactly fifteen minutes. He forces himself to look away from the pile of gifts and focuses instead on gathering everything he needs to look even halfway presentable. "Computer. Has David Marcus entered the bathroom via his quarters yet this morning?" he mutters, once again rubbing at his eyes.

"Yes, Captain. David Marcus used the door once at 0715 and again at 0721."

"Cool, thanks. Can you let him know he should go now if he still needs to brush his teeth before breakfast? I'm about to hop in the sonic in, like, five — actually, make that three minutes..."

They join Uhura and Scotty for breakfast in the mess. Jim can't help but notice how Scotty's beard is still very much present — pronounced, even, with how long it's gotten in the thirty some-odd days since he apparently lost a bet with Keenser. 

When Kirk locks eyes with Nyota, he can tell she's thinking of the very same thing. Her eyes say 'watch it,' though they're also twinkling with the slightest hint of mirth. Jim gestures for David to sit in the open seat beside her. Then he slides in beside his chief engineer, fixing the man with a smile, and says, "Long time no see, Scotty. You've met David, right...?"

"That I have! Nice to see you again, laddie."

David's responding "You, too," is subdued — yet somehow not at all lackluster. His respect for the engineer is clear as day. Even more evident is his respect for Lieutenant Uhura, who gets a full-on, "Good morning, Lieutenant." Jim's relatively certain there are stars in the boy's blue eyes.

Then the pair of them begin talking about some Andorian movie. Jim turns back to Mr. Scott, utterly uninterested in that particular subject at this early hour, and amusedly asks, "How's our girl doing?"

"She's lovely, Captain. Just lovely."

Jim can just barely make out the sound of David's hushed tone when the boy asks, "Who are they talking about?"

Nyota's soft response is too quiet for Jim to hear, though the boy's quiet snickering certainly suggests it was funny. Jim elects to focus again on Scotty — who, mind you, is still very much gushing about the current state of the Enterprise — whilst also pointedly avoiding looking at his beard. Though the hair on Scotty's head has gone salt-and-pepper in the years since Jim first met the man, the majority of what grows out of his face now has managed to remain astoundingly orange. Which is fine, usually (Jim's always privately thought it was pretty damn cool) though not so much for a guy who is clearly trying to be inconspicuous about having lost a bet — and to the officer who once lost so many credits gambling during shore leave that the casino gave him some back, no less. 

Jim hadn't known that was a thing until he met Keenser. The guy is that bad with any and all forms of currency.

(Which, mind you, is common knowledge amongst the crew of the Enterprise — especially Scotty, who could probably be common-law married to the Roylan in the eyes of the 'fleet if he wanted. There's really no excuse to lose a bet against such a damn horrible bluffer.)

"So, David," Jim hears Uhura say, tugging the Captain out of his thought spiral, "What d'you want for Christmas? Anything special...?"

The boy shrugs. "Not really." He pauses for a few seconds, eyes darting between all three of his tablemates. He turns his gaze back onto his half-empty plate before he softly adds, "I don't think I'm supposed to tell you what I asked for. Then Father Christmas won't bring it."

Jim locks eyes with Nyota over the table. He mouths the words, 'Father Christmas?,' more than a little bit flabbergasted to learn that such a precocious nine-year-old still believes in the fabled figure also known as Santa. He himself gave up on that whole ordeal around age six — though, in truth, that had more to do with a sixteen-year-old Sam's utter inability to lie convincingly than anything else.

"Aye, Laddie," Scotty says, sparing them all before the silence can stretch its way into too long territory, "I think that's only for wishes on birthdays."

David shrugs, blinking up at his father, and oh-so-seriously states, "I'd rather not risk it."

Jim nods, holding the boy's gaze, and says, "That sounds very... logical. I'm sure Mister Spock would be proud."

✧ ✦ ✧

They arrive on Xylos just two days before Christmas. The planet, which is home to a little under one billion individuals (the majority of them members of the native Xyl species), is a newly-appointed member of the Federation. Jim has been tasked with providing their first routine shipment of goods and medicine — given in exchange for unrestricted access to the planet's plentiful mineral deposits (which, if you ask him, is hardly a fair trade for the Xyl — especially when you consider the rumor that their home planet is just teeming with dilithium).

Kirk has also been tasked with schmoozing his damn ass off, though that part of the assignment is less official. He's learned to read it in the fine print of nearly every 'fleet memo that comes across his desk these days. It's a whole thing.

"It's an honor to make your acquaintance, Li-Xyl," the Captain says, extending one hand in greeting. He just barely manages to disguise his shock when he's pulled in for a tight embrace instead of a handshake. Jim startles at the strange, slimy texture of Xyl skin against his own — and damn if it isn't just as unsettling as all the reports said it would be. His voice wavers ever-so-slightly when he adds, "Thank you for welcoming us onto your beautiful planet."

"The honor is ours, Captain Kirk," Li responds, their tone low and robotic (the same way all alien tongues sound through the Universal Translator, Jim reminds himself, though this one feels uniquely... inhuman, somehow). "It has come to our attention that a day of much cultural importance soon awaits your crew. Is this accurate?"

Jim almost snorts aloud in response. The Xyl representative isn't wrong, per se — even a decidedly unfestive individual like himself can admit that Christmas is 'a day of much cultural importance,' in the grand scheme of things — but they also aren't strictly... right. Not with how sincere Li's expression looks, anyway.

"We call it 'Christmas,'" Kirk says through gritted teeth, hoping he sounds a bit more excited than he feels internally. "The origins are religious, though the majority of those who celebrate these days are more focused on togetherness and rest than they are honoring any particular doctrine. There's also a tradition of gift-giving, which I'm sure our resident Vulcan here would consider 'highly illogical.'"

To Jim's surprise, Spock makes a quiet sound in protest beside him. "Much to the contrary, Captain. My mother greatly enjoyed indulging in eight consecutive days of gift-giving in keeping with Jewish tradition. As such I would argue that one day of celebration is, in actuality, quite modest. Perhaps even understated."

It's a joke in the most Spock way possible. Jim has to bite at the insides of his cheeks just to stop from laughing aloud.

They go on for a while longer, just chatting about the holiday and about the recent shipment as Li-Xyl takes them through the corridors of a stark white building. Only once the Xyl representative has dropped them off at their respective rooms, clarifying their intent to return after a short period of rest (as is customary on Xylos in the late afternoon), does Jim turn to his first officer and ask, "How did I not know your mother was Jewish...?"

"I suppose I did not find it relevant to inform you of such a fact. We were mere acquaintances at the time of her death."

Jim hums, leaning down to unzip his boots, and softly admits, "My Mom's Jewish, too." When Spock's face betrays interest, he adds, "Though she's not much into holidays. Or religion, for that matter. We probably did more for Christmas than we ever did Chanukah — which isn't saying much at all, mind you, but... yeah. I'm pretty sure that's true."

Spock raises a brow, clearly intrigued, but says nothing. Jim itches to change the subject.

"What kinda gift do you give a Vulcan kid for the holidays, anyway? An encyclopedia?"

"On occasion, yes, I did receive encyclopedias. My mother's gifts were always quite practical. Though my father did not participate in the tradition directly — arguing, as you inferred earlier, that the routine giving of gifts was wholly illogical — it was obvious that she sought his input throughout the process."

The description fills Jim with a strange sort of warmth in his chest. He can't help but wonder: Is it possible to miss something you never had? Is it possible mourn a woman you hardly even met?

(And, if the answer is 'yes,' then what the hell is he meant to do about it?)

"Do you still observe?" the Captain asks, though he's pretty sure he already knows the answer. "I mean, y'know— since your Mom...?"

"My father has taken to contacting me on even the most obscure of holy days. Though we do not speak of her nor her faith directly, I am certain this pattern is intentional."

Grief mixes with exhaustion and jealousy in the pit of Jim's stomach.

How is it that Sarek, who is by all accounts a full-blown Vulcan hard-ass — though you didn't hear that from Jim — more capable of extending grace to his adult son than Winona Kirk ever was for either of her still-developing children? And how is it that, in the majority of Jim's earliest memories, the mother-shaped void is more often than not filled by Sam (if anyone at all)?

The familiar desire to lash out tickles at the back of Jim's neck. "I'm starting to think that whole 'afternoon nap' idea isn't half bad," he says, mostly to avoid giving himself time to think of something meaner. Spock manages to get the hint for once, which is in itself a bit of a miracle. He's already halfway to the door when Jim adds, "I dunno about you, but I'm beat."

(It's sloppy and they both know it, but Spock lets it slide.)

"Rest well, Captain. I shall wake you when we are expected for this evening's feast."

Then Jim's alone, feeling like an asshole and a failure and a lost little boy all at once. When faced with the decision of whether to dwell on that thought — plus about a million others that will inevitably creep in, once he lets the floodgates open — or succumb to the sweet surrender of sleep, he's all too quick to choose the latter.

His subconscious rewards him with a flurry of dreams that are about as nonsensical as they are terrifying.

Chapter Text

Jim is looking at Sam.

Jim is looking at his big brother — his hero, his best friend, and just about the closest thing he's ever had to a father — through a thick pane of glass. Sam is standing opposite him on the other side, eyes boring into Jim's, and he looks wise beyond his years in the worst possible way. The emotion behind his expression is near-impossible to read.

Then the younger Kirk boy asks, 'Where are you going?,' and the facade cracks. Just slightly.

'I'm, uh... I'm leaving, buddy.'

'Okay,' Jim responds, smiling toothily. His brother's always up to something awesome these days — most of it far too advanced for an eleven-year-old kid to understand — but sometimes, if Jim's good and doesn't rat him out to Mom, Sam will reward his brother with a souvenir or a story once he's home. 'When will you be back? Do Mom and Frank know about it?'

But Sam just shakes his head, stepping back once, then twice — and, all too soon, the older boy is engulfed in darkness completely. His voice is just barely audible when he says, 'I'm sorry, Jimmy. Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone.' Jim lets out a soft, broken cry before practically throwing himself at the glass, face pressed against its cool surface. He attempts to discern the shape of his brother through the thick, black darkness, but to no avail.

'Sam!' Jim cries, voice hoarse, as he slams his fists against the glass. 'Where are you going...? Sam? Sammy, come back! Please! If you have to go, please take me with you!'

It isn't until a snot-faced, teary-eyed Jim pulls away, still staring into the darkness, that he realizes the pane of glass he'd been pressing himself against isn't normal glass at all. It's a mirror. Jim watches with wide-eyed horror as his own face fades into view — only thinner and more gaunt, like he hasn't had a good meal in weeks. He locks eyes with the almost-Jim figure opposite him, opening his mouth to ask if the imposter knows where Sam went—

And then his other self lets out a blood-curdling scream.

"Captain."

Jim shoots up in bed, the ghost of a gasp just barely remaining within the cradle of his lips. He can tell from the way Spock pronounces his title that the Vulcan is... concerned. "M'here," he grunts sleepily, rubbing at still-squinting eyes, "I just— I need a second to wake up..."

"Li-Xyl will be arriving in approximately nine point oh-six minutes, Sir. I must insist that you remove yourself from your bed."

"'Sir,'" Jim echoes with a snort, though he dutifully swings both legs over the bed's rounded edge. Then he catches Spock's eye, smirking with no small amount of self-satisfaction when he notices the Vulcan's gaze flicker to his bare chest for the briefest of seconds. "What's the dress code for a feast on Xylos, anyway? Will anyone care if I'm still in my tunic?"

"The doctor beamed down onto the planet whilst you and the Xyl were resting. He brought each of our dress uniforms upon my request. You will find yours hanging in the closet to my left."

Jim can't help but smile from ear to ear at his first officer's admission. "How thoughtful of you both, Mr. Spock," he coos, finally meeting the Vulcan's gaze head-on. Then he gestures down to his still-covered lower half with a Vulcanesque flick of the brow and adds, "Now, unless you're in the mood for a show..."

Spock's all too quick to turn on his heel then, the skin on the back of his neck looking slightly greener than usual. "I will return shortly, Captain," he states — short and simple — and then he's gone. Jim pauses for just a moment before letting out a loud, dramatic sigh. He forces himself to stand and move away from the bed. Sure enough, when he opens the closet, he finds a familiar green garment waiting for him there.

"Damn dress uniform," Kirk grumbles, hoping to god that Bones isn't planning to join them for dinner. He's already heard enough quips about the deeper-than-usual neckline to last him a lifetime (if not multiple), and after the day he's had, he's not sure he could take it without getting in a few lashes of his own.

Li-Xyl personally escorts the Enterprise's command team all the way to the banquet hall. Jim and Spock walk a step or two behind the representative all the while, exchanging the occasional confused glance as distant sights, scents and sounds tug at their attention.

At some point Jim hears a familiar tune — something he can't quite put his finger on — and he finds himself wishing Uhura had been allowed to join them. No one can put a name to a song quite like her, after all, and he'd rather not spend the next who-knows-how-long racking his brain for that pesky information when he's got a better option one transporter beam away.

It's as he's considering this fact that the Captain is bombarded by the sudden and all-consuming scent of pine all around him. "What's that?" he asks, once again locking eyes with Spock behind Li-Xyl's back, but the Vulcan looks about as confused as Jim feels (and Li-Xyl doesn't seem eager to speak up, either). The music gains more and more clarity as they move towards the banquet hall. It keeps getting closer and louder until all at once Jim is hit by a strange yet obvious revelation: "This is a Christmas party."

"Captain," Spock prods beside him, eyeing Kirk like he expects to find some sign of illness. "Are you unwell? The Christmas party is scheduled for—"

"I'm talking about the music, Mr. Spock! Don't you know 'Blue Christmas'?"

The Vulcan, perhaps predictably, shakes his head. "I can assure you this tune is unfamiliar to me."

It takes every ounce of self-control within Jim to refrain from letting out an amused snort. The truth of the matter is that Xyl instruments have the strangest twang to them which, when coupled with the equally off-putting warble of the live singer's voice, creates an effect that is —ahem— entirely its own. Who's to say that, if Spock had heard the song, he'd even recognize it in this form? It doesn't help that the performer has elected to forgo the Universal Translator entirely, resulting in a final product which sounds more like gibberish than Federation Standard.

(The only reason Jim is able to recognize the tune, mind you, is due to his childhood fixation on the early twenty-second century music group, Third Contact. Their upbeat cover of the classic crooning ballad was and is the only Christmas song he's ever been able to sit through without wanting to tear out his hair in the process.)

"Well, it's no 'All I Want For Christmas Is You,'" the Captain allows, still breathing in the too-strong scent of pine. Then he pauses, fixing his first officer with a playful squint, and softly adds, "You do know that one, don't you?"

"Yes, Captain. I am quite familiar."

Kirk's mind flashes then, conjuring the faintest memory of a very intoxicated Uhura singing that exact song into the wrong end of a hairbrush whilst pointing at her flustered girlfriend only a few nights prior. If he recalls the situation correctly (which, mind you, is a pretty big 'if'), he and Gaila were cheering excitedly in response all the while. Chapel sat mere inches away — red-faced and squealing like a cornered animal — and begged very unconvincingly for the torture to end.

Suddenly, Jim has a pretty good idea of why Spock's so familiar with that particular tune. He wonders if Nyota was any easier on the Vulcan than she is on Chapel now.

"Captain?" the Xyl representative prods from further down the hallway, tearing Jim away from his errant thoughts.

"Let's go before we lose him in a sea of slug-people," Kirk murmurs, just barely loud enough for his first officer to hear over the music. Spock lets out the quietest exhale of air through his nose — somehow deeply disapproving, despite its lack of specificity — and then Jim's being led further into the commotion by a not-so-gentle grip on his forearm. 

"Captain, I implore you to refrain from offending our hosts this evening," the Vulcan says, tone soft as ever, as they move together behind Li-Xyl. Jim almost makes a comment about how Spock really does care after all — and how sweet is that? — but then his first officer opens that stupid, pretty mouth of his and adds, "I do not wish to ruin David's Christmas with news of your capture."

Jim nearly chokes on his own breath in a mixture of shock and delight. He just barely manages to keep his own voice below a hiss when he asks, "What's gotten into you, Mr. Spock? You're all jokes these past few days!"

Then Spock softly suggests, "Perhaps I have been imbued with the holiday spirit," and Jim has to fake-cough into the crook of his elbow just to disguise an elated giggle.

The food on Xylos is even slimier than the people, which is (unfortunately) saying a whole lot.

Jim struggles to chew through his current mouthful. He struggles even more to disguise that fact. Vulcan stoicism makes it near-impossible for him to tell, just by looking at his first officer seated across from him, whether he's alone in that struggle — though Kirk can't imagine that anyone, outside of maybe the Xyl themselves, could find the texture of the not-actually-meat even somewhat palatable.

In an unfortunate turn of events (for Jim's ego, anyway), Bones is also present at the feast. The only reason he's not actively making quips about his best friend's attire is because he, too, is struggling to scarf down the not-so-appealing dish. Jim finds he can't be too concerned with the source of the momentary respite when it gives him a break from the constant references to his supposed 'bosoms.'

(It's not even that low of a neckline, Jim wants to argue, though he knows it's ultimately futile; Bones has heard it all before. If Jim's learned anything in their many years of friendship, it's that nothing he says can stop the cranky bastard once he's gotten started.)

The Xyl to Jim's left leans toward him just slightly, their slim figure bending oh-so-gracefully with the action, and speaks in that same stilted, robotic tone as their representative: "You are in possession of unfathomable beauty."

Jim just barely notices the way Spock's posture stills out of the corner of his eye. He can't turn to look at the Vulcan — preoccupied as he is with calculating his own reaction to an apparent attempt at seduction — but he hopes that the way his own back and shoulders straighten will be answer enough to Spock's unspoken question. "Thank you, Ud-Xyl," he manages once he's swallowed yet another slimy mouthful, cringing internally all the while, "Your hair length is quite... impressive. How long did it take you to grow?"

Kirk wonders, as he so often does in this goddamn line of work, how exactly he's meant to say 'no' without risking a diplomatic incident in the process. It's a dilemma he can't seem to escape from no matter how hard he tries. His own personal Kobayashi Maru.

Bones is blissfully unaware of the exchange, speaking animatedly with the Xyl beside him about something nerdy and boring (probably). Jim's forced to turn his gaze onto Spock, who is staring down at his own plate, and use the telepathy he doesn't have to ask for a little help.

C'mon, genius. Use that big Vulcan brain of yours to save me from this torture.

Jim finally catches Spock's eye whilst Ud is preoccupied with ordering themself another drink. The Vulcan raises his brow inquisitively, eyes darting between his Captain and the overly-affectionate alien. Jim offers the subtlest shake of his head in response. No, Mr. Spock, he adds inside of his own head, wishing for just a moment that they were close enough to touch. It'd be so much easier if Spock could just read his thoughts. I most definitely don't want to get down and dirty with this or any other Xyl. Please don't leave me with them.

For a second, the Vulcan doesn't react. Then he nods dutifully, gaze flittering back to his barely-touched dish. He gets that look on his face — the one that tells Jim his favorite Vulcan is running about a million calculations all at once inside of his too-vast mind — and Kirk hopes to god they don't end up with another lashing from the brass when all of this is said and done. That might actually be the final nail in the coffin for crew morale.

"... ain't that right, Jimmy?" Bones prods, bringing Kirk out of his momentary daze.

The Captain locks eyes with his suddenly-unreadable CMO and hopes to god he isn't agreeing to something heinous when he says, "That's right."

Bones smirks like he knows exactly what's going on in his best friend's head. "Our Captain here is a real go-getter," he explains, earning several interested hums from their fellow feast-goers. "So I'm sure whatever Ud-Xyl has planned will be just fine with him."

The only reason Jim doesn't try and kick the Doctor under the table is that he can't fully trust his own aim. It'd be easier, maybe, if the Xyl only had two legs each — but alas. It's a damn circus under there.

The rest of dinner goes off without a hitch — other than the still-horrid texture of the food, anyway. Jim's still smiling at the server who takes away his not-so-empty plate, hoping his tried and true method of 'spreading shit around' will be enough to avoid offending their guests with how little food he actually consumed. Then he feels a slimy hand on his shoulder. He tries not to shudder as something moist seeps into the fabric of his dress shirt.

"Captain," Li-Xyl coos, addressing Kirk with the same intonation one might use for an old friend. When Jim turns to face the alien, he's not-so-pleasantly surprised to find his dinner partner, Ud-Xyl, standing just a few steps behind them. He's even more displeased when Li-Xyl goes on to say, "I see you have already met my son-daughter, Ud-Xyl. They are quite interested in your crew's upcoming celebration."

"Is that so?" Jim tries, his eyes searching for Spock and Bones amid a sea of slimy somebodies — but to no avail. Defeated, Jim turns back to the pair. He fakes yet another smile before he adds, "What is it about Christmas that intrigues you?"

"Everything!" Ud-Xyl exclaims, eyes wide and earnest. "Oh, Captain Kirk! You must celebrate on Xylos! We have accommodations for all who wish to join us in celebration of the brothers Christ and Nicholas!"

Suddenly, Jim's glad that his asshole of a best friend is nowhere to be found. He's not sure he could keep from laughing out loud if they were to lock eyes at this particular moment (because, seriously? Christ and Nicholas?). It's not like he can even blame the poor Xyl, either. Not when the lore of the Terran holiday is tangled together in knots of religion and culture and kitsch, spanning several centuries and spread across planets. It's probably quite difficult for an outsider to parse.

The thing, though, is that funny is funny. Jim can't deny that it's goddamn hilarious.

"That's very generous of you, Ud-Xyl," he manages, digging his fingernails into the skin of his palm just to keep the laughter at bay, "My crew has been needing a rest for some time now. I'll have to talk to some people before I can give you a definitive answer, but god willing..."

"Very well," the Xyl says — only this time, their voice lacks that robotic lilt the Captain has come to expect. Jim realizes the excited alien must actually have spoken aloud in Standard, rather than their native tongue being filtered through the universal translator. It's almost impressive enough to make up for the sliminess. Almost. "How are you finding your accommodations? Did you partake in our afternoon rest?"

This time, Jim's smile is genuine. "I did, actually. It's been a long time since I napped, but I think my body was glad for it. I haven't been getting enough rest lately."

At which point the alien's expression goes from interested completely blasphemed. "Rest is most sacred, Captain! You mustn't neglect your own health."

"You sound a lot like my doctor, you know. He's always saying that same thing."

"Perhaps it is a sign that you should listen," Ud-Xyl says. Their voice is entirely devoid of judgment.

Jim grumbles his agreement. Then he looks right at Ud-Xyl, hoping his tone and expression show the depths of his gratitude, and adds, "I should be leaving soon. I need to return to my ship for the night, and—"

Ud-Xyl makes a quiet sound of protest, stopping Jim short. They sound vulnerable (if not a bit pathetic) when they ask, "Are your accommodations unsatisfactory, Captain Kirk? Has our emulation of your sacred tradition caused offense...?"

Jim shakes his head, smiling politely at the Xyl, and says, "No, no. Nothing like that! It's just that my son's only nine, and I'd rather not leave him alone—"

"You and the Commander have a child of nine years?" Ud-Xyl questions, their face splitting into an eerie sort of grin that makes Jim's stomach drop. "I have a small brother-sister of ten years! Perhaps the pair can meet before your ship departs."

"Perhaps, yeah," Jim says, realizing too late just what the Xyl's initial question implies. Instead of acknowledging that fact, however, he pushes onward: "I'll, uh— I'll have to see what my boy thinks. In the meantime, however, I should note that Commander Spock and Doctor McCoy have elected to remain planetside tonight. I trust that your wonderful accommodations will leave them both well-rested for our late morning feast."

✧ ✦ ✧

Jim can admit that he's glad to be able to eat something halfway normal for breakfast in the morning. He sits opposite David in the dining hall, relishing in the sheer absence of slime on his tray, and wonders if maybe he should sneak something edible back onto the surface with him when he goes down in less than an hour.

"You excited for tonight, David?"

The boy hums around a mouthful of pancakes. He takes several seconds to chew and swallow, adjusting his grip on the rabbit tucked under his arm, then says, "I just hope Father Christmas will be able to find me. Nurse Chapel said he still comes to starships and I shouldn't worry about it, but what if he doesn't know I left Regula I? What if he brings my presents there instead?"

"He'll know," Jim says in a tone that conveys far more confidence than he actually feels inside. "That's his whole thing. He just knows stuff. Like if you've been bad or good, or if you're up past your bedtime..."

"That's true," the boy allows, poking at his food.

Before Jim can say anything more, they're approached by none other than Gaila and Uhura. It's the Orion who speaks first, smile wide: "Merry Christmas everybody! Oh, David, you must be so excited!"

She barely leaves any time between words. Jim finds it harder to breathe just hearing her.

Nyota snorts, shooting the boy a look, and says, "I think she had one too many candy canes on the way here."

"Did not! I'll have you know that I'm naturally merry. It's, like, my default state."

"Really, Gaila? If Chris were here right now, you know she'd say—"

Jim clears his throat then. Three pairs of eyes lock onto him at once. "You ladies planning on joining us, or are you just here to hover and bicker?" He keeps his tone purposefully light, not wanting David to think him hostile.

"Must we choose?" Nyota counters playfully, though she turns her attention onto the nine-year-old a moment later. "I hope you don't mind, David. I just thought, since you're spending the morning with me..."

David offers a shy smile and a shake of his head, mumbling something that sounds like, "That's fine," and then goes back to moving food around on his plate. Gaila and Uhura leave to fill up their trays, abandoning Jim with his son once more, and the Captain starts to wonder if maybe he should verbally confirm that David is allowed to say 'no' if he's uncomfortable or overwhelmed.

It's just so hard to tell the difference between a kid being shy, and a kid being scared shitless. Especially a kid Jim barely knows. How's he supposed to read between those lines in a way that's even somewhat accurate?

"How're the pancakes?" he asks instead of acknowledging his own worry. 

Another shy smile. "They're delicious."

"I'm glad to hear it, bud. You can have the rest of my syrup if you want it."

David is all too quick to reach across the table, taking his father up on the offer. Jim watches with thinly-veiled envy as the boy drenches his food in sugary sweetness, cursing Bones for being the kind of doctor who cares enough to whoop his ass at Jim's next physical. Jim can hear it clear as day in his mind — 'You're not twenty-five anymore, kid! How many times do I gotta say it?' — and he has no desire to be lectured on the merits of healthy eating yet again. Not today.

Once both of the ladies are back (and once Jim has gotten himself another cup of coffee from the replicator), they break into two separate discussions. David and Nyota, as per usual, begin nerding out about Andorian shit. Jim catches Gaila's eye, offering a look of fake exasperation, and says, "Thanks for the other night, by the way. I haven't had that much fun in a long time."

The Orion's eyes glisten. "Neither have I," she admits softly, fixing Jim with a long, hard-to-decipher look. "You used to be an angrier drunk, you know. Back in the old days."

"Who, me?" Jim muses, bringing the steaming mug to his lips.

"Now you're like a docile little lamb, just stumbling around. It's kind of adorable."

Jim rolls his eyes, not at all interested in listening to that line of thought any further. Instead, he says, "You'll love this," and then begins describing in detail the fever dream of a Christmas party he was forced to endure the night before. By the end of his description Gaila is nearly vibrating with excitement, so clearly envious of her colleagues for having experienced such a display firsthand, and Jim knows before she even opens her mouth that she'll be begging to be beamed down at the soonest possible chance.

But then Gaila asks, "Were they hot?," throwing Jim for a loop (though only slightly — it is Gaila, after all).

"Not at all. You can see for yourself, maybe, if I take them up on their offer to host a celebration for 'the brothers Christ and Nicholas.' Though I'd strongly advise against it if you're at all averse to slime. My dress shirt's basically ruined. I brushed my teeth three times last night and twice this morning, and I swear my throat's still coated in a layer of yuck."

It's only once he hears Nyota's amused snort, followed by a flat, "That was descriptive," that Jim realizes his audience of one has tripled in size.

He's about to ask how much of that the other two heard when David excitedly exclaims, "I'd like to come!"

And what's Jim supposed to do? Flat-out say 'no'? He's far too much of a sucker for that. Plus it's Christmas and, Grinch-like tendencies aside, Jim's not a cruel man. He doesn't want to steal Christmas. He just wants to make sure everyone's safe and happy. Especially his kid.

"It'd have to be the day after tomorrow," he says — not exactly a concession, though it's not difficult to find the line between points A and B and extrapolate from there. "And I have to request approval from the brass before we can say anything for sure. We're due a shore leave, but I'm not exactly their favorite right now—"

Gaila interrupts him to ask, "Is that a yes, a no, or a maybe?"

"Well, if you'd let me finish—"

This time it's Nyota who asks, "Did they speak with the UT? I'd imagine the structure of their vocal cords makes Standard particularly difficult."

"Guys, please," Jim all but begs, eyes flickering between both of his colleagues. "I've gotta beam down in, like, ten minutes if I'm going to make it in time for the feast. I promise I'll let you both hound me as much as you like later this evening, but for now let's keep the questions to a minimum."

"Sorry," both ladies say in unison, sharing a bemused look, and Jim has to pinch at the bridge of his nose to refrain from exploding like a madman. He's either had far too much coffee or not nearly enough of the stuff.

Jim locks eyes with his son then, chest flooding with a strange and unfamiliar warmth when he sees the amusement reflected there. He can't help but smile wide, laughing a bit at himself now, before saying, "You guys would be on edge, too, if you spent the night surrounded by slug people. I swear their skin is like... I don't even know. The best way I can describe it is 'wet peanut butter.'"

David laughs then, bright and honest, and Jim feels like he won the damn lottery. "Now I've really got to see this!" the kid exclaims, radiating a boyish sort of excitement that Jim hasn't felt in years. Decades, even. It's equal parts strange and exhilarating.

Suddenly, Jim Kirk is determined to get a 'yes' from the Admiralty at all costs — his dignity included. He'll do just about anything to once again be the recipient of that amused gaze. To be the reason David can't help but smile.

He's just under five minutes late by the time he makes it to the transporter room for beam down.

Chapter Text

At first, when Jim enters the banquet hall, all he can make sense of is the fact that Bones is visibly pissed. He's giving his Captain the full-on dagger eyes. Grumbling annoyances under his breath. Making it abundantly clear that Jim's tardiness is far from appreciated. "Nice of you to finally join us, Jimmy," he says, words warm — yet spoken in a tone as cold as ice.

Must he always be so damn contradictory? Doesn't it start to get old at some point?

"Sorry I'm late," Jim greets the room sheepishly. His eyes quickly scan each Xyl face for signs of genuine insult. When he comes up with nothing, he softly adds, "There were some... unforeseen circumstances that required my attention, back on the ship. I hope you weren't waiting too long..."

Bones grumbles something else that Jim can't hear, face all screwed up like he swallowed a damn lemon, and the Captain suppresses the urge to sigh. He slides into the open seat beside his CMO with as much grace as he can muster. Then, whilst pointedly avoiding eye contact with the cranky bastard, he reaches into his right pocket and procures a slightly-smushed, though thankfully still napkin-wrapped muffin. He hands it to Bones under the table, still not acknowledging the doctor, and focuses instead on Li-Xyl's animated description of a 'fleet mining apparatus.

"The machine was quite large!" the representative says (with enough excitement that the UT manages to pick it up and pass it along, despite the language barrier). Several of their colleagues hum in interest. "It had an arm extending from its head which moved in all directions..."

It's a minute or two before McCoy leans in close to Jim's side, grumbling the quietest, "Thanks." His voice is just barely audible over the hum of Xyl excitement. 

Jim smirks, meeting his friend's eye for just a fraction of a second, and whispers, "Don't say I never did anything for ya." Then he focuses on Li-Xyl once again. Tries to remember how to look like he cares even a little bit about what someone else is saying.

(Which has never been his strong suit. Not with a topic as dull as fucking mining, anyway.)

But when the other Xyl begin to pipe in, asking oh-so-entertaining (and often outlandish) questions about what can only be described as a routine mining operation, Jim soon realizes he doesn't need to feign interest. The Xyl, for all their sliminess, are a fascinating people. They've got a planet rich with minerals, many of them quite valuable, and yet their highest-ranking officials are mystified by the most basic of resource-gathering techniques. How could he not be the slightest bit endeared?

So Jim leans forward in his seat, smiling like an idiot, and listens. He even takes a few bites of his slimy breakfast for good measure, focusing on everything other than taste and texture to avoid regurgitating the stuff in the process.

Later, once their plates are cleared and they no longer need to pretend Xyl food isn't actively gag-inducing, Jim's pulled aside by none other than Spock. "Captain," he says, voice soft yet somehow also brimming with urgency. Jim wonders if he missed something major. Then the Vulcan continues, "Might I ask what you delivered to the doctor?," and Jim realizes that's just how Spock sounds when he's trying very much to ignore his slimy surroundings.

So Jim tries for nonchalance. Key word being tries. "Oh, that...? I was just, uh— they're serving muffins in the mess today, and I felt bad remembering how miserable he looked during last night's dinner, so... y'know..."

"You brought the doctor a muffin," Spock murmurs, and it's not a question. Not really.

"Yes...?" Jim tries, unsure of how else to respond. "It was chocolate chip." He pauses for several more seconds, assessing the Vulcan's face, and then softly adds, "Should I have gotten you one, too?"

"I do not believe that the contents of that particular pastry would pair well with my primarily-Vulcan genetic makeup."

"Huh," Kirk breathes. "I guess you have a point there."

The last thing that anyone needs at this particular juncture is a tipsy Vulcan. Though, now that Jim thinks about it, this whole strange, slimy morning is essentially a glorified brunch — in which case a display of drunkenness would be par for the course. A matter of tradition, even.

Jim bites back the urge to chuckle when he silently concludes that maybe, just maybe, he should've grabbed that second muffin after all. Maybe a bit of public intoxication is just what they need to round off this strange, slimy experience once and for all.

In lieu of such a Christmas miracle, however, Jim will settle for getting the hell off this damn planet.

"Kirk to Enterprise. Three to beam up."

The trio's relief is palpable — even Spock's, despite the Vulcan's insistence upon disguising such unVulcan displays at every opportunity. Bones is so excited to get off of Xylos, in fact, that he doesn't even bother with the usual grumbling about having his molecules scrambled. He doesn't threaten to sue the 'fleet for everything they're worth when things inevitably go south, either.

If Jim didn't know better, he'd think the cranky bastard had finally gotten over his irrational phobia. It's almost admirable how Leonard has held onto his distaste for any and all forms of non-traditional transportation, even after spending more than a decade working and living in space. The man uses transporters on a near-daily basis. Never once has he (or any of this patients, for that matter) been turned to mush.  Yet still he insists on worrying himself sick over the 'what if?' and the 'how come?' of it all.

Not today, though. Small miracles.

Jim's smiling to himself when the familiar hum of the transporter surrounds them. It tickles Jim's skin from the inside — just like it always does — and he's sure he'll never fully get used to the feeling. Not when it's stuck around to bother him for so many years already. "I need at least fifteen showers," he announces once they've rematerialized in the transporter room, eyes scanning his friends' faces for signs of amusement (as if that isn't, quite frankly, a fruitless endeavor). "Those Xyl are some slimy motherfuckers."

One of the two ensigns on duty snickers into his palm.

Jim's lip quirks up into a half-smile at the sound of it. At least someone still finds his jokes amusing.

Bones, on the other hand, is far from impressed. He all but whirls on Jim, eyes wild, and says, "That's rich coming from the man who came to breakfast squeaky clean! You've got no idea what Spock and I were up against last night. After you went and disappeared on us, we—"

"'Disappeared,'" Jim echoes flatly, because — seriously? Is that how the doctor interpreted his post-dinner actions?

"Well, you didn't exactly stick around, did ya? One second you were flirting with Li-Xyl's son-daughter, and the next you're missing in action! Never even said 'goodbye.' How am I supposed to describe it?"

"C'mon, Bones. You can't blame me for—"

"I sure as hell can blame you, actually. If you hadn't been so eager to—"

"Gentlemen," Spock interrupts, sounding just the slightest bit amused — though Jim might be projecting on that front; it is Spock, after all, and even Christmas miracles have their logical limits. "I believe you are frightening the ensigns."

And sure enough, when Jim turns to face the two bright-eyed individuals working the transporter, he finds them doing their best impressions of terrified chihuahuas. Shaking and whimpering and staring up a the trio in a strange sort of awe. 

As if they aren't grossly overqualified for their current positions. As if they didn't work their asses off to get a place on the Enterprise.

(And as if one of them wasn't openly laughing at his captain's words less than sixty seconds before.)

Jim mutters his apologies and excuses the pair — noting that there aren't any scheduled transports to nor from the ship until the 26th, and thus their presence isn't needed. He promises to handle the locking up (though, privately, he's already working on how to convince Spock to take on that task in his stead). He sends them off with a few vaguely holiday-themed well wishes and a wide, genuine smile. 

Only once they're truly gone does Jim turn to his friends, shoulders sagging, and announce, "I've got a bad feeling about tonight's party."

"That's called anxiety, kid," McCoy counters. Jim groans.

"We've talked about this, Bones! Anxiety's not the same as intuition. You can't always blame it on that — especially when my intuition is, by all accounts, rock fucking solid. Back me up, Spock."

There's a brief pause in which Jim's life seems to flash before his eyes. He wonders just how horribly he's miscalculated. Is he about to get lectured by two hard-asses at once? Then the Vulcan says, "The very concept of intuition, so far as it is made distinct from one's ability to infer the most likely outcome in any given scenario via deductive reasoning, is entirely illogical. Humans possess no true propensity for foresight, though many, including yourself, would disagree with this truth. However—" Spock draws out the word, earning a quiet huff of amusement from McCoy at his right "—I cannot deny that your rate of accuracy is... anomalous."

"'Anomalous,' huh?"

"I can think of no better description, Captain."

For a few charged seconds, both members of the command team remain motionless with their gazes locked onto each other. The spell isn't broken until Bones pointedly clears his throat and grumbles, "Get a room, you two." Then he pushes past his colleagues and off of the transporter. He fixes Jim with a look that the Captain can't quite read before adding, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got just under thirty-seven minutes to prepare myself for an avalanche of attitude. God only knows what Joanna'll be lecturing me about this time around..."

Then the doctor is leaving — already halfway through the door in a handful of too-short seconds — and all Jim can think to do is call out, "Tell Jojo her favorite uncle says 'hi'! Oh, and Merry Christmas!"

Bones's only response is an annoyed grunt and a vulgar hand-gesture thrown over his shoulder.

The instant they're alone, Jim and Spock lock eyes. They stay like that for a several moments too long, just drinking one another in. Kirk nearly forgets how to breathe. The sound of his own clearing throat is what breaks the spell, tugging him back towards the present, and it's all Jim can do to shake off the strange, inexplicable urge to kiss his first officer on the mouth.

"So, Mr. Spock," he hums instead, following Bones's lead and stepping off of the transporter pad. "You coming to the party tonight...?"

"Indeed, Captain. Did you doubt such a fact? My attendance has been consistent for nearly a decade now."

"That's very true," Jim admits with an awkward chuckle. "And I'm obviously aware of that, considering I've been right there with you. It's just— I guess I always assumed you were humoring Uhura by tagging along for these things. It made sense when you guys were still dating, but now..."

Spock follows Jim's lead, stepping off the transporter pad and eyeing his captain thoughtfully. "You are correct in your assumption that my initial attendance at such functions was fueled not by an inherent sense of holiday spirit — of which I am admittedly lacking — but rather a desire to appease my former mate."

"And now...?"

Spock and Jim step out into the hallway together. Kirk pretends to adjust the sleeves of his tunic, conveniently providing just enough room for Spock to access the entryway controls. He doesn't have to say anything more for the Commander to spring into action with his arms outstretched. "Now," Spock begins, pausing briefly to type a series of numbers onto the wall-mounted touchpad, "I have come to recognize the utility of such events in establishing and maintaining a sense of rapport amongst the members of our crew."

Jim hums, eyes greedily watching the movements of Spock's fingers. 

"First Officer S'Chn T'Gai Spock, clearance verification Alpha Gamma two-two-zero-two," the Vulcan mumbles just loud enough for his Captain to hear. "Computer, activate Starfleet security measure oh-one-two-five for the duration of thirty-three hours and seventeen minutes..." 

"Walk with me?"

Spock doesn't respond verbally to Jim's request. He does, however, fall into step with the human almost immediately. Together they move in the general direction of Kirk's quarters. Neither man says much of anything all the while.

Only once they're a few footsteps away from Jim's door does the human open his mouth to announce, "I've gotta get David in about twenty minutes."

"My apologies, Captain—" Spock starts, already turning on his heel, but Jim stops him with a gentle grip on his wrist. 

"Wait!" he interrupts. Jim tries not to look or sound as desperate as he feels when he insists, "You should come in for a bit. You don't have to stay if you don't want, I just— I have something for you. It'll only take a second."

Spock hesitates for just a moment before he softens and says, "Very well."

In a display of impeccable sportsmanship, the Vulcan then allows himself to be guided into Jim's present-filled quarters. He dutifully sits in one of two seats. Doesn't ask a single question — not even when Jim begins to rifle through his drawers like a madman.

Finally, after what feels like forever, the Captain manages to procure the box he'd been looking for.

"Here," Jim softly announces, holding out the poorly-wrapped gift for his Vulcan to take. "It's for you."

Only once he's received verbal confirmation of Kirk's intention does Spock reach out. He grabs the present — clearly unaccustomed to handling such things — and softly admits, "My father saw no logic in the act of wrapping gifts."

"Oh!" Jim exclaims. "I'm sorry. Should I have nixed the bow?"

With a soft shake of his head, Spock continues, "As a compromise, my mother settled for requesting that I close my eyes whenever presented with a gift. It was her belief that, in the absence of traditional methods, one could replicate the sense of surprise by momentarily depriving one's senses."

Why do I get the feeling she didn't put it quite like that? Jim thinks, but doesn't say out loud. Instead he says, "That's sweet," and is only a little surprised to realize just how much he means it. "She sounds like she was really... thoughtful."

(It's quite the understatement, though Jim's not sure how better to say it.)

"She was," Spock agrees, eyes glued to the still-wrapped box in his hand. "It is my understanding that, according to tradition, gifts are most often exchanged on the holiday itself — rather than the date directly preceding it. Would it not be more appropriate, then—"

"Just open the gift, Spock," Jim interrupts. He watches as the Vulcan's hands gingerly move to tug at one end of the so-called 'bow.' Winces when the thing catches instead of loosening the way it's meant to — the way literally every present bow ever does — and Spock is forced to tear at the string just to gain access to the wrapping paper beneath.

It's a small box, all things considered. Unassuming. Jim can't help but feel anxious as he watches Spock free the thing. He wonders if he's miscalculated. Wonders if this was all a huge mistake. Then Spock frees the box, tossing the remnants of Jim's wrapping into the recycler, and meets his Captain's hesitant gaze. 

"Go on," Jim urges softly.

Spock opens the box. For a moment, time stops. The Vulcan is rendered completely immobile, eyes and mouth both open wide. Jim's stomach fills with dread.

"Was I too presumptuous...? I know it's already the sixth day, and it's not like you said you wanted anything—"

"Jim," Spock interrupts. His voice is impossibly soft. He removes the dreidel from the box, allowing it to rest comfortably in the palm of his hand. Then he meets Jim's gaze with an unfamiliar (yet not unwelcome) intensity and adds, "It is perfect."

"It's— really? You know I didn't, like, make it, right? I just used the replicator."

"It is perfect, Jim," Spock repeats, voice thick with emotion. "It has been far too long since I have partaken in this particular game. Perhaps, if David is amenable, I can teach him to play in the future."

And Jim couldn't stop his smile if he tried. "Only if you teach me, too."

✧ ✦ ✧

When Jim and David first enter the rec room together, it's like time stops. Conversations come to an abrupt end. Sentences fade off into obscurity. Every gaze is on the pair of them at once, and then—

"Merry Christmas, boys!" Gaila exclaims, waving at the pair from her place in-between Scotty and Keenser on their usual couch in the far right corner. "Get your blue-eyed butts over here!"

For whatever reason, the Orion's words break the spell. Time resumes its motion. Jim lets out a quiet snort, exchanging glances with David for a brief moment, and then gestures for the boy to follow him. He speaks out of one corner of his mouth, voice slightly muffled when he says, "I think Scotty and Keenser are fighting again."

"'Again'?" David echoes, sounding interested. Jim nods and slows his pace.

"It always happens around this time of year. Since Roylans traditionally hibernate through the winter, Keenser's body wants to sleep the day away. The ship's climate controls make it unnecessary, though, which leaves him feeling sort of... restless."

David stops in place, regarding his father for several long seconds, then asks, "Didn't you meet him and Lieutenant Commander Scott on an ice planet?" It's almost like he's testing the Captain.

That's when Jim, who can clearly see the through-line between the boy's words and his thoughts, snorts amusedly. "That I did. Between you and me, though, I think the guy was half-asleep at the time. Truth is he's such a workaholic — even more than Scotty, if you can believe it — so I wouldn't be surprised if he lined his uniform with hand-warmers just to keep awake all the while."

It's ironic, really, that when they pick up the pace again — swerving through a sea of bodies with only Jim's hand on David's elbow to connect them — they end up bearing witness to Keenser's infamous drunken dancing. So much for being a workaholic, Jim thinks, though it doesn't escape his mind that the small-statured man is well within his right to request paid time off for hibernation and simply chooses not to.

(It's... admirable. It also makes his dancing even cooler.)

"Get it, Keens!" Gaila shouts, clapping her hands in time with the Roylan's movements. Soon enough she's on her feet, too, hips swaying in time with the music, which means Scotty's left on the couch all alone (not that he particularly seems to mind).

Jim slides into the empty space beside him, greeting the still-bearded engineer with a too-wide smile. "You look like you're having fun," he lies, and Scotty snorts.

"The little bugger's been takin' sips of my drink when he thinks I'm not lookin'. I just hope he doesn't expect me to hold back his hair at the end of the night."

"But Lieutenant Keenser doesn't have hair," David argues, taking his seat beside Jim (who has to bite his tongue to refrain from commenting on that damned pronunciation).

Scotty lets out a loud, surprised laugh. "You got me there, laddie! Maybe I shoulda said 'sweep up his scales.' That'd be more accurate..."

Jim spends the next fifteen-or-so minutes listening with a smile on his face as his boy talks the chief engineer's ear off. David asks all sorts of questions, most of them a bit far out of Jim's wheelhouse, and even manages to stump Scotty once or twice. Soon enough they've gained themselves a bit of an audience — all just as captive in their own intrigue as Jim is — and for a few blissful moments Kirk forgets that they're at a damn Christmas party to begin with.

Then Chapel whips out some of her world-famous eggnog, encouraging everyone to pour themselves a glass, and the entire room erupts into chaos.

Chapter Text

Jim's not sure when, exactly, Spock arrived at the party. It must've been pre-eggnog — given the Vulcan's near-pathological need to be exactly on time for everything, ever — but that was almost an hour ago now, and Jim's only just locking eyes with him for the first time since he left to fetch David from Nyota's quarters. That's a pretty sizable gap in time.

Yet Jim decides against questioning the Vulcan's recent whereabouts. He opts instead to approach the guy and softly say, "Hey, you."

Spock does his version of a smile, which is really more of a half-blink, and responds with a gentle, "Hello, Captain."

The air between them is charged, just as it has been almost every time they've been alone together for weeks now (maybe even longer than that, if Jim's honest with himself — which, to be fair, he rarely is). Kirk resists the urge to sigh aloud at the thought of what it all might mean. "Watch out," he says instead, leaning in closer to the Vulcan before breathily adding, "A little bird told me there's a bet going on regarding you and cocoa. Rumor has it the first one to get you chocolate-drunk earns a bottle of Andorian ale."

The briefest of pauses passes between them before Spock softly says, "Your warning is appreciated, Captain. I will do my best to remain vigilant."

"Trust no one, Spock," Jim pushes, words slurring together somewhat. Then he lowers his voice to an exaggerated faux-whisper, trying his best to remain at least somewhat coherent, and adds, "Not even me."

Spock blinks once, then twice. "Perhaps you have consumed enough liquor—" he starts, reaching for Jim's mostly-empty glass, but the human shakes his head and wags a finger at his accuser. Jim uses his other hand to hide the glass behind himself, hoping against hope that Spock might somehow forget that it's there in time.

"It's a party, Mr. Spock! Would it kill you to live a little?"

"I can assure you that I am not at risk of death in this moment."

Jim snorts, opting to ignore the Vulcan's smart-ass comment, and says, "Hey. What's your day look like tomorrow?"

Spock cocks his head to the side. "I have very few plans. I suspect my father will call me in the afternoon just as he has every other night of Chanukah so far. My counterpart will likely wait until the following day to send his well wishes."

"Cool," Jim breathes. His eyes scan the room several times before returning to the Vulcan's ever-patient, nearly-always-stoic face. Right now, though, Spock looks... thoughtful. Kind. He's got that look in his eye that it seems exists for Jim and Jim alone. "I'm looking for a good reason to end the call with my Mom after, say, twenty minutes. How about you show me and David to use that gift I gave you earlier? Say, around... 1100? Does that sound like a plan?"

It takes a moment for Spock to process Jim's words (believe it or not). Once he does, however, he's quick to say, "Very well. I feel compelled to note, however, that this is not a particularly complicated game. My explanation will be succinct."

"I wouldn't expect anything less, Mister Spock," is Jim's easy response. "Here's my other thought, though: I haven't actually talked to David about whether he'd like to meet my Mom. In the event that he says 'no'..." Jim trails off, unsure of how to say what he wants to say.

"Will I keep him company whilst you and your mother converse tomorrow?" Spock suggests, and Jim nods sheepishly. "Yes, Captain. I am more than willing to do so. Speaking of David, however— might I ask where he's gone?"

"Scotty's teaching him how to hack the replicator," is the Captain's quick, honest response. When his words sink in and Spock's expression morphs into something resembling confusion, he snorts and adds, "It's backwards, I know, but I swear there's a method to my madness. My thought is, if the kid's gonna do it anyway — and trust me when I say I've got every reason to believe he is — I may as well do my part to ensure he doesn't blow us all up in the process. Or, even worse, turn my morning coffee to sludge. Can you imagine?"

Spock's raises one eyebrow. "Your unique manner of prioritization is, as always, fascinating."

Jim can't help how his smile turns big and toothy at the Vulcan's subtle teasing. His head is swirling with a mixture of liquor and Spock — every bit as impossibly intoxicating as it is endearing — and it's only by the grace of god that he manages to remain upright when it truly hits him. "What can I say? I'm a fascinating guy."

"Indeed," Spock agrees, guiding Jim away from the drinks table with the gentlest of touches on his lower back. "I presume you wish to return to the company of one Lieutenant Vro whilst you await David's return?"

"Hang with Gaila?" Jim questions, the skin on his cheeks heating up when he ends up slurring his words yet again. Goddamn Christine Chapel and her ability to disguise even the most potent strains of alcohol within a meticulously-crafted mixed drink. The woman is a danger to society, truly. "What, is she sitting all by herself or something...?"

Spock responds with a subtle shake of his head. He gestures to something behind Jim, causing the Captain to whip his head around — getting slightly dizzy in the process — and search for that familiar combination of red hair and green skin amid a sea of festive partygoers.

Finally, after what feels like forever, Jim manages to locate his friend. She's sitting to the right of Uhura, who is more-or-less lounging in Chapel's lap with her arms wrapped around the blonde's neck. He can't hear what they're saying from so far away, though the smiles on all three of their slightly-blurry faces are enough to tell Jim that the his fellow girls' night attendees are having a good time. "She looks fine," he tells Spock, eyes darting back to the Vulcan's stoic face. For the briefest of seconds, Spock's mouth twitches into an almost-frown.

"You do not wish to accompany her?" he pushes, which admittedly confuses Jim.

"Gaila's a big girl," Jim assures the Vulcan, eyeing him warily. "She doesn't need me to save her from a little PDA. If she didn't wanna be sitting with them, she'd already be gone— trust me."

There's not much to say after that. The two men fall into a mostly-companionable silence as Spock guides Jim to sit at an empty table in the corner. Jim's mind wanders, flittering its way around a myriad of topics until he notices Spock is still standing across from him — gripping the back of the seat like it'll fly away if he lets go. Kirk ends up humming in confusion.

"Spock...?"

"You require hydration," his first officer insists sternly.

Jim's smile turns absolutely dopey at the sound of it. He loves when Spock gets a little bossy. "Your telepathy tell you that?"

"No, Captain," Spock responds, sounding almost worried now. There's a pregnant pause before he adds, "You did — mere moments ago, when you announced that you were 'insanely thirsty.' Have you already forgotten...?"

(And maybe Jim really has had too much to drink, after all.)

It doesn't take long, once he's got some water in him, for Jim to sober up — slightly, anyway. Mr. Spock is a lot of things, many of them admirable, but he's no miracle worker.

Still, though. The Vulcan's assistance is good enough that, when Jim turns his attention toward the trio of women once again, he's able to see their laughing faces with some measure of clarity (rather than the blur of movement and color he'd been working with before). Now he can focus his eyes on their expressions without making himself dizzy in the process.

And it's nice, really, because Jim likes seeing his friends happy. Likes seeing the rest of the crew happy, too (even the ones he doesn't know as well). He lets his eyes scan the room, taking note of the many different faces and combinations of people, and wonders if he should be worried about how long Scotty and David have been gone.

Jim and Spock sit in silence for who knows how long until eventually Jim can't take it anymore. "Does it ever bother you?" he asks, turning his body toward the Vulcan's, and Spock just... hums. So damn patient. Measured as always.

"Please elaborate."

"Just— the fact that your ex-girlfriend's new partner is her close friend of many years. Does it ever, I dunno... piss you off? Make you jealous...?"

Spock blinks. “For what reason should this bother me? Nyota is no longer my chosen mate. She is free to pursue whomever she pleases, just as I am. It is a decision we came to mutually.”

"But—" Jim starts, cutting himself off with a frustrated sigh. "Look. I know this is a human line of thinking, and maybe Vulcans truly are above all that, but... don't you ever wonder? Even just for a second? All those years that you two were together — all the times she and Carol hung out, just the two of 'em — was it really just platonic? I mean, c'mon, Spock. They used to go on solo vacations together! Doesn't that tear you up inside?"

Spock says nothing. As a result, Jim's drunken ass feels compelled to continue.

(Never a great idea, especially where Jim's concerned.)

"I mean, I'm not saying— it's not like either of them would've done anything, obviously, but— I dunno. Maybe I'm talking out of my ass. It's just hard for me to imagine not obsessing over it, if I were in your shoes. What's it even like being that evolved...?"

Another long pause passes, accelerating Jim's already-unsteady heart-rate, before finally the Vulcan speaks. "It is quite a human line of thinking indeed," Spock says, his voice a steady rumble. Jim just barely avoids melting into a puddle on the couch at the sound of it. "There is no logic in resenting a former mate's present amorous endeavors. Were Lieutenant Uhura and I still romantically involved at this time, I would of course view her actions towards Nurse Chapel as entirely inappropriate. As we are no longer committed to one another in such a way, however, I care only that she is safe and content. It is my belief that she wishes the same for me."

"Well, duh. I'm not questioning that you want what's best for her. But that doesn't mean you can't feel some sort of way about it, in the comfort of your own mind..." Jim trails off then, feeling suddenly listless. The Vulcan cocks his head to the side in question.

"Is it not true that yourself and Lieutenant Vro were romantically involved in the past?"

Jim's admittedly a bit thrown-off by the question. "Like a hundred years ago, sure," he allows, holding the Vulcan's gaze for several too-long seconds. Why does it feel so strange, saying this to Spock? "'Romantic' might be a bit of an overstatement — on my end, anyway. She did sort of confess her love for me this one time..."

"'Sort of'?" Spock echoes, and Jim snorts.

"You can't always hold someone to the things they say in bed, Mr. Spock. Surely even Vulcans know that."

Spock sits up a bit straighter, suddenly avoiding Jim's gaze. "You require more water," he tells the Captain's glass.

And before Jim can open his mouth to argue that his drink is still half-full (or half-empty, maybe, if you're a pessimist like one Leonard H. McCoy), the Vulcan is gone. 

Scotty and David reenter the rec room before Spock comes back with Jim's water. The Captain bites back his surprise when the nine-year-old practically sprints in his direction, smile wide, and announces, "Lieutenant Commander Scott taught me how to program extra chocolate chips into replicator pancakes!"

"Did he now?" Jim muses, catching his colleague's eye. 

"Aye, laddie! Would it kill you to mention some of the healthy tricks I showed you while you're at it?"

Jim nearly loses his cool when David pushes onward, his tone absolutely deadpan, and announces, "I also learned how to get extra maple syrup."

Before Scotty can work himself into an absolute fit, Jim reaches out to pat his chief engineer on the shoulder. "Good work, man," he assures his friend, offering a small but genuine smile. "I don't doubt that you showed him all the best veggie hacks."

Spock returns then, placing Jim's now-full glass on the table in front of him. Then he turns his attention onto David and Scotty and says, "Greetings, gentlemen. Are you enjoying this evening's festivities?"

Which, naturally, leads David to start gushing about the replicator all over again. Jim lets his eyes wander, only half-listening to the boy's words, and eventually locks gazes with none other than Lieutenant Uhura. She's still on the couch, sitting practically on top of Chapel, whilst Gaila and Keenser play what looks to be a game of go-fish beside them. Just as Jim's about to look away from his friend's knowing gaze, he notices Nyota leaning in close to Chapel's ear. She whispers something that causes the blonde to sit up a bit straighter, eyes locking onto her Captain. Then Chapel smiles and whispers something back to Uhura. The communications officer giggles. Jim's skin pricks like it used to back in high school — when he just knew the other kids were talking about him behind his back.

That's when Gaila, who had previously been immersed in her game with the Roylan, whirls around and excitedly joins in on the conversation. Soon enough the trio are off the couch — though still huddled together and giggling like teenagers — and they're heading right for Jim.

Goddamn it, Kirk thinks, suddenly wishing he'd listened to David's gushing for a second time instead of whatever the hell this is.

It's Gaila who reaches Jim first, smile wide, and exclaims, "It's present time!"

"'Present time'?" Jim echoes, eyeing his friend warily. "What're you—"

But before Kirk can finish, Uhura interrupts: "No time to explain, Mister! I need you and David to report to the couch right now." 

Jim hesitates just a moment before he turns around and says, "David."

The boy stops mid-sentence, locking eyes with his father, and murmurs, "Yes...?"

"Sorry to interrupt, bud. I— we're both needed on the couch, apparently. Lieutenant Uhura says it's a surprise."

David's eyes light up at that (though Jim's not entirely sure whether it's in response to the mention of the communications officer or the promise of a surprise). He adjusts his grip on the rabbit, tucked under his arm like always, and says, "Sorry, Mister Spock. I'll finish telling you about the subroutine later."

"Very well," Spock allows, eyes glistening. Jim's heart swells at the sight. He wonders, briefly, if he should be worried about the steep uptick in this sort of instance between himself and Spock. Jim's always been charmed by the Vulcan, admittedly, but lately it's taken on a more desperate edge. His mind seems to cling to Spock at any opportunity. His body, in turn, feels drawn into the Vulcan's gravity. Seeing Spock interact with David — seeing how soft and patient he can be — has prodded at something deep within him. Something he can't quite name.

Just as he's getting lost in thoughts of Spock yet again, Jim feels David's touch on his arm. The child's oddly-strong grip tugs him in the direction of the couch, and Jim (who is still just slightly buzzed, mind you) can't afford to focus on anything other than remaining upright.

Only once Jim finds himself seated beside David on the couch, surrounded by the kind faces of friends and acquaintances, does he stop to wonder if 'present time' goes beyond the parameters of girls' night. Is everyone going to be watching whatever the hell happens next, or...?

"Gaila?" the Captain tries, looking for a bit of sympathy, but his friend simply laughs.

"Calm down, scaredy pants. It's Christmas!"

As if that's supposed to mean something to Jim. He takes a moment to look around the room, realizing they've amassed quite a crowd. Then he sighs, leaning back into the couch, and says, "Let's get this over with, then."

Gaila rolls her eyes. "Such a baby," she murmurs, then turns to face Uhura and Chapel. She nods at the blonde, eyes wide, and then clears her throat pointedly.

"Oh!" the nurse exclaims, her face reddening just slightly. "Little one first...?"

"Big," Nyota corrects, smiling fondly at her girlfriend.

Gaila nods and says, "Hand it to Jim... Jimmy, don't you dare rip that paper 'til I tell you it's time."

Jim snorts, raising his hands in faux-defensiveness, and allows the rectangular package to be placed gingerly in his lap. He turns to face David, exchanging a smile with the boy, and whispers, "I bet it's a puppy."

David tries and fails to hide his laughter in the fabric of his sleeve.

It's a few more moments of shushing and music being turned down before Gaila clears her throat again, looking around the room, and says, "Thank you all for coming tonight. I know a certain yeoman sent out a very tempting invite for this same time slot, so it means a lot that you've chosen to stick to tradition—"

"Gaila," Uhura interrupts, sounding annoyed. She lowers her voice before speaking again, though Jim's close enough that he can hear it: "We said no Rand talk, remember?"

"Sorry," the Orion mutters. She smiles sheepishly at the crowd, straightening her posture just slightly, and continues, "The point is that we're very happy to see all of your beautiful faces! And we're so grateful for everyone who pitched in on this gift, 'cause we seriously couldn't have done it without you, so... Jimmy, if you'll do the honors? This one's from everybody. It's technically for David, too, but it's not as exciting as the other gift we got him..."

Jim hesitates for just a moment before he begins to tug at the colorful paper. It doesn't take long to reveal the plain box that lies beneath, just begging to be opened. Jim feels strangely hesitant as he lifts the top off of the box. What if he hates it? Will he be able to disguise that fact from some of his closest friends?

Then David gasps, leaning in closer to see the box's contents, and Jim forces himself to look. 

It's an old-school style PADD — like the kind Frank had, when Jim was a kid. It was (admittedly) outdated then, which means the thing must be damn ancient by now. Jim lifts the device out of the box, both interested and confused with its general existence, and watches in wonder as the thing comes to life. Light from the screen gathers together, bending against itself, and forms the shape of a well-loved book. "What...?" Kirk wonders aloud, locking eyes with Gaila over the intangible pages. She gestures towards the holo as if to say 'open it and see for yourself.'

So Jim does. He reaches for the 'book,' surprised when he can feel the weight and texture of it on his fingertips. He opens it to a random page, wishing he'd bothered to bring his reading glasses. Luckily for him, however, the text is large enough to read without them.

A computerized voice relays today's stardate. Then it presents Jim with what appears to be a digital planner, filled to the absolute brim with information. Kirk starts to feel dizzy.

"It'll respond to your voice," Gaila explains patiently. "Ask it who's available tomorrow."

"Computer, who's available tomorrow?"

"Commander Spock has indicated availability from the hours of 0700 to 2200," the device supplies dutifully. "Doctor McCoy has indicated availability from the hours of 1600 to 2100. Lieutenant Commander—"

Gaila interrupts the device mid-sentence. "Computer, that's enough. Tomorrow might not be the best example, given the holiday, but in general — all you gotta do is ask something like, 'who can watch David tomorrow during Alpha?', and it'll tell you. It's already got all your shifts programmed in there, plus a tentative Andorian tutoring time that Nyota insisted I include—"

"Tuesdays at 1930!" Uhura interrupts, sounding quite proud of herself, "It doesn't have to be then, obviously, but I wanted something on the books."

David makes a soft, excited noise at Jim's side. The Captain's heart swells with affection for the second time tonight. "Gaila," Jim starts, voice breathy. "This is... I don't know what to say. Thank you."

The Orion gets uncharacteristically bashful then, avoiding Jim's gaze, and mumbles, "The code is super malleable, so feel free to mess around with it. I've got a backup saved in case anything goes wrong."

"Can you hold this?" Jim asks David, smirking at the boy's wide-eyed excitement as the device enters his possession. Within seconds David is absolutely immersed in the thing, requesting random dates and times just for the hell of it. 

Jim stands to face his friend, eyes misty, and pulls her in for a hug. "You're the greatest programmer I've ever met," he murmurs in Gaila's ear, and she lets out a breathy laugh.

"That's only because you don't get around anymore, old man. When was the last time you met anyone, much less a programmer?"

Rather than respond verbally, however, Jim just rolls his eyes good-naturedly. He steps away from his friend, forcing himself to let go, and then turns to address the crowd: "And thank you to everyone who contributed. This is— I don't even have words, honestly. Just wow."

"And you haven't even seen the best part yet!" Chapel teases, gesturing for Jim to grab the modified PADD from his boy. Kirk ends up placing the thing on the couch in-between them, pointedly not-watching David's eyes as they follow it all the way there.

That's when a slightly smaller, squarer box enters the picture. Chapel's absolutely beaming as she carries the thing towards David. He's clearly excited, too, though Jim's pretty sure it's not the only reason he's shaking.

"What is it?" the boy asks, voice full of wonder, and Chapel smirks.

"Open it and you'll see."

So David does. Jim watches as the boy gingerly unwraps the gift — careful not to tear the paper in the process — and reveals yet another plain, unassuming box. "Oh," David whispers once he's gotten the top off of the thing, discarding it momentarily on the floor by his feet. "Are these...?"

"Starfleet-issue," Uhura confirms. She's smiling when David raises the first of three shirts — a command-gold tunic, nearly identical to the one Jim wears just about every day — and holds it up against his clothed chest.

"How'd you manage that?" Jim wonders, genuinely curious. He catches Nyota's eye and offers a subtle tilt of the head in question.

The communications officer hesitates for only a second before she explains, "My niece volunteers at one of those pre-fleet programs for kids. I wasn't sure which color David would prefer, so I asked her to send along options..."

Sure enough, once David is done gawking at his command tunic, he moves onto the red and blue varieties. He holds each garment up against himself, beaming like he's just won the lottery. "This is amazing, Lieutenant Uhura! I can't wait to try it all on!"

Which is when Nyota says, "That's not all! You might wanna take a peek under the tissue paper — yep, right there — and... there you go. Christine was adamant that we include something for Richard as well."

"'Richard'?" Jim echoes, chuckling softly. The alcohol must be getting to everybody, he thinks, if even Nyota Uhura has started making up names in her head. 

Which is when Bones — who, up until that point, hadn't bothered to make his presence known to his supposed best friend — pipes in to quietly hiss, "The rabbit, Jim," from somewhere behind the Captain. Jim wonders if he's being messed with.

Then his son lifts the first of several smaller garments into the air and Jim realizes McCoy is right. The thing has been hand-made to fit the small, ratty creature that David insists on carrying around everywhere with him — the very same creature that Jim himself picked out, nearly a decade ago now, more-or-less on a whim.

In true Chapel fashion, the thing's an absolute masterpiece. It's even got a little Starfleet insignia embroidered on the chest. "Chris, did you make this?" Kirk wonders aloud, catching his friend's eye, and the nurse's cheeks begin to redden.

"It was nothing, really—" Chapel starts, only to be interrupted by her very proud-looking girlfriend.

"This woman is modest to the point of delusion, boys. There's so much yarn in our room that I've forgotten the color of the floor."

Her annoyance would be convincing if not for the way her eye's sparkle, head moving as if magnetized to the nurse's every movement. If every last word wasn't soaked in adoration.

Jim tries to remember if Nyota ever seemed this in love with Spock, back when the pair were still together. They'd show affection, sure, but did she ever look at the man like this? Did she and Spock orbit one another like twin stars, once upon a time?

He'll have to ask someone about it later. Bones, maybe.

For now, though, Kirk focuses on listening as his boy begins thanking Uhura and Chapel over and over again.

"How's it going?" Jim asks David a little while later — once the crowd has dissipated, and it's just them on the couch with their now-open gifts. They're a few minutes out from 2200, which on a normal night would mean David fighting off the urge to yawn aloud. Now, though, he seems almost... wired.

Jim's not sure if that's because of the holiday, the sheer amount of people, or some combination of the two.

"I'm well," David insists softly, avoiding his father's gaze, and Jim bites back a sigh.

In the end, it makes sense to take a slightly... unorthodox approach to the whole situation. "I'm about done here, bud," he murmurs, just loud enough for the boy to hear, and it's not a lie. Jim is done here. He's also aware that, if David weren't present, Gaila would be insisting he stay until at least midnight — would call him a 'geezer' and a 'party pooper' and all kinds of other silly names if he protested.

But David is here, which means everything is different. Jim's realizing that more and more every day.

"I'm glad to stick around if you're still having fun," Kirk continues, careful to keep his tone and expression as sincere as he can manage. "Might need another cup of coffee to stay awake, mind you, but that's never stopped me before. So whaddya say, kid? Do we stick around or do we blow this popsicle stand?"

For a few long seconds, David says nothing. He just blinks up at Jim, eyes curious, and looks. Finally, after what feels like forever, the boy whispers, "Are you sure it's okay if we leave?"

Jim smiles. "It's more than okay, David," he says, pausing for a moment to hold the boy's gaze before he adds, "Whatever makes you feel the most comfortable is always okay."

David's lip quirk up into a tiny smile of his own. "Okay," he whispers, and Jim's grin grows wider.

"Let's just make sure we've got everything— is Richard accounted for...? Great, okay. I'm gonna gather our things on the couch, and then we'll make the rounds."

And so they do their little tour of the room, saying their goodbyes (and, in some cases, hello's — Jim's a bit taken aback by how many of his colleagues feel the need to introduce themselves to the Enterprise's newest and youngest inhabitant). The last group they approach consists of Chapel, Uhura, and Bones.

David asks Chapel if crocheting is difficult. The nurse thinks for a moment, eyes sparkling, then muses, "For a smart kid like you? Piece of cake. I'll teach you sometime, if you like. Maybe once you get bored of watching Andorian films, we could start meeting on Tuesdays at 1930..."

"Hey!" Uhura counters, sounding playfully indignant. She wraps her arms around Chapel's waist from behind, chin resting on the woman's right shoulder, and adds, "Get your own time slot."

"I thought you said 'what's mine is yours,' darling. Are time slots not included in that promise?"

Which is when Bones clears his throat, grumbling something that sounds like "Get a damn room, ladies," and then moves to kneel in front of David so they're standing eye-to-eye. "You did real good tonight, kid. I'm sure Santa's gonna bring you all sorts of sweets in the mornin'. Just promise me you'll have one or two vegetables in-between candies, okay? For me?"

David hesitates for just a second before he says, "I promise."

Jim snorts, reaching out to squeeze at his best friend's shoulder, and says, "Have a good night, Bones. Tell Jojo I say 'hi' when she calls you in the morning."

"Wouldn't count on it, Jimmy. Girl's more stubborn than her mother sometimes..."

"She'll call," Jim insists, though he's not entirely certain he believes himself. If she doesn't, he decides, then Bones will just have to join Spock in bearing witness to Jim and David's very first Christmas together. There are worse fates, ultimately — for all those involved. Jim just hopes Joanna will have the good sense to give her father a call.

You only get one Dad, after all. It's a lesson Jim's been learning over and over since the day he was born.

Chapter Text

"Mind if I come in with you for a sec?"

David looks up at Jim, eyes narrowed. "Why?"

Jim winces at the hint of apprehension lacing the young boy's tone. Doesn't David trust him by now? "Just a quick chat. It'll only take a second. I'd offer to bring you into my quarters, but your present isn't, uh— I'm not done wrapping it yet," he manages, which is only sort of a lie. In truth, all of the boy's gifts are wrapped. Nearly every one is labeled accordingly — Jim having elected, after much deliberation, to fill 'from' section after 'from' section with the name Father Christmas. All there's left to do before the morning is label the one gift that's meant to come from Jim himself.

(To 'Dad' or not to 'Dad' — that's the damn question he's been pondering for days.)

"Okay," David says finally. He blinks up at his father, still looking just the tiniest bit suspicious. Then he turns around and murmurs what Jim can only assume is his entry code. They both shift awkwardly on their feet as they wait for the computer to grant them access.

"Okay," Jim announces once they're seated across from one another at David's little kitchen table, "So. I wanted to talk to you about something."

It nearly shatters Jim's heart when the boy freezes in place. "What happened? Did I do something wrong...?"

"No!" Jim insists immediately, his voice coming out far more hysterical than he'd intended. "Sorry, I— that sounded a lot worse than it is. You're not in trouble. It's not an emergency or anything, either. Just a little... time-sensitive."

After a second of hesitation, David reluctantly forces himself to meet Jim's gaze head-on. He eyes his father as if to ask what is it?, and Jim can't help but notice that the boy's hands are still shaking. Just slightly. He tries to string his words together in a way that'll put David at ease — which, as it turns out, is difficult. Especially for someone who never had the luxury of receiving such treatment in his youth.

And so Jim wonders: What does unconditional support even sound like, through the ears of a child? What can he say to make his son understand?

In the end, Kirk decides it can't hurt to start with a smile. "Sorry if I freaked you out. I meant it when I said it's no big deal — seriously. Whatever you wanna do with what I'm about to tell you is okay with me. I still have to ask, though, so... yeah. Sorry. I think I'm rambling."

David's voice is soft when he says, "I don't mind." Despite himself, Jim laughs.

"Thanks, man. That's nice to hear. I guess what I'm trying to say — or, y'know, run by you — is the fact that I have a call scheduled with my Mom tomorrow morning at 1040."

"Your Mum," David repeats, his voice slow and hesitant. "As in... my other Nan?"

Jim nods. "Her name's Winona. She's... a lot. I won't lie to you. That's sort of the point of this chat we're having right now."

David says nothing. He just nods, wide-eyed, and waits for his father to continue speaking.

"I wanna make it clear that this is your choice, and— seriously, David. There's no wrong answer. I've already spoken to Mr. Spock, and he's offered to hang with you while I talk to her, if that's what you'd prefer. Or you can stick with me the whole time. You can also just say 'hi' really quick, or— if you just wanna draw her a picture, I can hold it up to the camera. Whatever level of engagement you're comfortable with, even if it's nothing, is absolutely okay. I just need you to let me know so I can make it happen."

There's a pregnant pause whilst the boy considers his father's words. For a long while he appears to be mulling it over in his head — genuinely weighing the pros and cons against one another — and Jim wonders if he said too much. Should he have made his explanation more... succinct? Did he burden David with too much all at once?

Then the boy asks, "Can I let you know in the morning?," and Jim's face cracks into a barely-there smile.

"Of course you can. Like I said, David— it's up to you. If you do decide you wanna meet her, though, I gotta warn you. She's... well, let's just say she's a bit of a handful, sometimes. Maybe even most times."

"How so...?" David softly wonders.

Jim snorts. "Might be quicker to ask me how she isn't a handful. If you wanna get an idea of what you'd be signing up for, though, I'll start with this: she's probably the funniest person I know. She's quick, too. Like— imagine if someone was cracking jokes at the same speed Mr. Spock shoots off facts and numbers in the lab. That's her once she gets going. It can make you dizzy if you're not expecting it.

"She doesn't have a filter. If she's thinking it, she'll say it. Because of that she can be mean — sometimes without even realizing — and afterward, once she's calmed down, she'll act like she's never even heard of the word sorry."

David's eyes go wide when Jim describes his own mother as 'mean.' On instinct, the Captain pivots.

"She's smart, like your Mom — to the point where it kinda scares you a little, 'cause you never know what she's gonna do next. She's always, like, fifteen steps ahead. Even when I was a kid. She used to know I was gonna sneak out before I even knew it, sometimes. I would think I finally got one over on her, only for her to catch me at the last second..."

That's when Jim trails off, having lost track of his thoughts partway through the explanation. Should he have mentioned sneaking out? Getting in trouble? Will all of this just serve to give the boy ideas?

"It must be an all-Mum thing," David says, sounding almost... wistful. Jim just hopes he's remembering his own past shenanigans (rather than imagining his father's plentiful teenage indiscretions; the last thing anybody needs a curly-haired copycat following in Jim's foolish footsteps). Then David asks, "How do they do that?," and Jim snorts in amusement.

"Y'know, it's funny— I asked my Granny Hilde the exact same question when I was about your age. You wanna know what she said...?" Only once the boy has nodded his assent does Kirk continue. "She said that, when you become a Mom, you grow a second set of eyes on the back of your head. That way, even when your back is turned, you can see what your children are up to. It's like a Mom super power."

David's face goes a bit white at that. "A second set of eyes...?"

"I know. Creepy, right? I tried looking once when my Mom was sleeping to see if it was true. She's got hair even curlier than yours, though — plus a lot thicker and much longer — so it made it tough to confirm or deny the theory. As Mr. Spock would say, the results were inconclusive."

"I bet with Mum's hair it'd be easy," David muses, only just loud enough for the Captain to hear.

Jim hums. "Was she still wearing it in the, uh—" Kirk pauses, gesturing around his own head as if patting at a bob, and David laughs "—you know what I mean. Short, cropped just above the shoulder, but a little longer on the ends...?"

(If he wanted, he could just search back in the archives of his own memory. Could figure out exactly what Carol looked like in her final days. But Jim doesn't want to do that. Doesn't want to relive that horrible moment when he rounded the corner on the satellite and came face-to-face with her lifeless body.)

The boy's looking at his hands now, thumbs twiddling nervously. Jim feels like a fool. He almost opens his mouth to walk back on the question, assuming he's taken things too far. Then David softly admits, "She just gets it trimmed. Not often, though, 'cause she's trying to see how long it can get. She asks me to braid it for her sometimes. It's... fun."

"Braiding, huh? Are you any good at that?"

A shrug. "Mum says that I am. But she also says I'm good at drawing. I think Mums just have to say things like that to make you feel better."

Oh, trust me, Jim thinks, but doesn't say out loud. They don't have to.

Rather than allowing himself to ruminate on that reminder of his own unfortunate upbringing, however, Jim clears his throat. Then he decidedly states, "Your drawings are good." And he means it, too.

The kid might not be a prodigy — not the way he is with subjects like science and math(s), anyway — but he's no amateur, either. David's approaches every piece like he's solving an equation, and it shows. He's clearly put a lot of work into learning to draw all sorts of mythological creatures from Terran folklore and beyond. He's also extremely hard on himself (as evidenced by the piles upon piles of crumpled-up drawings that end up getting recycled via replicator on a near-daily basis).

And, sure. Jim's biased. David is his kid, after all. But he's pretty sure even a stranger would agree that David's art is damn cool.

"You're really talented, David," Jim tells the boy matter-of-factly. When David starts to act bashful, he adds, "I mean it. You remember how you let me keep that one dragon — the blue guy that you were gonna throw away otherwise?"

David nods.

"It's hanging above my bed as we speak. That's how much I like it. The colors, the background— oh, and those wings! I mean— seriously. How'd you get them to be so symmetrical?"

"I used maths," is David's easy response. Because of course he did. Then, after a momentary pause, he adds, "That one's not a dragon, though. He's a griffin. You can tell because of the beak..."

✧ ✦ ✧

At 0430 sharp, Jim wakes to the sound of his alarm singing one shrill note, over and over. He resists the urge to smash the thing into pieces — standing on wobbly feet instead — and clumsily shuts it off. Then he hobbles on over to his perpetually-messy desk and grumbles, "Computer, lights to sixty percent."

Jim can't help but grunt aloud, blinded as he is by the sudden onslaught of light. He has to blink several times before he can make any sort of sense of his surroundings.

"Pull up Scotty's voice memo from the twenty-third. It should be in the 'miscellaneous' folder on my server."

It's some fifteen minutes later that Kirk stands before the pile of gifts, eyes darting between the screens of his PADD and his communicator. "This better work," he warns no one, wincing in preparation as his finger hovers over the confirmation button. He squeezes his eyes shut before pressing it.

The telltale hum of the transporter echoes all around Jim's quarters. When Kirk reopens his eyes, the presents have dematerialized.

"Computer," Jim says, voice low and hesitant, "Did the gifts make it into David's quarters in one piece?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Perfect. Thanks."

Jim's back to dreaming before his head even hits the pillow. 

✧ ✦ ✧

The next time Jim wakes, it's to the sound of excited squealing. He thinks he's still asleep, at first — nearly throws a pillow over his head and blocks out the world entirely — but then David's muffled voice calls through the bathroom door, "Jim!"

In an instant the Captain's on his feet. "David?" he calls out, grabbing for a nearby t-shirt and pulling it over his head in one fluid motion, "Is something wrong?"

"He came! Father Christmas brought me gifts!"

In an instant, the panic leaves Kirk's body. He spares a glance at the clock (noting that it reads 0803) before he fumbles his way through unlocking the door that separates them. When it finally slides open, Jim is met with the face of infectious excitement — David, beaming like he's won the damn lottery — and in an instant exhaustion gives way to affection. "Gifts?" he questions, feigning surprise. The boy nods excitedly.

"They were here when I woke up! Can I open them now? Please?"

"Lemme, uh— lemme just get dressed first and then you can," Jim manages, looking down at his own half-clothed form. "How 'bout I meet you in your quarters in, like, five minutes? Can you wait 'til then?"

David nods excitedly, eyes glistening. Then he hightails it out of the bathroom whilst Richard dangles from one hand. The rabbit's good ear bobs along with each energetic movement all the way to the door.

Shaky hands reach for the one remaining gift lying atop Jim's desk.

Jim's glad that he went for his first name (rather than 'Dad') for the label — if only because it's what the boy called out to him through the bathroom just a minute or two before. Still, though. Jim feels... apprehensive. As he looks down at the thing, considering what lies underneath the subpar wrapping, he can't help but wonder if he should've gone for something more 'child' and less 'prodigy.'

Then he remembers how David looked at the device Gaila gifted them the night before. He remembers the rush of unbridled excitement and awe that flashed across his boy's face, and he knows he made the right choice.

David will love it. It's only logical.

"Wow," Jim breathes as he steps into David's room. He doesn't even have to feign surprise at the sight of the present pile — uncertain as he was that Scotty's supposed transporter hack would even work.

(There's still a tiny part of Jim that wonders if David will open each and every box to find nothing but a mess of scrambled atoms where his gifts used to be. He forces himself to ignore that unlikely possibility in favor of remaining sane and standing.)

David's absolutely beaming when he looks up at Jim and says, "Nurse Chapel was right! Father Christmas did find the Enterprise!"

"Seems like he did," Jim agrees, returning the boy's grin easily. "What d'you think you got?"

That's when Jim gestures toward the yet-unopened presents, his smile growing. He encourages the boy to take action. After a few more seconds of hesitation, David does. He reaches for the smallest present, perched right there on the top of the pile, and says, "Let's see."

And even though Jim was there to pick out the present — even though he watched through blurry eyes as his friend wrapped it up all neatly and tied it with a bow — he still feels a childlike sort of anticipation welling up inside of him. Filling him up to the brim with delight. When David finally tears through the paper (just as devastatingly meticulous as he was the night before), Jim almost thinks he'll burst.

Then the boy gasps, pawing at the box's contents, and unearths a stack of crisp new comics. "No way!"

"What's that?" Jim pretends to wonder.

"It's Doctor Mighty! I read the comic on my PADD sometimes, but I never knew they made it like this..."

Jim's not sure if David's referring to these comics specifically or comics in general when he says 'like this.' Physical media fell out of fashion years before Jim ever came around, after all, and it wouldn't be all that surprising to learn that the boy had never seen that sort of thing at all.

If he ends up liking it, Jim thinks, they'll have to go through his old collection sometime. Nearly every comic Jim acquired throughout his entire childhood — some as hand-me-downs from Sam, and others purchased via whatever credits he could muster up without Frank or Winona noticing — lives in a tattered old box back on Earth. 

(And while Jim isn't so naive as to believe in something like fate, he can't deny the fact that he should've gotten rid of the things years ago; every time he tried, though, it's like something told him to keep holding on. To wait on it just a little bit longer. And he can't help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, this is why.)

David neatly places the comics back in their box, sliding them onto a nearby coffee table, and then reaches for his second gift.

Jim watches in quiet contentment as his boy goes through the pile of gifts one by one. He injects the occasional quip — asks clarifying questions when they float up into his conscious mind — but mostly, he just watches. Watches and smiles.

Jim smiles until his face hurts. Even then, he can't seem to turn it off. 

Every gift — from boring clothing items to eye-popping games and gadgets — elicits sounds of genuine surprise from the boy's lips. David keeps on smiling up at Jim, over and over. Looking at his father as if to ask, Do you see this?

And Jim sees it all right. He's damn glad that he does, too.

It helps that Jim himself is a bit surprised by the selection. Whilst he was physically present for the entirety of the gift-choosing process, he was more than a little bit intoxicated at the time. As a result, more than half of the items David unearths are complete mysteries to him. Only once David fully unwraps them does Jim remember — in varying levels of detail, mind you — what exactly lies beneath, and why.

Vague echoes of Gaila, Uhura, and Chapel's voices bounce around in his head. The sight of Nyota meticulously wrapping each and every one with a smile on her face. Humming along to songs Jim was too drunk to recognize.

'You're an amazing person,' he remembers slurring as he stared up at the woman through barely-open eyes, 'Do you know that...?'

Jim doesn't recall Nyota's exact response. He does, however, remember the way she smiled down at him. How her eyes sparkled with the sort of affection his younger self would've never imagined being on the receiving end of. Especially not after he made such a horrid first impression.

But that night in a bar was years ago — more than a decade, even — and so Jim shakes away the thought. He focuses instead on David's smiling face and his excited exclamations. Basks in the warmth of what very well might be the first peaceful Christmas morning he's experienced in his entire life.

(And isn't that something?)

"Okay," Jim says once David has finished arranging his pile of now-unwrapped gifts atop his desk and coffee table. It's a pretty sizable spread — maybe even a bit overboard, on Jim's part — but it's not like David doesn't deserve it. Especially with what he's been through as of late. When the boy meets his gaze, Jim smiles and says, "I have something for you, too. It's— I'll have to explain some things once you open it, but..."

Jim holds out the small, unassuming box. He didn't bother with a ribbon (not after the whole debacle with Spock's dreidel — no way).  He did, however, choose wrapping paper decorated with Doctor Mighty's smiling, partially-masked face. David doesn't even seem to care about the subpar wrapping job once he sees it.

"Is that Doctor Mighty?" the boy gasps, and Jim nods.

"Thought you might like that. I gotta warn you, though— the gift's got nothing to do with him. Don't wanna get your hopes up."

David smiles up at his father. "That's all right. Father Christmas got me two action figures, and a bunch of comics — oh, and the jammies, too! So I think I'm all set."

Jim just smiles and hums in response. He watches with bated breath as the boy tears through the paper (less neatly than he did with Uhura's wrapping job, though that's probably due to Jim's subpar skills more than anything). Eventually he frees the tiny box, murmuring his thanks when Jim reaches out to take the scraps and toss them it into the replicator.

The boy's polite enough to wait until Jim's back at his side to open the box. Not that that's particularly surprising. 'David' and 'polite' are essentially synonyms, as far as Jim is concerned. He struggles to imagine how disrespect would even sound in that sweet, ever-curious tone. 

David tucks the top of the box under itself. He stares openly at its contents — a small, unassuming microchip of sorts, sitting atop a small cotton pillow — and then blinks up at his father. "What...?"

"Grab your PADD," Jim suggests through his grin. David quickly scrambles to do just that, handing the box over to his father momentarily. Jim's still smiling like an idiot when David returns. He holds out the box, watching as his son gently grasps the chip between his index finger and thumb. "Just put it in— there, yes. Perfect. Then click 'ACCEPT' when it prompts you..."

David dutifully follows each command, his mouth quirking up into a tiny, curious smile that mirrors Jim's own. It takes nearly a minute for the information to load into the device. Eventually, though, David's PADD pings — releasing the chip from its clutches — and the boy places it gingerly back inside its box. Closes the thing and looks up at Jim with inquisitive eyes.

"I've been thinking about your schooling," Jim explains, grabbing for the box once again, "Also— I'm gonna set this aside, 'cause we should probably integrate it with Gaila's gift at some point. That all right...?" He waits for David to nod before he continues. "Awesome. So, like I was saying — your schooling. We talked about how, back on the satellite, your Mom was letting you help out with her work in the lab. As much as I'd like to do the same here on the Enterprise, my job's not exactly the safest.

"Remember how I told you that, around the time I met Scotty and Keenser, I also met Spock's Great Uncle Selek...? Yeah. Well, the thing is, Selek's in his hundred-sixties now, and apparently even Vulcans need to slow down and retire at some point. As you can imagine, though, 'slow down' means something different for them than it does for us. Long story short: if you're into the idea, he's agreed to be your full-time tutor."

David blinks up at Jim, gawking for several moments before he manages to whisper, "My... tutor?"

"Your tutor, yeah," Jim confirms with an excited nod. "And when I say 'tutor,' I don't just mean— he's not here to give you random lectures about stuff that may or may not be relevant to your interests. You'd be the one to decide which topics you want to explore together. He's an expert in all sorts of things, and he's willing to become an expert in just about anything else at your request, so... basically, the world's your oyster."

Just then David's PADD pings, prompting the boy to type in his passcode. Jim not-so-surreptitiously averts his gaze to provide some measure of privacy. The action makes David huff quietly — hopefully in amusement — and, after a few seconds, he says, "You can look again."

So Jim does. He smirks when he finds the elder Spock's familiar visage stretched across the screen. "Hit 'PLAY' whenever you're ready," he tells the boy, gesturing to the yet-unwatched video.  "I haven't seen it yet, either. Just asked him to film a little intro so you could get an idea of what he's like..."

Jim tries not to let the anxiety pooling within him spill into his tone. He thinks back to his conversation with 'Selek,' not even a month prior. Wonders if maybe his initial hesitation — his insistence that a kid as observant as David would most definitely make the connection between the two Spocks and freak out accordingly — was just the right amount of far-fetched to end up being true.

(Story of Jim's fucking life, if so.)

It's too late to go back now, though. Especially once David starts the video.

"Greetings, David," a deep, familiar voice begins.

Jim clenches both fists at his sides. He bites at the insides of his cheeks, breathing in and out, and resists the urge to bolt out of the room entirely.

In the end, the video is far from the smoking gun that Jim half-expected it to be. 'Ambassador Selek' introduces himself as such (clearly used to the moniker after so many years on New Vulcan, given how it seems to roll right off his tongue). He thanks the boy for indulging the aptitude tests, congratulating him for the already-submitted scores and encouraging him to complete the remaining tests after the holiday is done.

"You needn't rush, David," he murmurs, and his voice is so... warm. Fills Jim up to the brim. "We will convene on the first Monday of January. Until then, I encourage you to live long and prosper."

David's screen turns black once the video is over. He and Jim lock eyes via the reflection of their faces.

Rather than look away — like how his instincts so desperately want him to — Jim holds David's gaze through the screen and says, "He looks pretty good for a hundred and sixty-five, if you ask me."

David nods in quiet agreement. Then he blinks, breaking their eye contact, and murmurs, "I wanna do it."

"You sure you do?" Jim responds, turning to look at the boy's actual face rather than his reflection. "'Cause, seriously. If you don't, we can figure something else ou—"

"I'm sure," David confirms, sounding just a bit hesitant to have interrupted his father. Then he meets Jim's gaze, eyes glittering with unshed tears, and adds, "Thank you, Jim. I love it."

"You're very welcome, kid. You mind if I give you a hug?"

David hesitates initially, looking puzzled, then offers the smallest, most pathetic little nod. Jim's smile grows when he pulls the boy in for an embrace. It's admittedly not much — just a light squeeze around the shoulders — but even that is enough to fill Jim's whole body with warmth. He thinks once again about holding David as a baby. About what it would've been like, if he were around. He remembers David's weight in his arms when he carried the boy to bed. It makes his heart ache.

The gift is more than just a video, of course.

Jim programmed an entire interface — with more than a little help from Gaila — that will allow near-seamless integration between Selek and David's devices despite the physical distance between them. He's also created an entirely new server for the pair, equipped with the ability to password-lock some or all documents at David's discretion.

In short, Jim's given his kid a digital sandbox to play in as he wishes. He hopes David likes it as much as he claims to — though, to be fair, Jim's not sure his son is capable of faking quite so much delight. Especially when David moves to restart the video, watching it for a second time with a blinding, boyish smile spread across his flushed face all the while.

It's by far the greatest Christmas Jim has had in all of his thirty-five years, and it isn't even 0900 yet.

Chapter Text

Jim's enjoying the fruits of Scotty's labor via the medium of extra-chocolatey pancakes when David decidedly announces, "I wanna do it."

(And, really — does the kid enjoy interrupting his father mid-chew? It's starting to become a pattern in their relationship.)

The Captain swallows the rest of his mouthful as swiftly as he can manage. His voice is still slightly muffled by the action when he asks, "What's that, David?"

"I wanna meet your Mum," the boy clarifies, and Jim stills. Blinks several times to make sure he's not imagining things. 

"You... do?"

David nods whilst taking a hefty bite from his chocolate-filled plate.

"Today...?"

Another nod.

Shit, Jim thinks, because. Well. He sort of assumed his spilling the beans to David had ruined all chances of giving his mother what she so politely demanded of him in their last call. He hadn't done it on purpose, of course — hadn't intended to reveal to his nine-year-old son the fact that his only living grandparent has a tendency to be not only 'mean' but at times downright petulant — but the fact remains that it happened. And on Christmas Eve, too.

As much as he might want to do so for convenience's sake, Jim can't untell that tale. Can't say anything that'll make the Winona of it all any better.

"Is something wrong?" David asks when the Captain doesn't say more.

"Not at all," Jim assures the boy, and it's only kind of a lie. Nothing's wrong that can actually be fixed. "I was just wondering if we have enough time to play Go Fish before the call starts."

David blinks. Shifts on his feet. "Go Fish?" he eventually manages, and his hesitance is enough to help connect the dots for the still-sleepy captain.

If it were up to Jim and Jim alone, he'd say they start the damn game and see what happens. It doesn't hurt to take a pause, after all (and in fact, if there's anything Jim's learned in his years as a decorated Starfleet captain, it's that time away from a problem can be just the thing to provide some much-needed perspective). But it's not just up to Jim this time around. It's up to David, too — and David hates leaving games unfinished.

Even just pausing one to eat dinner is enough to make the kid's skin crawl. He's still polite as ever when it happens, mind you — always trying his darnedest not to interrupt the flow of conversation, even whilst in active discomfort — but Jim knows David well enough at this point to spot the subtle differences in body language. The way the kid bounces one leg, or holds onto Richard the tiniest bit tighter...

Jim's not so naive as to believe he can shield his son from everything (or even most things, really), but he can certainly do his part when it comes to unfinished games. Even if he's a bit foggy on the 'why' of it all.

And so Kirk decides "Probably not," and pushes away from the table with both hands.

It wouldn't be right to define the decision as purely altruistic, mind you, because it's not. Jim's not. He wants to make his kid happy, of course — wants to be the source of that smile more than he wants just about anything — but he also wants to make it through Christmas day in one piece. Preferably with his sanity safely intact. 

In other words, the last thing Jim needs is a cranky child to go along with his very own cranky child-mother. He'd do just about anything to avoid that particular fate.

"We should figure out how we wanna do this, seating-wise. Would you rather we clear these gifts to make room on your desk, or head into my quarters and take the call there instead...?"

"Let's stay here," David decides almost immediately. "We can put them under the coffee table."

The boy retrieves Richard from under one arm. He tiptoes on over to what was once Spock's bed, leaning the ratty animal up against the pillows. He even checks to make sure Richard's got an acceptable vantage point from which to watch them work.

"You sure he doesn't wanna wear one of his new shirts?" Jim tries whilst he reaches for the first gift. David huffs.

"Of course he wants to," the boy says like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Jim suppresses a giggle. Then David adds, "But he can't wear it when he's not on duty — that would be confusing," and his whole damn heart swells up with adoration.

"Duh! What was I thinking?" the captain replies, lightly smacking an open palm against his forehead. He raises his voice just slightly before adding, "Sorry about that, Richard."

David cranes his neck to look directly at the animal. After a few long seconds where it almost seems like he truly can hear something, the boy looks back at Jim and says, "Richard says he forgives you."

So damn serious. Kirk nearly splits his lip trying to bite back the instinctual laughter. "I'm glad to hear it. Now how 'bout you grab that box to your right..."

Jim holds his breath while they wait for Winona to answer.

The call rings...

and rings...

Eventually, after what feels like a damn century, a familiar face flickers across David's viewscreen. Jim's audible intake of breath is followed quickly thereafter by an enthusiastic (though hardly genuine), "Hey, Mom! Merry Christmas."

To Jim's left, David stills. Shit, the Captain thinks, and then—

"Oh, there he is!" Winona coos, extending her arms forward as if she could grab her grandson through the screen by sheer force of will. "C'mere, David. Lemme get a look at you."

The boy hesitates for just a second before rising from his seat. He takes several steps forward, bending his knees just slightly so the top of his head isn't cut off from view. He lets Richard dangle from one hand, remaining shy and silent in the seconds that follow.

Jim has half a mind to reach forward and end the call then and there. Can barely stand to watch the kid suffer.

"You look just like my Jimmy did at your age," Winona tells David through teary eyes. "Lots of Kirk in your face. But those curls? Pure Wimpole." She gestures to her own head when she says it — manually connecting the dots as if the boy doesn't have two perfectly functional eyes (not to mention test scores so far off the charts that their existence calls the efficacy of the charts themselves into question).

Resisting the urge to beg his mother to move things along, Jim settles into his seat. He watches. Listens. Waits for something he can't quite put a name to. Something that, in all honesty, might not even exist.

"... and I hear your grades are just out of this world," Winona's saying, and David's smiling like he won the damn lottery. When he eventually shifts his hold on Richard, bringing the creature into view, Winona lets out a sound of subtle intrigue. "Who's your friend there, David?"

"Richard," the boy manages, sounding equal parts excited and terrified at the prospect of having to string together more than two words at a time.

Winona hums, thoughtful. "Richard looks well-loved," she tells him, and David's lips quirk up into an almost-smile.

"He's a very good listener."

"A good listener, huh? Even with only one ear?"

David manages a quiet mhm, pressing his face into Richard's once-soft fur. The boy inhales shakily for several seconds before he quietly adds, "Mum says it makes him an ideal lab partner, since Richard has to play closer attention than the other rabbits do."

"David here is a natural-born scientist," Jim can't help but interject, his blue eyes glistening with pride.

Winona laughs, then says, "I can see that. I just hope he's more responsible than my boys were when it comes to any 'experiments.' God knows I replaced enough windows in my time..."

"David is very responsible," Jim assures her, pointedly ignoring the dig at his younger self (and his subsequent urge to remind the woman, in thorough detail, just how many of those windows were broken by Frank's hand, rather than his or Sam's). Instead he moves out of the way so that he's no longer obstructing his mother's view of David's immaculately-made bed, then adds, "Thorough, too. The yeomen were beside themselves when they first saw his hospital corners."

At which point David turns red to the tips of his ears. "It's just the way Mum taught me to do it," he insists, voice cracking slightly at the end. "I dunno why Yeoman Rand gets so excited..."

"Because Janice is an extremely detail-oriented woman," Jim supplies easily, offering a smile when David turns to face him more directly. "Here, you can come sit back down. I think she's gotten her look by now."

Winona scoffs, and Jim can tell before she even speaks that she's got venom on the tip of her tongue. She surprises him by exhaling audibly, closing her eyes for several seconds, and then softly wondering, "What'd you get for Christmas, David?"

(What the hell?)

"So many things!" the boy exclaims. "Would you like to see them, Winona?"

A pause, and then: "You can call me 'Winnie,' sweetheart. Unless you'd prefer something like 'Nana'...?"

The boy hesitates for just a second before he quietly says, "Winnie's fine."

It's only because Jim can read his mother like a book that he's able to interpret her polite smile as anything but, once he sees it spread across her twitching lips. Something about the look in her eye sends a long-forgotten shiver up and down his spine — has him itching to open his mouth and say something he'll regret — but instead he remains still. Waits for someone else to make a move.

(It goes against his very nature, mind you, but he does it for David. The last thing the poor kid needs to witness at a time like this is an infamous Kirk family blowout.)

"Would you like to see my new action figures, Winnie? Father Christmas got me Doctor Mighty and the Night Nurse. Doctor Mighty even came with stethoscope nunchucks, which he can hold in his hand or wear around his neck depending on what form they're in..."

"I'd love to see them," Winona muses, speaking with far more patience than Jim ever remembers being afforded to himself or Sam during their youth. It feels sort of uncanny to witness. Almost makes Jim want to break his years-long vow of silence and finally reply to Sam's messages — if only to let his big brother know that their dear mother has been possessed by a seemingly benevolent demon who wants nothing more than to get to know her youngest grandchild.

Key word being 'almost.' Jim's opened enough familial cans of worms to last them until New Year's, at least. Maybe even his birthday in March.

The call is far more cordial than Jim expected it to be. Winona even gets a laugh out of him on two separate occasions (though the second has more to do with David's reaction to her words than the words themselves).

It helps, probably, that the main focus of their call is David rather than himself. Winona's far too preoccupied with interrogating the poor boy to meet her usual quota of passive aggression and backhanded compliments. It helps that David's pretty excited, too — especially once Jim's mother confirms that, yes, they do still have his comic collection somewhere in their attic — and doesn't seem to notice any underlying tension.

It also helps that Spock arrives right on time.

"... We'll talk again soon, I promise," Jim says for the second or third time. "Love you, Mom."

He orders the computer to let Spock in the second the call ends. The Vulcan — to his credit — doesn't comment on the unusually long wait in the hallway. He just enters David's quarters, arms full of boxes, and says, "Greetings, Gentlemen."

"Happy Christmas, Mr. Spock!" David exclaims, smiling from ear to ear. "Jim says you're gonna teach us to play Dreidel."

"Indeed I am."

Jim gets up from his seat, approaching the Vulcan with arms outstretched. "Need any help with those?" he asks, gesturing to the three boxes encircled in Spock's knit-clad arms. "Wait. Is that an ugly Chanukah sweater...?"

"If you could just clear a space," Spock suggests, pointedly ignoring the captain's second question.

Before Kirk can move to do just that, David's up and out of his seat. The boy quickly removes several gifts from the coffee table, stacking them on top of the other boxes beneath it. By the time he's done there's more than enough space for all three of Spock's boxes to be laid out quite nicely. "Is this enough...?" the boy wonders.

Spock nods. "That should be sufficient, yes."

"Presents first?" Jim suggests.

Spock nods again, then says, "The smallest of the three is intended for you two to share."

David visibly perks up at that. He looks between Jim and Spock several times before hesitantly raising a hand towards the present in question. "All yours, kid," Jim insists with a smile, and Spock hums his agreement.

The boy gingerly tears through Spock's meticulous wrapping. His actions eventually reveal a gorgeous, time-worn book with golden binding — one that, upon further inspection, strikes a chord of long-forgotten memory from deep within the captain. "Is that Alice...?" Jim's mouth asks before his mind can catch up to it.

"Indeed it is," the Vulcan confirms, then turns to face the boy directly. "Are you familiar with the story?"

David shrugs as if to say 'kind of.'

Jim says, "It's a classic." Spock, in turn, nods.

"I am well aware of your ability to read this material on your own, David — and I would in fact encourage you to do so — but I must admit my own preference, however illogical, to hear this particular tale spoken aloud during my youth. My mother was kind enough to indulge me in the practice long after I surpassed the purported 'appropriate' age for such actions."

David turns to look at Jim with eyes wide and honest. "Can we try that sometime?"

"Of course we can. Just say the word and I'm there."

"Okay," the boy breathes, and then, "Thank you, Mr. Spock. Is this what your Mum's copy looked like when you were little?"

When Spock goes on to say, "You are currently holding my mother's copy," Jim almost thinks he's dreaming.

"Spock," the captain gasps, completely taken off-guard. "That's— You shouldn't have..."

"I have no practical use for the text, Jim. It has collected dust on my shelves for nearly two decades now. It would bring me much satisfaction to honor my mother's memory by allowing it some long-awaited use — especially from one so imaginative as you, David. I have no doubt that you will benefit as I did from the words of one Lewis Carroll."

"Thank you," David says again, sounding about as awestruck as Jim feels. 

"Seriously, Spock. This is amazing."

The second gift comes inside of a medium-sized box. Jim holds his breath whilst his son opens it — half-expecting to be presented with yet another priceless relic from the Vulcan's past. What he ends up seeing instead is perhaps the most gorgeous chess set Jim has ever come across (not to mention brand spanking new, by the looks of it).

"This is for me?" the boy questions. His voice cracks just slightly at the end of his sentence.

"You deserve it, David," Jim insists in response — because he does. "And it's obvious you enjoy playing. Why should that be limited to the times when one or both of us is around to share a board?"

(Kirk makes a mental note to thank Spock for that one later. He was really starting to miss having regular access to his own board whenever it was stationed in David's quarters.)

There's more gratitude — plus a not-insignificant amount of gushing — as the boy gawks at the gift in hand. It's several minutes before he manages to set the thing aside, reaching for the final gift in its larger, flatter box.

Jim's not sure what he's expecting to find when David lifts the top off of the thing, but it's certainly not what he sees. "Is that a kite...?" he asks just as the boy gasps aloud.

"I was inspired by our recent hypothetical discussion regarding the unique atmosphere of Xylos, David," Spock says by way of explanation. "I thought perhaps, if we have time — and if the Captain were to permit it, of course — we might test your kite-flying query for ourselves whilst planetside."

"Really?" David exclaims, utterly incredulous. "Oh, Jim — can we? Please...?"

"Tell you what. If all goes well down there tomorrow — and if Li-Xyl says it's okay, of course — the two of you can sneak off and nerd out to your hearts' content. Does that sound fair?"

When David squeaks out, "Very much so, yes!," he's still grinning from ear to ear.

"We should clear a space for our game," the Captain manages, earning an excited grin from the nine-year-old. A grin which grows by an almost worrying degree when Spock procures a small bag of coins from behind himself and says, "We will need these."

"Is that chocolate?" David gasps, sounding so very earnest in his excitement. Jim smirks. Meets Spock's eye, then shrugs as if to say, 'Well, is it?'

"You are both welcome to see for yourselves upon the conclusion of our game — should you have any gelt left to speak of between the two of you, that is."

Which sounds a whole lot like fighting words, if you ask Jim.

The game is simple. Spock wasn't lying about that.

It starts with the Vulcan doling out ten coins to each of them. Jim eyes the items, lifting one up to test its weight. "Huh," he muses, at which point Spock gives him a look. "What? I said nothing."

"Smells like chocolate to me," David quietly notes. Jim can't help but laugh at the way one of Spock's eyebrows shoots straight up in response.

"He's got a point, Spock. Plus they're not heavy enough to be real coins."

"Are real coins very heavy?" David inquires softly.

At which point Jim remembers that most people haven't encountered countless forms of currency in their lifetimes. Especially not when those people are only nine years old. So he says, "On some planets, yes," making sure to offer the boy a kind, patient smile.

"Why would anyone want to use them? Credits don't weigh anything at all."

"Well," Jim starts, suddenly empathizing with the version of Winona who was forced to endure his own never-ending 'why' phase. "Not every planet has credits. Some aren't technologically advanced enough. Others have practical reasons for using physical currency. Isn't that right, Spock?"

The Vulcan nods. "Indeed. If a planet is particularly susceptible to solar flares, for example, its inhabitants might experience outages lasting from seconds to hours. In order to avoid a halt in commerce during these moments, said inhabitants may choose to rely on something they can hold in their hands."

"Oh," David murmurs, looking thoughtful for a moment. "That makes sense."

"Next time we're on Earth, you've gotta come see my great-grandad's old coin collection," Jim can't help but blurt out. "He left it all to my Dad when he died — which means it belongs to me and my brother Sam now, though Sammy's not claiming it anytime soon. Some of the stuff in there is even pre-First Contact."

David's eyes widen. "Really?"

"Mhm. Let's not talk about that now, though. Mr. Spock was just about to tell us how this works..."

Which he does. Quite efficiently, too. Jim tries not to be too obvious about the stars in his eyes, resting his chin on one hand, but it's difficult when everything the Vulcan does is so damn charming.

In the end, Kirk's lucky the game is so simple. He's not sure he would've retained anything more complicated than Gimel, Hey, Nun, and Shin.

They're several rounds in — Jim having just run out of coins after one too many unlucky spins — when David says, "I think I like this game."

"I did like it," the captain grumbles, though he makes sure to smile when David catches his eye. "Then a certain someone wouldn't lend me any of his gelt!"

"I only had two pieces," David argues, sounding just the tiniest bit indignant. "You could've asked Mr. Spock instead! He had plenty."

"You could have," Spock agrees.

And David's petulant frown quite literally turns upside-down in the span of an instant. "See, Jim? It's not my fault you got out!"

"Fine, fine," the captain acquiesces, raising both hands in defeat. "Keep on playing, boys."

For the better part of the afternoon, Jim's stuck somewhere between never wanting this moment to end and being unable to stand it for another second. It's equal parts adorable and terrifying, seeing his son and first officer get along like they have since David's arrival. Watching them build a steady rapport.

On the one hand Jim's ecstatic, but on the other...

Well. It's not like he doesn't realize he's essentially shooting himself in the foot here. Dooming himself to be the underdog in just about every argument for who-knows-how-long. It's hard enough for Jim to hold his own with one or the other when they disagree, much less both David and Spock at once.

But what's Jim gonna do? Not do whatever he can to help his kid feel safe and happy? 

He unwraps one of the ten gold coins David kindly handed over after winning the entire pot of gelt and raises it to his lips. The candy is sweet on his tongue — if not a bit tinny, though that's true of most replicated food. "Mmm," he hums aloud, mostly just to get the Vulcan's attention. He waits until those brown eyes are on him to add, "You gonna try some of this, Mr. Spock?"

"Not at present," the Vulcan says, which very much isn't a 'no.'

Jim makes a note to set aside some of the coins for tonight's get-together. Just in case.

Chapter Text

Jim, David, and Spock are the first guests to arrive for Nyota's annual Christmas dinner. She and Chapel are still getting things in order, moving around one another in the little kitchenette like they've been doing it all their lives, when the door slides open.

"Chris!" the communications officer excitedly exclaims, elbowing her partner in the side to get her attention. "The boys are here. Can you show them where to leave their shoes...?"

Chapel brushes past her girlfriend, wiping both hands on her Kiss the Cook apron, and does just that.

Only once the three of them have stepped out of their respective footwear and entered the room does Spock ask, "How many place settings so you require?," with that infuriatingly kind voice of his. There's absolutely no lead-up. No 'do you need help?' — because, of course, Spock already knows exactly what the communications officer needs. He doesn't even have to ask.

Once upon a time, Spock was cohost of this very dinner.

Once upon a time, these quarters were basically his.

(It feels faraway and hard to believe these days, but it's true. It only takes watching the Vulcan move through the space with graceful familiarity to have it all come rushing back.)

"Ten, I think," is Nyota's distracted response to Spock's query. She's using tongs to toss a comically large bowl of salad as she speaks.

"Eleven, darling," Chapel counters with a hum as she reenters the kitchen. When Uhura makes a questioning noise, still not looking up from her task, the nurse adds, "The five of us plus Gaila, Pavel, Monty, Keenser, Len, and Hikaru. That's eleven."

Any lingering worry stirred up by Spock's familiarity with the space is snuffed out entirely when Jim watches Uhura pause mid-stir, craning her neck around to lock eyes with Chapel. "You're so smart," she muses softly, then completely abandons her task to in favor of pressing a sweet kiss against one blushing cheek — only for the blonde to tilt her head so that those red-painted lips press against her own instead.

The tongs make a quiet clank against the side of the salad bowl when Uhura drops them.

The kiss the ladies share is chaste, all things considered. Hardly more than a peck. But the way the two of them fit together — the way both Chapel and Uhura seem to melt every time their skin touches — is undeniably... intimate. It leaves no room for any 'what if' where a certain pointy-eared science officer is concerned.

Uhura pulls back a few seconds later. She doesn't look away from the nurse for even a second when she says, "Eleven please. Thanks, Spock."

Jim has no right to feel relieved at the proof of dedication, and yet he does. "We'll do the silverware," he announces, gesturing for David to follow him further into the room. "How 'bout you grab eleven forks and I'll grab eleven knives?"

Over her shoulder, Chapel calls out, "We need spoons, too!"

"Don't tell me Gaila's bringing soup again," Jim grumbles back, remembering with a shiver the fiasco that was Scotty's birthday dinner. He's not sure he'll ever truly get the taste of wing-slug out of his mouth.

"Not if she wants to make it through the night she won't," Uhura scoffs. Then she turns to the Captain and adds in a stage whisper, "The spoons are for dessert."

At which point David gasps, eyes wide, and exclaims, "Dessert! What is it?"

Chapel, who has taken up the mantle on Nyota's abandoned salad, distractedly says, "It's a surprise." 

Before David can object to that response, the door slides open to reveal Keenser and Scotty — the latter of whom is holding a comically large bottle of Andorian ale in both hands. He locks eyes with Jim, smile bright, and gestures to the drink with a point of his bearded chin.

"Scotty, you rascal," the Captain exclaims, blowing several exaggerated kisses in the engineer's direction. "You shouldn't have!"

"No liquor 'til after dinner, boys," Uhura chides (earning a grateful hum from her girlfriend who, by the looks of it, has moved on from the salad in favor of poking at who-knows-what in the oven). "You can put it on the counter, Scotty. Over by the coffee mugs."

"One round wouldn't hurt anyone," Jim argues, only to find himself on the receiving end of a particularly scathing scowl a moment later.

"After dinner," Nyota insists again. Kirk nearly flinches in response. How can someone so tiny induce such a sense of foreboding with nothing more than a stern voice and a look?

In the end, Jim has to bite his tongue in order to refrain from calling his friend a 'party pooper' in front of his impressionable nine-year-old. He reminds himself that it's Christmas — whatever the hell that's supposed to mean — and that David, as sweet and gentle as he may be now, still has time left to become an asshole if he's not shown the right sort of example.

Because the truth of the matter is this: Jim's almost certain he and Sam were that sweet once, too. He can't help but wonder if they might've remained like that — to some extent, at least — if the circumstances had been different. If Winona had been different.

"Do you care where we sit, Nyota?" he asks instead of challenging the woman's ever-sound judgment.

Uhura smiles, eyes glistening with an emotion Jim can't quite place (pride, maybe?). "Sit wherever," she insists, gesturing towards the still-unset table. She leans in closer to the captain then, lowering her voice to softly add, "You're really good with him, you know."

"He's a good kid," Jim whispers back.

"One of these days you'll have to learn to take a compliment, Captain."

"Mhm. One of these days."

That's when Sulu and Chekov enter, capturing the attention of the entire room. Jim waves his own 'hello,' vowing to do a more in-depth greeting later. He takes Nyota's preoccupation with the pair as an opportunity to call David over to the silverware drawer.

"You know which side the forks go on?" David nods. Jim's hand twitches at his side — wanting to reach out and pat at the boy's curly head — but he shoves it into his pocket instead. "'Course you do, smarty pants."

"It's not exactly complicated," David counters, and Jim shrugs.

"Sounds like something a smarty pants would say."

Bones enters the room just as Jim is placing the final knife and spoon in their appropriate spots. David, who finished with the forks approximately thirty seconds earlier, shoots up from his chosen seat with wide, interested eyes. He places Richard neatly in the spot where he'd been seated moments before. Then he starts barreling towards the doctor with enough energy to power the whole damn ship in perpetuity.

Jim's surprised, for a moment, at his son's reaction to the man's presence. The kid likes Bones just fine, mind you, but it's not the same as with Spock. David hasn't been picking up Bones's mannerisms like it's his damn job. The recent uptick in his use of the word 'fascinating' isn't mirrored by any version of the phrase 'dammit, Jim.' 

Then David asks, "Are those chocolate chip?," and suddenly the world makes sense again.

Of course it's a plate of cookies that's got his boy so excited. David Marcus is a damn sweets fiend, after all.

"Let's not spoil our dinner," Jim calls out, hating how much he sounds like his mother when he says it. 

"You heard the man, David. How 'bout you help me find a clear spot for these..."

Which the boy manages to do without once taking his eyes off of the aforementioned cookies. Jim can't help but chuckle in quiet affection as he watches the scene play out.

Kirk is so engrossed in the action that doesn't realize he has company until he hears the low rumble of Spock's voice — far closer than he would've imagined it — softly noting, "His single-minded focus is impressive." He jumps, just slightly, before he's able to collect himself enough to meet the Vulcan's admiring gaze.

"Poor kid never stood a chance on that front," Jim agrees. "Not when he had stubborn coming in from both sides of the bloodline."

"I suppose not," Spock says, sounding almost... amused.

Just as Jim's about to counter with another retort of his own, Gaila enters the room. She's got two unopened bottles of Orion wine, one in each hand, and her face is flushed green like she just ran all the way from the other side of the ship to get here. "I promise it's not my fault this time," she sputters, and Jim lets out a quiet snort.

"Why not?" Chapel counters confidently. She grunts with exertion, bending over to retrieve one of several trays of food from the oven, then stands up straight again and adds, "Did you run into traffic or something...?"

At which point Uhura and Gaila end up talking over one another — one of them softly admonishing her lover's teasing, whilst the other hurls sass in said lover's direction. Jim chuckles softly. He lets his gaze flick back to his son and feels an increasingly familiar sense of warmth in his chest at the sight of David's bright, genuine smile.

It might be Jim's favorite thing, seeing his kid happy. He never wants it to stop.

David and the doctor are huddled close together in the kitchenette, keeping their voices low as if they're sharing the most fascinating secret. If they're at all aware of the chaos occurring just a few footsteps away, they don't show it.

"I wonder what they're talking about," Jim says — joking, mostly — but then Spock clears his throat.

"Do you truly wish to know?" the Vulcan asks. After a second of hesitation, Jim nods (it's nothing he couldn't gather by sneaking a bit closer and listening for himself, he reasons — so really, what's the harm?). Spock blinks, then says, "They are discussing the McCoy family cookie recipe."

Which very much isn't what the captain expected to hear. "They are...?"

A nod. "David is attempting to ascertain the identity of a so-called 'secret ingredient.' The doctor appears hesitant to share this information, though his resolve has continued to falter."

Jim can't help it. He lets out a big, hearty laugh. The sound is enough to pull Gaila away from her and Chapel's bickering. He just narrowly avoids a concussion when the Orion barrels on over to him and wraps her arms around his neck without bothering to set down the two gigantic bottles of wine. "Gah!" Kirk grunts aloud, prompting Spock into action.

"Allow me to take those, Lieutenant," he asserts, and then suddenly Jim can breathe again.

"Thanks, Spock," Jim manages. His voice is muffled by the scratchy fabric of Gaila's turtleneck. Over her shoulder, his eyes follow his first officer all the way into the kitchen — where Spock proceeds to spend a good thirty seconds arranging both wine bottles around Scotty's bottle of Andorian ale.

Gaila's voice is soft and knowing when she leans in close to Jim's ear and murmurs, "Pretty hot bodyguard you got there."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Jim lies. He wonders if Spock is listening from the kitchen.

"Sure you don't, handsome."

Jim's just about to formulate something resembling a comeback when Uhura claps her hands together, capturing every dinner-goer's attention in an instant. "Time to grab a plate, everybody! I've marked the veggie dishes with green toothpicks, so Spock and David should keep an eye out for those..."

Dinner is exceptional, because of course it is. Nyota and Christine are already top-tier hosts when it's just one of them, but together...? There aren't words that can describe the symphony of flavor happening in Jim Kirk's mouth at this particular moment. His voice is muffled slightly when he says, "The sauce on this stir fry is fantastic." He makes a point to chew and swallow the remaining food in his mouth before adding, "Seriously, Ny. Did you make this yourself?"

"I'm offended you even have to ask," is the communications officer's lighthearted reply.

Gaila pipes in to note, "Goes great with the wine, too," and Jim nods. He's only had a few sips so far — hardly enough to get him tipsy, let alone drunk — but the movement sends a pleasant rush through his system that has him fighting off the urge to burst into an inexplicable fit of giggles.

Then Bones says something about his mother's gumbo recipe that capture's everyone's attention and garners a few hearty laughs. Only then, once their fellow dinner guests are preoccupied with the country doctor's special brand of charm, does Nyota turn to Spock — her gaze going soft — and quietly whisper, "It's nice to see you wearing your sweater again."

Jim feels like he's intruding on a private moment.

(Not that it stops him from listening, mind you, but at least he feels sort of bad about it.)

Spock's voice is still and calm when he says, "It seemed the appropriate attire for teaching the Captain and David to play dreidel."

At which point the ever-demure woman's smile twitches downward slightly. Nyota's eyes start to mist up a bit, causing her to have to clear her throat twice before she manages to say, "It's perfect for playing dreidel. And I think— I think Amanda would say the same, if she were here. I think seeing you like this would've made her really happy."

David — who had, up until that point, been entirely engrossed in Doctor McCoy's delicious diatribe — springs into action like a sleeper agent activated by the sound of his favorite communications officer in distress. His voice is soft and caring when he asks the woman, "Are you all right, Miss Uhura...?"

(He sounds so damn much like Carol. It makes Jim's heart hurt.)

"I'm okay, David," Nyota insists immediately. She tries blinking several times in an attempt to expel the unwanted tears, then ends up wiping them away with hurried fingers when that fails. Chapel, who became aware of her partner's sudden shift in demeanor around the same time as David did, places a gentle hand on Uhura's shaking shoulder. "Really. It's nothing. I just— I get a little emotional around the holidays, is all."

"Oh," the boy says. He holds Uhura's gaze for several seconds more, mind clearly swirling with a billion unanswered questions. Only once he appears satisfied with Chapel's ability to comfort the woman without his help does David turn to Spock and ask in turn, "Who's Amanda...?"

Oh god, Jim thinks, because— oh god.

But of course, because it's Spock, Jim soon realizes he has nothing to be worried about. The Vulcan's tone is calm and steady as ever when he tells David, "Amanda was my mother." There's not a hint of grief or discomfort to be found. Just that reliable Vulcan matter-of-factness that Jim wishes he didn't find so goddamn attractive.

"Oh," David repeats, softer now. Then his cheeks go pink with embarrassment. Jim realizes, with a lurch in his stomach, that the whole table (including himself) has eyes on the boy. It's basically David's worst nightmare. "I'm sorry for asking."

"Apologies are unnecessary. My mother was a woman of many talents who quite enjoyed hearing those talents praised. Were she alive today, I believe she would find this particular discussion flattering."

Uhura hums her agreement, then clears her throat. "She, uh— she knitted Spock's Chanukah sweater. Made him wear it every single night of the holiday, every year. He's had the thing for more than two decades, if you can believe it."

"No way," Chapel pipes in, sounding genuinely shocked. She leans forward just slightly, inspecting Spock's menorah-clad chest from across the table with narrowed eyes. "And the stitching's still that immaculate...?"

"Yarn made from sha'amii wool is uniquely durable," Spock explains easily, "with a tensile strength that far exceeds any of Earth's natural alternatives. It is said that a well-stitched garment can last up to three generations of daily wear before mending is required."

"It's also really soft," Nyota adds wistfully. "Puts cashmere to shame."

Jim resists the urge to reach out and feel for himself — shoving a curious hand in his pocket for the second time tonight. It helps that David takes his responding silence as an opportunity to quietly ask, "What does cashmere feel like?," just loud enough for Jim to hear it.

"To tell you the truth, bud, I've never touched it myself — though I'm told it's very soft."

"Softer than a tribble?"

Jim balks. "I— are you saying you've touched a tribble before...?"

"No, but Mum did once. She says it's the softest thing she's ever felt."

Jim hums, considering this fact, then raises his voice for the whole table to hear. "What do we think is softer everyone: cashmere, or a tribble? Inquiring minds would like to know."

"Cashmere for sure," Chapel asserts, just as Chekov says, "Tribbles!"

"Sha'amii is softer than both by far," Spock counters. The Captain shoots him an unconvinced look, at which point Spock simply extends his arm across the table, allowing it to hover in the space between Jim and David's plates (both of which are clean — aside from two identical piles of untouched asparagus), and says, "Feel for yourself."

David does so with minimal hesitation. He lets out a quiet gasp when his fingers make contact with the blue, white, and golden fibers of the meticulously crafted garment. It isn't until he's got both hands on the sleeve that David manages to utter a soft, "No way."

"It can't be that soft," the Captain muses. Bones huffs in what he can only assume is agreement (ever the skeptic, that one). Jim waits until the boy pulls back from the garment to gesture towards Spock's still-extended arm and ask, "May I?"

"Despite your decision to call the garment 'ugly' only this morning, Captain, I will allow it."

Jim's face is hot when his fingers finally make contact with Spock's sleeve. The gasp he lets out is near-identical to David's — though the additional "Holy shit," is pure Jim. The Captain can only imagine how red his cheeks are by the time he clears his throat and manages, "Sorry, everyone. Bad habit."

"I'll say," Bones grumbles under his breath (as if Dr. Foulmouth himself couldn't keep up with the raunchiest of sailors on his calmest day). Jim shoots the doctor dagger eyes — which the bastard has seemingly become immune to, as of late — and vows to get him back at a later time.

"I concur, Mr. Spock," the Captain eventually manages, still holding onto the sleeve. "This is much softer than a tribble."

"Did Jimmy Kirk just admit to being wrong without a phaser to his head?" Bones asks the table. He waits a moment for confirmation, smiling wolfishly at his so-called 'best friend,' and joyfully adds, "It's a Christmas miracle!"

Jim lets go of the impossibly soft material just as the table erupts into laughter. Spock's arm hovers there for a moment too long before returning to his side of the table. The Vulcan proceeds to adjust the placement of the silverware beside his own empty plate (sans asparagus, unlike Jim and David). Kirk tries not to stare too longingly at those lithe fingers whilst he waits for their fellow guests to finish up their meals. 

There aren't many perks to growing up with an alcoholic for a stepfather.

Even the things that felt like perks in Jim's youth — namely, easy access to liquor and little to no supervision once his Mom went to work — just seem wrong looking back. Jim never should've had the chance to dilute Frank's vodka with tap water at the tender age of fourteen. He definitely shouldn't have been on the receiving end of the asshole's boundless anger, either. Shouldn't have been made to feel like a burden for having the nerve to face a literal massacre and live to tell the tale.

(Not that Jim makes a habit of telling that particular tale, mind you, but— y'know. Figure of speech.)

One silver lining — if it can even be called that, really — is that James T. Kirk knows how to be just the right amount of drunk to avoid scaring a child. He's been nursing one singular glass of wine since dinner, head humming with a nice sort of buzz, and David's been right there beside him. Smiling, laughing. Begging for a second helping of Chapel's famous pudding with a face full of cookie crumbs.

It's just past 2200 when the boy tries and fails to hide a yawn in his palm. "You tired, bud?" Jim asks, and David shrugs.

"A little, yeah."

"I don't blame you. It's been quite the day! We gotta say our goodbyes first, but then you and I can head out. That sound good?"

"Mhm..."

David's swaying on his feet while they make the rounds. Jim tries his best to make it quick. He steadies the boy with a hand on each shoulder, exchanging smiles with his friends and making sure to thank their hosts for such a wonderful evening. Scotty gives Jim a bit of a hard time — "But you only just got here, laddies," he insists — but one look at the half-asleep nine-year-old is enough to change his tune. 

It's Spock they speak to last. "I enjoyed our time together today," he tells David, though his gaze flickers to Jim for a few long seconds after he says it.

"G'night, Mr. Spock," David manages with a sleepy smile. The poor kid can barely keep his eyes open.

Though Spock doesn't smile back with his mouth, the way his eyes sparkle when he says, "Sleep well, David," feels about the same to Jim.

"You okay to walk, or do you need me to carry you?" Jim asks once they're out in the hallway.

David mumbles something unintelligible in response.

"All right, then. Hold onto Richard for me."

It's clumsy and unpracticed, and Kirk nearly knocks the both of them over in the process, but eventually he manages to scoop the sleepy child up in his arms. David holds Richard close to his chest, lids fluttering like he's already in dreamland.

Jim swallows around something hard in his throat.

It's easier to enter David's quarters through their shared bathroom than it is to ask the half-asleep boy to recall his access code. Jim brings them through his own door, still cradling David in his arms, and obliges the boy's less-than-coherent request for a pit stop so he can brush his teeth.

Jim ends up standing there, steading David with one hand and holding onto Richard with the other, for two whole minutes. Afterwards he tucks the boy into bed, brushing his curls off of his face, and whispers, "Merry Christmas, David."

The boy hums, clutching Richard a bit tighter to his chest. "You too," he manages, and Jim smiles. Kirk has just started to pull away, still unable to tear his gaze from the boy's weary form, when David softly adds, "Don't go to bed yet."

"Why not? You want me to read you something?"

David shakes his head. "Party," he grumbles, sounding insistent. "Still happening." Jim laughs.

"It's still happening, yeah. But I had a long day, too, so—"

"Party."

"You want me to go back to the party...?" David nods. "You're sure?" Another nod. "Yeah, okay. I'll go back for a little while. I'll have my comm on me, though, if you need anything. Seriously— anything."

The boy nods, shoving his face into Richard's pilly fur, and says something that sounds vaguely like, "G'night, Jim."

Within a minute his breath reaches a steady rhythm. Jim smiles, pulling the comforter over his son's shoulder, and presses a gentle kiss to David's forehead. "Good night, sweet boy."

Chapter Text

Jim gets back to Nyota's room just in time, it seems, to catch Mr. Spock ducking out of the party far too early for someone who doesn't have a child-shaped excuse in his back pocket.

"And just where do you think you're going?" Jim hums, crossing both arms over his chest and giving his first officer an unimpressed look.

Spock doesn't miss a beat. "Wherever you wish, I would presume."

(And it shouldn't be so damn hot to hear. Not when Jim's only one drink in, anyway. How does Spock always manage to do that?)

"Yeah? Well, turn around then. Night's only just starting."

"Need I remind you that we have yet another holiday celebration scheduled for tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow afternoon, Mr. Spock. You'll still have plenty of time to catch up on your beauty sleep if you humor me for a little while longer."

The second Jim reenters the party, the room erupts into chaos.

"Captain!" Chekov exclaims, just as Sulu muses, "Back for more already?"

Then Kirk steps aside, revealing his Vulcan companion, and the crowd goes even wilder. Jim waits until their drunken cheers have died down to announce, "Found this one sneaking out while I was on my way back. Did you guys even try to make him stay...?"

He's joking. Mostly. Doesn't mean he doesn't notice how Uhura's face twists up with guilt when she finally meets his gaze.

It used to be that no one but Nyota could get Spock to stick around for events like this. At some point between being choked out by the guy on the bridge and literally dying in front of him, Jim entered those ranks, too. They worked as a team — him and Uhura — coming at Spock from both sides. Making him see the sense in showing his face.

And they functioned just fine like that for years. Nearly a whole damn decade.

Then came the break-up. Amicable or not, it changed things in ways that continue to reveal themselves.

One prime example being the fact that, nowadays, Jim is the sole member of the 'Spock Needs to Socialize' club. He's President and Vice President and Chief of Commerce all rolled into one — and he's starting to think the elections are rigged, honestly, because he keeps on winning by a landslide.

(Doesn't anybody else care about making the Vulcan feel like his presence is not only welcome but wanted? Is Jim truly the only one?)

"I need a drink," Kirk announces, and Scotty actually wahoo's.

"Finally! C'mere, take a shot with me."

Gaila makes her own celebratory noise. "Let's all do one together! How many shot glasses d'you have in here, Ny...?"

"Way less than ten."

"Eight less, to be exact," Chapel adds.

Beside Jim, Spock clears his throat. "As I am physically incapable of partaking in this particular activity, you needn't include me in your calculations."

"Hey now," Jim counters, slowly turning on the Vulcan with a devilish smile. "Your inability to get drunk on liquor doesn't immediately exclude you from tonight's festivities. Tell me, Mr. Spock: how many chocolate coins d'you think it'd take to equal up to one shot?"

Kirk procures the small bag of gelt he grabbed from his quarters, shaking it pointedly. Spock has the gall to look downright unimpressed whilst saying absolutely nothing..

"What? Isn't that how Vulcans get drunk...?"

"In the literal sense, yes. We do, however, have preferences — just as humans do — and this particular chocolate leaves much to be desired in terms of flavor. To consume it would be an affront to my senses."

Jim explodes into laughter almost instantly. "Well, we wouldn't want that! How 'bout if it was a different kind of chocolate, though? Maybe something a bit more, I dunno... artisanal? Would that get you to finally let loose for once?"

Spock blinks. "In theory, yes," he says, voice soft and low. "However—"

"Hey, Gaila," Jim interrupts. He manages to capture the Orion's attention just as she's about to exit through the sliding door. "You going to your quarters?" A nod. "Wanna bring back some of your fancy chocolates for Mr. Spock? I'll reimburse you for 'em, of course."

The look on Gaila's face can only be described as pure glee. Her gaze darts between Jim and Spock several times before she manages to say, "I'll grab the chocolates, yes — but it's my treat. You're not paying me a cent."

And then she's gone. Jim doesn't even have the time to think up a half-decent rebuttal.

Gaila comes back less than five minutes later with four shot glasses stacked on top of one another in one hand. In the other are three different bars of chocolate. "I didn't know what would be best, so I just grabbed everything," she tells Jim. "Monty still not back...?"

As if summoned by the mere mention of his lesser-used nickname, Scotty reenters the room seconds later. He's got four shot glasses, plus one double — all stacked on top of one another far more precariously than Gaila's collection. Uhura must notice this, too, because she darts in the engineer's direction at damn near warp speed. "I'll be taking those," she singsongs. Scotty only hesitates for a second before handing them over.

"I'll be back for 'em bright and early tomorrow," he warns, and Nyota smiles.

"I'd expect nothing less."

Beside Jim, Spock shifts on his feet. "To purposefully consume an intoxicant is—"

"—very fucking illogical, I know," Jim finishes for him. Spock's mouth twitches at one corner.

"I would not have used those exact words."

"Sure you would. That aside, though: what's a little illogicality between friends? Would it hurt to indulge me, just this once...?"

Three minutes later they're stood around the table, all ten of them. One singular chair remains untucked, allowing Keenser to stand at eye-level with his friends. He blinks affectionately at Jim, eye-stalks twitching ever-so-slightly with the movement, and Kirk smiles gleefully back at him.

"Everybody ready?" the Captain asks, eyeing the assortment on the table before them: nine shot glasses filled to the brim with blue liquid, plus one stack of chocolate squares resting quite comfortably on a napkin that bears a seasonally-appropriate red and green plaid pattern.

Affirmative hums inspire Kirk to reach for the glass directly in front of him. He raises it toward the center of the table, smiling when his eight fellow drinkers do the same. Only once they're all holding out their shot glasses does Spock grab the stacked chocolates from the napkin, allowing them to rest in his palm. "I cannot consume this with the adequate haste," he notes — like it's only just occurred to him.

"Just try your best, Spock," Kirk encourages, bumping shoulders with the Vulcan stood to his left. He has to bite back the urge to laugh at the sheer sincerity behind Spock's words.

"Don't go too fast, though," McCoy interjects from across the table. "My Heimlich's much less effective once I've had a few."

Several pairs of eyes sparkle with mirth in the quiet seconds that follow. Jim allows them all to soak it in for a few short moments before he says, "All right then. On three...?"

So they take a shot.

And another.

Jim doesn't even try to keep count after the third one (or was it the fourth...?). His mind catches up to his body sometime later, at which point he finds himself seated opposite Sulu on Uhura's pillow-filled couch. Their legs are tangled together on the unoccupied cushion between them — which would feel a bit awkward, maybe, if they weren't both three sheets to the wind. Which they are, so. Y'know.

"Demora's always had this thing about, like—" Sulu pauses, gesturing vaguely around himself "—ambiance, or whatever. Wait. S'that how you say the word...?"

"'Am-bi-ance,'" Jim murmurs, testing out the shape of the syllables in his mouth. "As in, like... vibes?"

At which point Sulu nods, eyes closed, and smiles a bit dopily. "Yeah, y'know. Sounds and colors n'stuff. Ben thinks she's gonna be an interior decorator."

"Yeah? And what d'you think?"

"Me?" Sulu questions, sitting up a bit straighter. He peeks one eye open when Jim hums the affirmative. "M'biased, obviously, but— I dunno. Somethin' tells me she belongs in the 'fleet. Maybe even at the helm."

Jim's responding smile is genuine. He and Sulu enjoy a minute or two of comfortable silence, soaking in the quiet (and, in some instances, not-so-quiet) hum of their friends' voices echoing around Nyota's quarters. Jim's just about to voice his own hypothesis about David's future in engineering when Dr. McCoy appears. "You two better make some room," he insists, and it doesn't sound like he's kidding.

"What...?" Jim starts, only to be all but shoved to one side of the couch by his cranky friend. He has no choice but to detach his legs from Sulu's, moving into a criss-cross position. He can only hope his stomach isn't too upset by the motion. "What the hell, Bones?"

"C'mon, Scotty. Bring 'im here."

Before Jim can complain about being blatantly ignored by his so-called 'best friend,' he catches sight of a familiar bowl cut — not quite as neat as it usually (always) is — swooshing this way and that with the motion of its owners bobbing head. He watches, awestruck, as Scotty guides an out-of-it Spock into a sitting position on the couch. "Y'alright, laddie?"

Spock's voice is remarkably steady when he looks up at the engineer and says, "I am tolerable."

Jim can't help but snort. "Just 'tolerable'?" he questions, and Spock's whole demeanor changes.

"Jim!" the Vulcan exclaims, turning bodily to face him. Sulu mutters something along the lines of 'what am I, chopped liver?,' and Jim might've spared a laugh if only he weren't suddenly captivated by those pretty brown eyes he so loves getting lost in. "You're back."

"Sure am. How's that chocolate treatin' you...?"

"I am intoxicated," is Spock's simple response.

Jim's lips twitch upwards without his permission. "Are you, now?" he muses, smile only growing when the Vulcan's brows start to crease together with thinly-veiled confusion. "M'just teasin'. How many pieces didya end up eating, anyway?"

It takes a few seconds for the words to compute. Spock sounds nearly-almost sure of himself when he says, "All of them."

Jim throws his head back and laughs.

"Okay, Spock," Sulu starts. The sound of his voice captures both members of the command team's attention (reminding Jim of the man's general existence, which seems to have slipped his mind around the same time Spock reentered his line of vision). "I gotta know. How's it compare to what Jim and I are feelin'?"

"'It'?" Spock echoes, cocking his head to the side.

"He means the chocolate," Jim supplies. He can't quite keep the teasing out of his tone — though, if Spock catches on, he certainly doesn't advertise as much.

"As I have not personally experienced human drunkenness, I cannot say for certain how my current state compares."

Jim lets out an exaggerated sigh. "You get the gist, though," he argues, stomach flooding with warm affection when Spock meets his gaze once more with a look of raw honesty. "I mean, with this party alone, you've got— let's see..."

"Shitty balance," Sulu supplies, gesturing towards McCoy — who just so happens to be tripping over his own two feet on his way back to the kitchen. If Leonard hears the comment, he sure doesn't say so out loud. Just grabs onto the counter for balance and keeps on moving.

"Thas'right," Jim manages, wincing when the syllables all blend together.

"Then we've got slurred speech," Sulu adds without missing a beat.

Kirk scoffs, craning his neck to look at Spock again. He gestures towards the bemused helmsman, then says, "Some of us get real red in the cheeks." He has to bite the insides of his own cheeks just to resist the urge to turn back and witness the indignation for himself when Sulu exaggeratedly gasps.

"Hey! These rosy cheeks landed me a smoking hot husband, I'll have you know!"

Spock clears his throat. "Gentlemen—" he starts, but Jim's having too much fun to stop now.

"Got any desire to dance on a table, Mr. Spock? 'Cause lemme tell you, someone on this couch gets real loose in the hips when the right song comes on..." 

"Not at the moment, no," Spock murmurs, voice wry. He ignores Jim's sly dig at their colleague (as well as Sulu's responding withering stare), then adds, "At present I am quite content to remain immobile."

Which is when the Vulcan's stomach growls. Loudly.

Jim and Sulu lock gazes behind Spock's back. They come to the same realization at the same exact time — faces lighting up with twin expressions of boyish glee. Jim can't quite keep the excitement out of his voice when he leans forward once more, facing Spock more directly, and asks, "Are you perhaps feeling a little snacky right now...?"

"'Snacky,' Captain?"

"In the mood for snacks," Sulu clarifies easily. He reaches around Spock to mess with Jim's hair, then adds, "If you're anything like this one, your stomach should feel like a black hole right about now. Kid used to eat through my entire pantry if I didn't keep an eye on 'im the whole time we hung out."

"You hungry enough to consume everything in your orbit?" Jim asks, pointedly ignoring Sulu's color commentary.

Spock considers the question for several long seconds before he says, "Not quite so ravenous, no, though I am indeed experiencing a depth of hunger that is... in misalignment, I suppose, with my recent nutrient intake. Is this a lesser-known symptom of one who has consumed alcohol in excess?"

"Yes and no," Sulu supplies unhelpfully. He's still smiling like an idiot.

Kirk can't help but lean a bit closer to the Vulcan, inhaling the familiar scent that radiates oh-so-sweetly from his skin. "Lemme look at your pupils."

"My pupils?" Spock questions, though he lets Jim maneuver him into position with one hand on each impossibly soft, sweater-clad shoulder (which — woah. Jim's still not over that texture). "I fail to see how this is relevant."

"Yeah, well. If you'd just sit still—"

But Spock's head is bobbing all over the place, and in the end it makes more sense for Kirk to grab the man by the face and stop the motion himself. "Captain?" the Vulcan tries, quieter now, but Jim pays him no mind.

"Can you blink for me? No, not— just do it how you'd normally blink, Spock. It's not a trick."

Jim lingers just a second too long after confirming his hypothesis. It just feels so nice, holding Spock like this. Feeling the warmth of those cheeks beneath his palms. When he pulls back, Sulu murmurs, "He's high, right?," and Jim can't help but laugh.

"As a damn kite, my friend. Which reminds me— did you hear what Spock got David for Christmas...?"

Sulu leaves the couch a few minutes later, citing his need for a 'big-ass glass of water.' Spock doesn't take the newly-vacated cushion as an opportunity to increase the minuscule space between his and Jim's bodies. If anything, Kirk is pretty sure the Vulcan comes closer.

Which may or may not be related to Jim's sudden inability to breathe in and out like a normal person.

"I can't believe Vulcans are secret stoners," the Captain says before his mind can catch up to his stupid, stupid mouth.

"'Secret stoners,'" Spock repeats slowly, and Jim lets out a nervous laugh.

"Y'might be the first Vulcan in history to use the word 'stoner' in a sentence."

"As a sentence requires a verb to be classified as such, Captain, I would argue the title in question remains unclaimed."

"First to use it in a sentence fragment, then. Whatever. Y'know what I meant."

Spock blinks at Jim with the innocence of a newborn deer for several long seconds. Jim blinks right back, suddenly invested in their strange game of chicken, until eventually the Vulcan manages to say, "I shall defer to your superior judgment on the matter, Captain."

Kirk shakes his head. "It's 'Jim,' remember? You're 'sposed to call me Jim when we're off-duty, and we're very off-duty."

The Vulcan looks around, eyes widening in maybe-possibly-faux surprise. He isn't smiling when he turns back to Jim — not with his mouth, anyway — but the way his eyes glisten sure feels like it. "So we are," he murmurs warmly, and Jim laughs so hard he ends up bent over himself with a face full of sha'amii wool and a mind full of Spock.

Jim might've been content to remain on that couch for the rest of eternity — always sitting just a little too close to Spock, feeling the rumble of his voice and inhaling his scent — if it weren't for his own treacherous bladder. "M'gonna go to the little boys' room," he murmurs, and Spock makes the same exact face he uses whenever he's about to be presented with classified Starfleet documents.

"Is something amiss with David?"

"What...? I— oh. It's a figure of speech, Spock. Means I gotta use the restroom."

"A most peculiar human idiom," the Vulcan remarks, and Jim snorts.

"Yeah, well. Aren't they all?"

Rather than respond verbally, Spock nods. His eyes follow Jim in all his wobbly glory in the mortifying seconds that follow. He still says nothing — even when his lips twitch up like he really wants to — but then Jim almost loses his balance. In an instant he's got a sexy, Vulcan bodyguard steadying him with those arms of his, and then—

Then, Gaila whistles suggestively from across the room. Because she's an asshole.

"M'fine," Kirk manages, now acutely aware of several pairs of prying eyes on his person. It doesn't take much for him to pull away from the Vulcan's strong yet gentle grip. A not-so-quiet part of Jim's psyche cries out at the loss of that warm, steadying touch — though it hardens to steel when the Vulcan proceeds to stand and follow Jim towards the exit. "M'serious, Spock. I think I can manage to take a piss without a chaperone."

"Be that as it may, I have only now become cognizant of my own need to utilize the 'little boys' room.' Will you be so cruel as to deny me the privilege of your company on the way there?"

"This chocolate's making you quite the sweet-talker, isn't it?"

"Was that an attempt at wordplay?"

Kirk wonders if it's possible to overdose on affection.

Approximately five minutes later, Jim's standing beside Spock at the sink. They make eye contact through the mirror whilst washing their hands. The moment strikes a chord of familiarity somewhere deep within the Captain.

"I missed this," Jim admits before he can think better of it.

"You missed what, Jim?"

"This. Us. Like, I'm grateful you gave David your room — don't get me wrong — and it's great to have him so close by, but... I dunno. I guess I didn't realize I'd gotten so used to brushing my teeth next to you 'til suddenly I couldn't do it anymore."

Spock cocks his head to one side. "We aren't brushing our teeth at present," he says plainly, and Jim smirks.

"You got me there, Mr. Genius Man. Now hurry up and lather before they send Chekov to come fetch us..."

In the end, they don't send Chekov.

(Jim silently thanks several deities he doesn't believe in for bestowing such mercy.)

The two of them walk close enough for their shoulders to brush as they head back to Nyota's quarters. When the door slides open, Jim smirks and gestures towards Spock. "After you," he insists, half-expecting some sort of pushback, but Spock just nods and steps through the doorway. Slanted brows immediately raise in surprise, brown eyes following the line of something Jim can't see up towards the ceiling.

"What—" Spock starts, only to be interrupted by an impatient grunt from Gaila.

"Are you trying to get us a noise complaint right now? These rooms have doors for a reason, y'know."

Blame it on the liquor, or maybe the walking distraction that is one Commander Spock, but Jim doesn't think much of his friend's words. Gaila teases like she breathes, after all (not to mention the whole Rand thing, which Jim still very much doesn't understand). "Fine, fine," he says, stepping through the doorway with both hands raised in defense. He waits until the door slides shut behind him to add, "I'm in, Gail. No need to have a fit."

When he turns to look at the rest of his so-called friends, however, Jim finds that every single pair of eyes in the room — save for Spock's — is trained right on himself. Spock's still looking at something Jim can't see. After a few seconds' hesitation, Kirk forces himself to follow the line of the Vulcan's gaze up, up, until—

A familiar bunch of green and red enters Jim's line of vision, and he gasps. "Is that... mistletoe?"

Chapter Text

For a few agonizing seconds, nobody says anything.

Bones is the first to break the silence. "For what it's worth, kid, I told 'em not to do it."

"He did," Gaila concedes — though not before shooting the doctor a withering glare. She turns back to Jim, smiling sweetly now, then adds, "And I'll tell you exactly what I told him: it's just a suggestion. No one's forcing anyone to do anything."

Jim can't help it. He lets out a soft, amused snort, then prods, "A suggestion, huh? That's what you're going with?"

"A suggestion of what?" Spock asks. Several of their colleagues have to stifle laughter in their sleeves.

Gaila doesn't laugh, though. She just keeps on smiling. Her tone is devastatingly sincere when she goes on to say, "A suggestion that the two of you kiss, of course!"

Spock's blank expression betrays no amount of recognition. He just looks at Gaila, then back at Jim, then cocks his head to the side in question. Finally, just when Jim's starting to worry that the Vulcan has lost control of his vocal cords entirely, Spock clears his throat and asks, "What about the presence of this plant would imply such a suggestion...?"

Nyota beats Gaila to the punch: "It's an old Earth custom, Spock."

"A very old one," Chapel adds. Her voice is dripping in annoyance as she and the green-skinned lieutenant lock eyes. Somehow, though, her tone is polite as ever when she turns back to Spock and says, "Basically, when you get caught under the mistletoe with someone else, you're supposed to kiss that person."

"For what purpose?" Spock asks. The nurse shrugs noncommittally, to which he murmurs, "Fascinating."

And then, quick as anything, the Vulcan extends one arm upward — reaching for the decor in question, still hanging above himself and his Captain — only to miscalculate (which Jim didn't even know was possible). Spock ends up missing the thing altogether and stumbling over his own two feet in the process. Jim just barely manages to get a hold on his inebriated first officer before the poor Vulcan becomes far too well-acquainted with the hard ground beneath them. "Woah there, big guy," he half-chuckles as he steadies Spock. "You needta sit again...?"

Spock nods. Jim tries not to notice how the inebriated Vulcan leans into his touch, radiating warmth and welcome and Spock where their skin is connected. Instead he focuses on not tripping over his own two feet as he guides them both towards couch-shaped salvation.

"Wait. Is he drunk...?" Gaila questions aloud.

Jim can't decide if she sounds more surprised or disappointed. He doesn't bother looking back at the Orion. He just keeps on moving forward. Only once Spock is seated safely on the couch does Jim turn to Gaila and say, "Pretty sure he's high, actually."

At which point Bones starts swearing like a sailor. 

Two hypos and three glasses of water later, Spock has gone from being really high to just plain high — which, if you ask Jim, is a miracle of modern medicine.

Bones seems far less impressed. "Follow my finger with your eyes," he orders. He huffs in annoyance when the Vulcan's movements prove themselves to be slightly delayed (though still light years ahead of how they'd been before the remedies took effect). Eventually McCoy pulls back. He cranes his neck to eye Jim on the couch beside Spock. Then he unearths a third hypo, holding it out for the Captain to see, and amusedly asks, "Y'want one, too?"

"Don't you fucking dare," Jim growls. He spends several seconds eyeing the device as if it's a lethal weapon. Only once he's sure he's not in danger of being poked does he dare look away from the thing. Jim reluctantly avoids the urge to steal a glance at the Vulcan to his right, meeting Bones's knowing glare instead. Then he leans forward and softly asks, "Will another one sober him up completely?"

"'Fraid not, kid. Only thing else I'd prescribe is a good night's sleep. Few more cups'a water couldn't hurt, either."

Spock shifts uncomfortably on his cushion. "This level of scrutiny is unnecessary, gentlemen. I am completely within control of my faculties."

"Yeah?" Jim counters, shooting his Vulcan a teasing smirk. "Well, tell that to your legs. I have it on good authority that they were doin' their best impression of jello last time you tried to stand."

Spock raises a brow but says nothing. Jim, in turn, rolls his eyes.

"Don't give me that look. I'm not the one who can't hold his chocolate."

"The low melting point of chocolate makes it quite difficult for humans and Vulcans alike to 'hold' without sullying one's hands in the process. I doubt you would have fared much better than I in that regard."

Jim raises two hands in defense, eyes twinkling. "Did I say I would...?"

Spock blinks. "I suppose you did not."

"Exactly. I may be a fool, Mr. Spock, but I'm no idiot. Only thing I'd even consider challenging you to is a lying contest — and, before you ask, no. That's not a real thing. I'd still beat you at one, though."

Jim had sort of hoped that Spock might sober up enough to figure out the whole balance thing before the time came to make their exit. As it is, however, he's starting to realize it'll be a lot more difficult to move the Vulcan once he falls asleep — which, if Kirk had to guess, is about five minutes away from happening.

And so begins the process of peeling a very lax Vulcan off of a very comfortable couch. 

Jim has to enlist Chekov and Sulu in order to make it happen, but eventually they get the guy upright. Eventually Jim is stood in Nyota's doorway with an arm around Spock's waist. "It's been a lot of fun, you guys," he insists as he steadies his grip on the Vulcan. He lets his eyes scan over each of their faces — even Gaila's, despite her being on his shit list at this particular moment — with nothing short of ocean-deep affection. "Seriously. This is the best Christmas I've ever had."

They laugh, because it's a funny thing to say when you're the only thing keeping a dense-as-all-fuck Vulcan upright (and potentially also conscious). Probably funnier, even, when you and said Vulcan were also recent victims of an attempted mistletoe ambush. 

Jim's not joking, though. He means every word of it.

Not one of their friends protests when the two of them exit the room less than a minute later. Nobody begs them to stay or tries to card off leftovers. Best of all, no one —not even Bones— questions Jim's ability to help Spock back on his own. 

Which is, quite honestly, a Christmas miracle in and of itself.

They don't talk much as Jim navigates the hallway for the both of them. He's still got his arm looped tight around Spock's waist — though, in the interest of getting them both home without causing major injury, he's trying not to think too hard about that fact.

Spock's voice is soft when he says, "It strikes me as a most peculiar tradition." It echoes off of the hallway walls.

Jim hums in question, having been torn from his own wandering thoughts. His brain's still playing catch-up when he murmurs, "What's that...?"

"What if one is caught beneath the mistletoe with an individual of inappropriate age or familial relation? Would tradition dictate that they, too, are required to participate?"

"Oh," Jim responds. He's not sure why, exactly, he hadn't expected the question to be related to the mistletoe situation. He pauses to consider the query for several moments before adding, "Couldn't tell ya, honestly. I'm pretty sure it goes back to fertility, though, so— y'know. You'd hope that sort of pairing wouldn't make the cut to begin with."

Spock hums thoughtfully. "One could argue the same for you and I, given our similar anatomy," he murmurs after a short pause. Jim lets out a quick, surprised laugh. He can honestly say he hadn't expected Spock to say that. "Perhaps, then, we are immune to the obligations of this particular tradition."

"Something tells me that logic won't fly with Gaila. You're more than welcome to try it out on her in the morning, though."

Jim assumes they'll say goodbye at the entrance to Spock's new quarters.

As it happens, however, the stoned-off-his-ass Vulcan is all too quick to coax his human past the threshold. "We can rekindle our tradition of brushing our teeth in unison," Spock insists, and he sounds so damn sincere that Jim can't bring himself to point out that only one of them actually has a toothbrush waiting for him inside.

It doesn't take long for Jim to find himself seated at the end of Spock's bed — which, mind you, is raised so high off the ground that his legs dangle over the edge like a child's. "Think your bed's high enough?" he teases, but Spock just looks up from whatever the hell he's doing at the sink and cocks his head to the side.

"Any higher would impede my ability to mount it."

Which— okay. Jim cannot think about Spock and the word 'mount' in the same sentence. Especially not when the Vulcan proceeds to shrug his way out of the oh-so-soft sweater, blinding Jim with a sudden influx of skin and warmth and Spock-scent (all of which are straight-up addictive to his drunken, touch-starved excuse for a mind). "How silly of me," Kirk manages to squeak whilst Spock folds the garment with machine-like precision.

A half-clothed Spock approaches the medicine cabinet above the stand-alone sink (where Jim can only imagine he does his daily ablutions like a good Vulcan should). He reaches up to open the thing and Jim quite literally bites back a groan at the sight of those rippling muscles — wincing at the subsequent sting of teeth against his sensitive tongue.

After that, Jim opts instead to stare at his own trembling hands. Much less room for trouble there.

But then Spock softly prods, "Jim...?," and it's not like he can just ignore the guy.

When Kirk looks up, he sees a still-shirtless Vulcan standing with one arm extended. Spock's holding out a yet-unused toothbrush, still nestled nicely in its package. "Oh." Jim forces himself to hop off of the bed (because it truly is more of a hop than a step when the bed in question is set to Vulcan Freak Height). Then he tiptoes on over to Spock, shouldering his way into the spot beside him.

Together they face the mirror — sort of like how they used to, only with one less sink and far less room to spare between them. They make eye contact through the reflection. Jim flashes a cocky smile.

"Are you familiar with Vulcan toothpaste?" Spock asks instead of reciprocating. Jim shrugs. 

"Not really, no."

"It is my understanding that the flavor does not appeal to the human palate," Spock warns, and Jim's drunk and stupid enough to wonder, how bad could it be?

It can, as it turns out, be very, very bad.

It's a miracle Jim doesn't spill his guts all over the sink and mirror from the granular texture alone — and a testament to his respect for Spock that he endures the whole two minutes of brushing without voicing a singular complaint. Afterwards, once he's spit out the so-called 'toothpaste' and rinsed his mouth several times with water, Jim swears he can still taste the stuff.

All he can think is, how the hell do Vulcans feel refreshed after this?

But maybe they don't. Is it a human thing to want that nice, minty taste? To feel like you're not truly clean until it's coated your entire mouth...? Jim parts his lips, intending to ask the stoned Vulcan for clarification — only to be met with the sight of a fully unconscious Spock sprawled out across his still-made bed.

So he pauses to take in the scene. Jim even considers grabbing a blanket to drape over the sleeping man. He hates the idea of Spock waking up cold in the middle of the night, but he hates the idea of interrupting his slumber even more. He watches the slow rise and fall of Spock's chest without moving. Eventually, Kirk softly orders, "Computer, lights off."

Only once he's certain the command has gone through does Jim turn on his heel and exit.

✧ ✦ ✧

Jim wakes to several unread messages and a skull-splitting migraine. He addresses the migraine first, gritting his teeth as he self-administers one of the hypos Bones insisted he take back with him last night. 

After the hiss and the momentary sting, Jim lets out a contented sigh. "That's better," he tells no one, then reaches for his PADD.

The first notification he sees is for a group chat that seems to have been created sometime after the command team's departure. The most recent message from Chekov includes several photos, most of which Jim doesn't have the slightest recollection of taking. He saves the group shots from dinner and a handful of candids — including one of him and Spock on the couch, heads pressed close together. Conversing like they're the only two people in the room (which is funny, Jim's willing to admit, because by his recollection they weren't even the only two people on that couch).

Jim also saves a photo of a very grumpy-looking Bones huddling over his homemade cookies like someone might go and snatch the whole tray if he lets up for even a second.

(And honestly, given the way David reacted when the Doc first arrived with the things, he might not've been so far off.)

The chat itself is mostly photos, though Jim still takes the time to scroll up to the top so he can make sure he didn't miss anything important. Most of what he finds serves only as proof that none of them should be allowed to consume alcohol (or chocolate, in Spock's case). Like, ever again.

Lt. Nyota Uhura | 01:21: mission accopmlished

Christine Chapel, R.N. : | 01:22: You forgot to include Pavel, hon.

Lt. Nyota Uhura: | 01:22: oops

Jim amusedly scrolls past several failed attempts to add Chekov to the chat before the group finally succeeds. Chekov proceeds to send an ungodly amount of photos, most of which are horribly out of focus — though Jim does end up saving one of Nyota and Chapel cuddled together on the couch. It's just too damn adorable to pass up.

Leonard McCoy, M.D. | 01:32: nobody better comm me before noon. if you have a headahce go to m'benga

Lt. Hikaru Sulu | 01:33: what if were dying

Christine Chapel, R.N. | 01:34: No one will be dying from a hangover, Hikaru. 

Lt. Hikaru Sulu | 01:34: what about from the mistletoe curse?

Lt. Pavel Chekov | 01:35: He makes a good point. What if the curse makes us fall ill?

Leonard McCoy, M.D. | 01:35: enough with the damn  curse talk alrady!

Shit, Jim thinks, because— well. Shit.

How could he have forgotten about the fucking mistletoe?

He's caught between kicking and praising himself for the (frankly, uncharacteristic) display of restraint. Questions begin to swirl in his head. Did Jim miss out his one and only opportunity to act on a long-held desire to feel Spock's lips on his, or did he narrowly avoid stepping on a landmine? Did he save them all from the inevitable explosion that would've occurred? Should they have gotten it over with then and there? 

And, perhaps the most useless question of all: Will their friends let this go? It echoes much louder than the others in Jim's mind. Something tells him that, if he were to present that question to the universe, its response would be a resounding 'no.'

After that, Jim scrolls through bursts of blurry images and some even blurrier videos.

Among them is a seven-second clip from earlier in the night, back when David was guessing the potential secret ingredient in Bones's famous cookies. The boy's tone is soft yet hopeful when he murmurs, "Ginger root...?" By the way his face falls, Jim can only guess that the doctor's answer was some sort of nonverbal 'no.' He feels a sharp pang in his core at the sight of his son's disappointment. But then David's eyes light up again, already captivated by another, better guess, and Jim's chest swells up with pride.

The clip ends just before David utters a sound. It's silly and meaningless, ultimately, but Jim saves the video to his 'David' album anyway. 

Because here's the thing: Jim has spent the last nine years more-or-less starving. Always hungry for proof of his son's existence, but so rarely fed — much less satiated — by the few morsels he managed to scrounge up along the way. Now he's got the real thing within his grasp. Now he's got David. And though the circumstances that brought the boy to the Enterprise were nothing short of horrific, Jim can't bring himself to regret latching onto what's right in front of him in the here and now.

How can he be expected to deprive himself of even the tiniest morsel after all this time? It might not compare to a full-out meal, but a tiny crumb of a clip is sure as hell better than nothing at all. Anything's better than starving.

(Jim, of all people, would know. He's no stranger to the feeling of an empty stomach.) 

Lt. Hikaru Sulu | 01:51: the curse made me spill water on m yshirt

Lt. Hikaru Sulu | 01:51: [1 Photo Attachment]

Lt. Gaila Vro | 01:52: you sure that wasnt the alcohol?

Lt. Hikaru Sulu | 01:52: no it was the curse

Leonard McCoy, M.D. | 01:56: how do i get out of this conversation

Jim snorts, setting the device aside, and drags himself out of bed. He can read the rest later.

For now, he's got to 1) pee like a racehorse, and 2) scrub the still-lingering taste of Spock's poison toothpaste from his mouth. In that order.

Jim has just spit a perfectly minty and refreshing mouthful into the sink when he hears a delicate knock on the door connecting his son's room to the bathroom. He turns off the water, wiping excess toothpaste from the corners of his mouth, then softly calls out, "That you, David...?"

The boy's response is so faint that Jim nearly misses it. "I've got a question."

At which point Jim becomes all too cognizant of the fact that he's wearing nothing but a pair of heart-patterned boxers and one singular sock. He has just enough sense to bend over and snatch the thing off of his foot, shoving it into the pocket of his boxers, before straightening up and announcing, "Computer, allow entry."

The door slides open, revealing a very timid-looking David. He's wearing one of the new Doctor Mighty pajama sets he got from Santa (or Father Christmas, rather). Richard is dangling from David's grip as per usual — his one singular ear flopping along with the boy's movements — and Jim has the fleeting thought that Chapel could probably crochet the pilly creature some pajamas of his own.

A thought for a later date, he decides. He'll put a mental pin in it.

"Mornin', David," Jim yawns, instinctually reaching up to cover his mouth as he does so. "You too, Richard."

"Morning," David echoes politely. Jim watches, slightly mystified, as the boy sets the rabbit on the counter by the sink. Then he turns to face his father, eyes innocent, and asks (in a tone that sounds almost rehearsed), "Can Richard beam down to Xylos with us this afternoon?"

Jim's not sure what he expected the boy to say, exactly, but he knows it wasn't that. All he can think to ask in the seconds that follow is, "What if something bad happens to him?"

At which point David's shy smile turns into a full-blown frown. "'Something bad'?" he echoes fearfully, and just like that Jim Kirk is backpedaling.

"Wait, okay. Sorry. Not good phrasing on my part. I was just thinking about how— oh! Wait here for a just sec. I've got the perfect example..."

Jim returns less than a minute later carrying the slimy remnants of the dress shirt he wore for Ud-Xyl's strange attempt at a Christmas celebration (or, to put it a bit more accurately, their feast dedicated to 'the brothers Christ and Nicholas').

"See this...?" Kirk prods, and David nods his head yes. "Just last week, this shirt was in near-perfect condition. All it took was a few hours with the Xyl for it to get covered in slime. It was so bad that Yeoman Rand had to give up trying after the third or fourth wash and declare it uncleanable. She told me I should toss it in the recycler. Can you imagine that? Rand giving up?"

The way David's brows crinkle together makes him look so much like Carol that it takes Jim's breath away for just a second. Then the boy lets out a huff, shaking his head no, and the moment passes. 

"What I'm saying, I guess, is that it's hard enough to scrub Xyl goo off of fabrics that aren't too delicate for machine washing. Rand might actually lose it if she had to try and de-slime Richard by hand."

"...Fine," David sighs, tone laced with just the tiniest trace of petulance.

Jim smiles, reaching out to squeeze the boy's shoulder comfortingly, then says, "I'm gonna get dressed now. Breakfast in ten?"

David nods in silent response. He says nothing more as he steps back towards the sink — reaching for his toothbrush with one hand and toothpaste with the other. Jim assumes the kid is too focused on his morning routine to bother with small talk. Just as the door is closing behind him, however, the Captain hears David faintly murmur, "Sorry, Richard. Jim says it's not safe for you down there."

Sorry, Richard, Jim echoes silently. We'll get you some jammies to make up for it. I promise.

Chapter Text

The first thing Jim notices when he and David meet up in the hallway is that the boy's bag has taken on the strangest, almost... kite-like shape. "Watcha got in there?" he asks with a knowing smile. David's only response is a mischievous half-shrug. Jim snorts and resists the sudden urge to ruffle those blond curls.

They make their way to the mess hall in companionable silence, collecting Chapel and Uhura along the way. Jim tries not to notice the way both women keep on sneaking looks at him as they navigate the hall. He's almost certain they'd be bursting with questions if not for David's presence. As it is, however, the nine-year-old serves as quite the effective shield from so-called 'friendly' scrutiny. Who'd've thought?

But of course, because nothing good lasts forever, Jim doesn't get to enjoy the respite for long. Gaila crosses their path just as they're about to grab their trays. "Morning, party people!" she says with far too much pep in her step for someone who had just as much to drink as Jim did last night (if not more, considering she was still going strong when he left for the second time). She leans in closer to the Captain then, eyes going soft, and asks, "You still mad at me, Jimmy?"

Kirk sighs aloud. Is now really the time to be doing this...?

As if proving his father's unspoken point, David shyly wonders, "Mad at you about what?"

And then, because life's a damn comedy, Jim and Gaila end up answering the boy's question at the exact same time. The Captain tells his son, "Nothing you have to worry about, bud," just as Gaila solemnly admits, "I might've accidentally cursed your Dad." Naturally, all the boy seems to hear is the latter.

"'Cursed'?" David echoes, eyes wide. His hand twitches like he wants to hug Richard close to his chest — if only the stuffed rabbit hadn't been left behind on his father's orders.

Jim's got half a mind to throw the Orion woman in the brig when he hears the worry lacing his son's tone. Before Kirk can act on that impulse, however, Chapel steps in and softly assures the boy, "There's no such thing as a curse."

Beside her, Uhura nods in agreement. "She's right, David. It's just a silly superstition."

Gaila looks ready to refute that statement, but one pointed glare from Jim is enough to set her straight. She's smiling semi-convincingly when she says, "A superstition, yeah. Nothing to be worried about."

But David looks utterly unimpressed. "Why would you apologize to Jim just now if you knew it wasn't a real curse...?"

"Um," is Gaila's only response. Jim swallows a frustrated sigh.

A familiar yet unexpected voice rings out, causing all five of them to turn and face its owner in unison. "Superstition is in many ways antithetical to logic," Spock murmurs. He pauses for a few seconds, eyes scanning the group. His gaze eventually lands on David's frowning face, at which point he adds, "And yet the vast majority of my colleagues hold some measure of unfounded beliefs. Lieutenant Commander Scott, for example, refuses to raise a tool to the Enterprise's hull without a certain 'lucky pebble' on his person."

"Really...?" David asks, incredulous. Spock nods.

"Indeed. Similarly, Lieutenant Uhura insists upon memorizing no less than fifty verbs, nouns, and adjectives in any given language before engaging with a native speaker."

The communications officer in question makes a soft sound of indignation. "Well, excuse me for being prepared!"

"I mean no offense, Nyota. I am simply using you as an example of a qualified and competent individual who happens to hold some level of superstition."

That's when Jim notices the sizable amount of space that has formed between them and the rest of the hot lunch line. He checks to make sure David's got all his silverware before herding the boy forward to close that gap. "C'mon, everyone. We can gossip more at the table..."

They don't actually do much gossiping once they've found themselves a table on which to place their filled-up trays. Jim's silently grateful for that.

They do, however, end up going through the list of David's Christmas gifts in explicit detail. David excitedly informs Uhura and Chapel that he and Richard fit perfectly into their respective garments. Then he tells Spock that he finished the first chapter of Alice on his own — which, honestly, catches Jim by surprise. How does the boy even find the time?

"Do you like the story so far?" Kirk wonders, and David nods enthusiastically.

"Richard likes it, too, 'cause there's a rabbit in it."

Jim hums and nods like that makes all the sense in the world.

(Which it sort of does, actually. Why wouldn't a rabbit prefer to read stories that include his own kind?)

Later, once they're clearing their trays, Gaila takes it upon herself to resume groveling. "I really am sorry, Jimmy," she insists. "Please don't be mad at me. I can't take it!"

Jim's smile doesn't go away completely. It does, however, flicker. Just slightly. He considers Gaila's words carefully.

Is Jim mad at his Orion friend? No. Not particularly. Not at the moment, anyway. But should he be...?

Maybe. Probably. If only the woman didn't make it so damn hard to stay pissed at her for long. Jim wonders, sometimes, just how lethal Gaila might be without the Starfleet-mandated pheromone inhibitor currently implanted behind her right ear. Would any being in the whole galaxy stand a chance against her wiles?

Probably not. She's already got a pretty impressive track record, as is.

"It's fine, Gail. We're all adults. It's not like Spock and I believe in the curse anyway, so... y'know. No harm, no foul."

"Wait. So you're not gonna kiss him? Like, ever...? We— I mean, I— worked really hard, all on my own, and—" 

"Oh, stop. We both know you've got accomplices. You're lucky I'm so focused on making this afternoon run smoothly, 'cause I can't be bothered to figure out who they are. Just tell 'em that all of you are on thin ice, okay? No more antics."

Gaila looks somewhat dejected as she places her cleared trays atop a growing stack. "No more antics," she mumbles unconvincingly, and Jim rolls his eyes.

"That'll have to be good enough for now. See you in a few, Gaila."

"Sure, Jimmy. I'll meet you guys in the transporter room."

Jim catches up to David, who is clearly in the middle of a very animated discussion with one Mr. Spock. He briefly considers apologizing for making the boy wait so long. Then he hears an excited gasp, followed by an incredulous, "Is it really?," and suddenly apologizing doesn't seem quite so necessary.

"Vulcans do not lie, David. There is seldom, if ever, a practical or logical reason for doing so. Moreover, in this particular instance, lying to you about the forecast on Xylos would be... cruel."

"...And Vulcans are not cruel?" the boy tries, guessing Spock's next words.

Jim can't see Spock's expression, but he can see the subtle shake of the man's head even from behind. He can also see the moment his son notices his presence, eyes widening ever-so-slightly, though David quickly glances back at Spock.

"I am of the opinion that cruelty, much like dishonesty, is rarely the logical course of action. Not all Vulcans would agree with my stance— though, in fairness, they would also not consider their actions to be 'cruel.'"

Kirk takes the responding silence as his cue to cut in. "Ever heard of a thing called brutal honesty, David?" he asks, and the boy nods. 

"Brutal honesty is one of Mum's love languages."

"You can say that again," Jim agrees, thinking back to all of the times Carol was wonderfully blunt about anything and everything. It was one of her greatest qualities.

David's half-giggling when he playfully repeats himself. "Brutal honesty is one of Mum's love languages."

"Hey now! I already have one guy in my life who takes everything literally. I'm not sure I can handle another. And what's this I hear about the forecast on Xylos...?"

✧ ✦ ✧

Though Ud-Xyl so generously invited all four hundred and thirty-two of the Enterprise's inhabitants to their holiday celebration, Jim makes the executive decision to start off with a cool forty. It's a lot easier to bring folks down than it is to send them back up, he reasons, and it seems logical enough—

Until Jim sees the look on Ud-Xyl's face, that is. Until he hears the worried lilt of their tone when they ask, "Have the rest of your people fallen ill...?"

"No, not at all," Jim assures the alien with a kind smile, "Most of us on the Enterprise are immune to the, uh— sorry. How do you pronounce it, again?"

"Lyxylios," Ud supplies, and Jim cringes internally. There's no way he'll be able to make that vowel sound with his tongue. Not unless he had weeks and weeks of practice under his belt (and even then, it's still a big old 'maybe').

Instead of repeating the word, Jim simply nods his approval. "Yes, exactly. Thank you. Most of my crew, including myself and everyone else present, are immune to... that, on account of the fact that the disease attacks extremities we don't actually possess."

All at once, several of the Xyl begin to purr in unison. Li-Xyl moves to stand beside their son-daughter, grabbing onto Ud's slimy arm with an appendage of their own.  Only once the two have interlocked elbows do they return their gazes to Jim's face. Li blinks rapidly at the human Captain, head cocked in question. Even through the UT, Jim can hear the confusion in their semi-robotic tone when they say, "We assumed you had all been infected long ago."

"Your kind are born with only four arms?" Ud prods in turn.

From behind Jim, Bones clears his throat. "If by 'four arms' you mean two arms and two legs, then yes. That's the standard number of appendages for the vast majority of species represented in our crew."

Jim did enough of the required reading on Xyl anatomy to remember exactly two things: 1) they have ten appendages, and 2) those appendages can regenerate, starfish-style (though, looking at the slimy aliens now, maybe octopus-style would be a more accurate descriptor; eight out of the ten appendages do extend from their lower halves, after all). He's watched Xyl use their 'feet' like hands enough times to recognize that there's no functional difference — other than the fact that their not-legs are further away from their faces than their not-arms. Not much reason to grab a cup with your hand-foot when it's all the way under the table with the other seven.

So, yes. Ten appendages, all functioning in harmony under a thick coat of slime. Losing one is hardly fun, it seems, but by all accounts the actual regeneration process is about as painful as regrowing a human toenail. Made easier, Jim would imagine, by the fact that there are nine other limbs capable of picking up the slack.

And that's all fine and dandy, mind you, until one happens to contract lyxylios.

Suddenly a Xyl patient's body loses its ability to regenerate entirely. Worse, the vast majority never gain it back.

And worst of all? The ingredients needed to create the vaccination aren't found on Xylos. Not naturally, anyway (and there's only so much synthetic production one slimy species can do). When Jim thinks about it that way, it makes more sense that the Xyl were willing to give the 'fleet unfettered access to their dilithium in exchange for a steady supply of medicine. Equal trade or not, what other choice did they have?

Before Kirk can ruminate on this any further, Ud-Xyl lets out an excited squeal. "Is this your son-daughter?" they ask, pointing one slimy tentacle towards a wide-eyed David. The boy seems to shrink against Lieutenant Uhura's side, though he doesn't fully hide behind the woman. Doesn't avert his eyes.

(Always so brave, Jim thinks with a strange swell in his chest.)

"That's my son, yes," the Captain responds. Just like that, his smile is genuine. He can't help but beam with pride at the recognition that, yes, David is his. That's his boy! His brave, smart boy. "David, this is Ud-Xyl. I told you about them, remember...?"

"Oh," the boy whispers, eyes widening with recognition. He steps away from Nyota just slightly, then adds, "This is your party."

Ud-Xyl offers a strange, crooked smile — the closest most Xyl can get to humanlike sincerity, by Jim's estimate — and announces, "It is our party, young David! Each of us is here to celebrate the brothers Christ and Nicholas. The day belongs to all and to none!"

A chorus of Xyl purring mixes with the sound of the crew's cheers. Jim locks eyes with David, smiling broadly, and gets an excited grin for his troubles. 

The festivities start out innocently enough. Jim even remembers to ask if David can fly his kite in the courtyard (which Li-Xyl agrees to, so long as the boy is willing to keep the company of their son-daughter's son-daughter whilst doing so; once he learns that said Xyl child in question is ten years old, David is more than amenable to the suggestion).

Things don't stay innocent for long, of course, because James T. Kirk is nothing if not a magnet for controversy. He's the type of guy to say 'this is the best Christmas I've ever had,' and mean it with every fiber of his being. Karmic consequence be damned.

And Jim really did — mean it, that is. When he said it. It wasn't just the alcohol talking. It wasn't the fact that he had a certain Vulcan pressed against him at the time, either (though he'd be lying if he said those combined factors didn't help to tilt the scales in the evening's favor). Either way, though, it was objectively true when he said it out loud. A fact.

A strange, slightly pathetic fact. One that says quite a bit about the quality of Jim's childhood.

Or, y'know. Lack thereof. The Kirk household wasn't exactly known for observing holiday festivities, after all, and Jim's too hungover to even consider giving his mother the benefit of the doubt as to why. It's not like Winona's reasoning matters, anyway. The facts are the facts. Mainly: if Jim had a less pitiful childhood, he never would've had the chance to jinx them all by saying those eight words aloud in the first place. Unfortunately, however, he did say those words, and now they are jinxed, and it all goes back the woman who raised him.

But then again, don't all roads lead to Winona Kirk eventually?

If you trace any of Jim's neuroses far back enough, won't you find yourself trapped beneath her judgmental gaze, forever waiting to be released from the weight of her scrutiny?

Not that it matters, really. Not when there are far more pressing issues at hand. Issues like the way Li-Xyl responds to a seemingly innocuous question, not even spoken to them directly. Jim's looking right at Ud-Xyl when he asks, "Have you begun to distribute the medicine to the outer territories?"

But it's Li-Xyl who responds. It's Li-Xyl who sternly states, "The first of three shipments will leave Xylos proper this afternoon, Captain Kirk. The largest percentage of aid will go to those living in the northern territory, as they are most affected by this outbreak. Those in the east and south will receive an equal fraction of what remains."

Jim cocks his head to the side. He remembers enough detail from the mission report to know that Xylos has exactly one continent — almost entirely ovular in shape, were it not for the sizable peninsula jutting out on its western side — with a singular, centralized government structure. The majority of the planet's inhabitants live in 'Xylos proper,' as Li called it, which includes both the bustling city at the continent's center and its six surrounding suburbs.

But that doesn't mean there aren't Xyl living in the surrounding territories. Far from it. They're the ones who work tirelessly to provide the resources needed for everyday life to continue in Xylos proper. They're the ones who probably did whatever needed to be done in order to get slime onto every one of the plates at this impossibly long table. In a tale as old as time, however, they're also the first to be left behind when the going gets tough.

Which, mind you, is what brings the Enterprise here to begin with. 

The Xyl needed resources (more specifically: medicine). The Federation, as always, needed dilithium. One plus one equals 'do what you're told.' The Xyl are supposed to be allocating Federation resources to all those who need it. Not just the ones they feel like helping.

"I notice you didn't mention the western territory, Ud-Xyl," Kirk says, keeping his voice light. "Are they struggling less than their counterparts in the north, east, and south?"

Another Xyl — one whose name Jim doesn't remember at this moment — sounds absolutely vitriolic when they spit, "They would not accept our assistance if we tried."

"You speak out of turn, Ute-Xyl," Li hisses. "And you mischaracterize the situation."

Their section of the table goes eerily silent. From further down the way, Bones grumbles something Jim can't hear. Then he clears his throat, straightening his posture, and asks aloud, "What's goin' on down there?" Before Kirk can even think about answering, however, his wonderfully infuriating first officer speaks up.

"Excuse me," Spock says, pausing to make sure he has the Xyl's undivided attention. He and Jim lock eyes for the briefest of moments, causing Kirk's heart rate to spike ever-so-slightly, and then it's over. Spock turns back to Li-Xyl and stoically explains, "Your advisor's comment, however inappropriately timed, clearly illustrates that there are aspects of your societal structure which you have neglected to share with the Federation. We were led to believe that your continent was entirely united."

Jim finds he can't disagree with the Commander's logic. "Spock's right. This affects how we approach this entire situation. The Federation isn't in the business of allowing its member planets to pick and choose who among their population is deserving of resources—"

"You misunderstand, Captain Kirk!" Ud-Xyl interrupts, both looking and sounding desperate. "The western territory is a wasteland. There are so very few who live between Xylos proper and the peninsula. Those few who do treat us with such hostility! They are violent, Sirs — they do not desire our help!"

Jim's veins feel hot with molten lava. He tries his very best to remain present in this moment. To remind himself that he's no longer thirteen and starving — no longer at the whim of a disturbed madman intent upon 'solving' a famine via the method of goddamn genocide — but even then, he feels ready to burst. He's just nearly boiled over when Bones speaks, voice tight: "I think we ought to move this conversation somewhere more private."

David makes a quiet, fearful noise beside Jim. "What's going on?" he wonders, and Kirk's heart damn near breaks.

"Just work stuff, kiddo. Nothing to worry about. How 'bout you go and sit with Lieutenant Uhura until I get back?"

"...Okay."

Jim reaches out to squeeze David's little shoulder. He holds the boy's gaze for several seconds, hoping to drive his point home before saying, "I promise it's gonna be okay, David. This is just... an unexpected conversation that needs to be had. That's all." 

Once they're alone with Li-Xyl's core circle, Bones doesn't hesitate to let loose. "Tell me somethin', Li," he all but spits, standing beside the chair that he refuses to sit in whilst he's still this worked up. "Do your people do any trade with folks in the west?"

"On occasion, yes."

McCoy takes a deep breath. Jim can see out of the corner of his eye that the poor man's hands are shaking. "When was the last time one of your people made contact?"

It's Ute-Xyl who says, "Three days ago."

"Goddammit, people! Do you think disease discriminates just 'cause you do? Part of why you called the Federation in the first place was 'cause you only had enough medicine to take care of the Xyl in city proper. If your population in the north, east, and south are as affected as you say they are — and as your little distribution plan would suggest — you damn better believe that they're feelin' it in the west, too. How many people live on that peninsula?"

For a few long seconds, no one speaks. Li-Xyl's voice sounds slightly frail when they say, "We do not know the exact number."

"Ballpark it for me."

Despite the Earth-specific colloquialism, the Xyl representative clearly understands Bones's meaning. They blink several times, shifting slimily in their seat, and then they say, "Between two and ten thousand."

Bones hums, thinking for a moment, then asks, "And it's basically no contact, right? You probably deal with a handful of their men — or, er, their Xyl. Am I understanding correctly?"

"Yes, Doctor."

Bones sighs, pushing away from the seat he'd been leaning against, and begins to pace around. Jim catches Spock's eye, trying to convey his own shock at the situation, but his Vulcan is as unreadable as ever. The entire table watches in silent awe as Leonard McCoy circles the room, babbling to himself — and getting angrier and angrier all the while. 

"Bones—" Jim starts eventually, feeling like it's his job to get this shit under control. Before he can say anything more, though, his best friend explodes. 

"Do you realize how dangerous it is, introducing disease to an isolated population like that? It could tear them to shreds!"

There's another heavy pause then. Jim starts to think about the implications of what's about to unfold. He opens his mouth to speak once again — to talk his friend down from this (admittedly righteous) ledge — but before he can, Bones is speeding to Li-Xyl's side and looking them straight in the eye.

"Tell me this, Li. Are they Xyl?"

Li-Xyl blinks. "Doctor...?"

"The people on the peninsula. Are they Xyl, like you, or are they somethin' else?"

"They are Xyl," the representative responds, sounding hesitant. They raise a slimy, greenish-yellow hand to scratch at their own head before they say, "Medical testing has proven this. But, Doctor. You must understand. They are not like us. They are... blue."

You idiot, Jim thinks, because he's genuinely not sure if the Xyl could've come up with a worse response to Bones's question. Is Li-Xyl trying to piss him off?

"Oh they're blue, are they?" Bones counters, practically screaming now. "Well that makes it all okay, Li-Xyl! You can starve 'em and deprive 'em of medicine, just so long as they're blue!"

God dammit, Jim thinks, because he knows how his best friend looks when he's about to pounce on somebody (figuratively, usually, though in this moment the Captain's not so sure). "I think we ought to loop Admiral Arora in on this," he says, more to steer the conversation away from conflict than anything else.

"That won't be necessary, Sirs," Li-Xyl tries, but one withering look from McCoy is enough to turn them into a kicked puppy (a slimy one with far too many legs, mind you, but the Xyl radiates puppy all the same). "Very well. We will return shortly."

Then, just like that, the three of them are alone. 

Jim lets out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding, gaze flickering wildly between the faces of his two closest friends and colleagues. "Well, boys," he manages, going for humorous but landing somewhere closer to awkward instead, "I think we found the source of my recent bad feeling."

"Your— you mean from Christmas Eve? That 'bad feeling'?"

When Jim nods, the Doctor lets out a quiet noise of frustration. He mutters something about being so angry he can't even look at Jim, opting instead to pace the room like a madman once again.

Spock, however, stays put right where he is. He stands there, holding Jim's gaze with glittering eyes. Seemingly at a loss for words. Kirk's seconds away from swaying on his feet from the attention when Spock clears his throat and decidedly states, "At the time you were quite... adamant, one might say, that the intuition in question was in relation to the events of that very night. The Doctor's skepticism is understandable in light of this fact. Would you not agree?"

Begrudgingly, Jim grunts. "Sure, fine. But I know what I feel."

"And what do you feel, exactly?" Spock prods, sounding genuinely curious. Jim has to bite back a bemused smirk.

"I feel like a bunch of slimy grinches just stole Christmas out from under us, is what I feel!" Kirk exclaims. He finds he doesn't care much if any Xyl overhear his ranting. "And poor David's probably so confused— shit. Should I go check on him?"

Which is, of course, the exact moment that Li-Xyl decides to return with their entourage. There's no time for Jim to get an answer from either man — much less time for Jim to do any actual checking, should they advise him to do so. He'll just have to trust that his friends can handle a particularly precocious nine-year-old with both Kirk and Marcus blood flowing through his veins.

No big deal, right?

Chapter Text

The discussion would've been a lot more bearable, Jim thinks, if they just said 'fuck it' and did away with the diplomacy of it all. If they laid it all out for the Xyl, plain and simple — our way or the highway, assholes — there wouldn't be room for any more misunderstandings. There wouldn't be room for excuses.

Because, really. What's the point in keeping up appearances with someone who's been lying straight to your face? Surely the Xyl lost that privilege when they tried to pull one over on the Federation.

Admiral Arora, as it turns out, is feeling... magnanimous, one might say. She's also far more polite about the whole ordeal than Jim would've been (which is precisely why he keeps his mouth shut, thank you very much).

Decisions are made. Jim's not the one making them. He's never been a big fan of that, admittedly, but in this case even he can admit it's probably for the best. He's not in the right headspace to be rational. Not about this. "Are we all in agreement?" Arora asks, and Kirk nods his head.

"Yes, ma'am. We'll send our crew back to the Enterprise in shifts. Once we've—"

A frantic knock on the glass separating them from the outside hallway has Jim cutting his sentence off short. The second he looks up at the door he locks eyes with Chapel, who looks a bit pale in the face. She weakly gestures towards McCoy whilst shooting her Captain a pleading glance.

"If you'll excuse myself and the Doctor for just one moment, Admiral," Jim says. Both he and Bones hurry to the door, just slightly breathless by the time they join Chapel on the other side. She looks... not great. Sort of like the last place she should be is at an extravagant extraterrestrial banquet.

"What's going on?" the Doctor asks. "You look a little..."

"Sick?" Chapel tries. She wipes a bead or two of sweat from her brow, then adds, "It's not just me. At least half the table's gotten either nauseous, feverish, or some combination of the two since you three left."

Jim stills. "David...?" he whispers, suddenly feeling a bit sick himself. Is his son in danger?

"He's fine," Chapel tries assuring the Captain, but every word looks and sounds like a struggle from the outside. "We're pretty sure it's something that was in the wine, which— oh shit—"

Chapel doubles over and begins to retch. Jim and Bones both hop back out of reflex, just narrowly avoiding sullying their shoes. It takes no more than a few seconds for McCoy to spring into action, filing away his disgust in order to kneel beside the woman and pull a few blonde strands away from her face. "S'all right, Chris. You just let it all out..."

Over the blonde's hunched form, Jim and Bones lock eyes. Kirk gives his best friend a look as if to ask, 'What the hell is going on?,' to which he receives a bewildered shrug.

"Beats me, kid. All I know is that I can't go with you two. Not if any of the crew's even half as bad as her. They're gonna need their doctor."

"Yeah," Jim says, because... yeah. What else is there to say? Then a thought crosses his mind. "Wait. Bones. Did you drink the wine...?"

McCoy shakes his head. "I'm more into liquor these days. You?"

Jim shakes his head, too. "Couldn't stomach it after last night. I just barely got over the headache, like, an hour ago."

"Well, assuming Christine's right about the wine—"

A strained, "I'm definitely right about the wine," exits the woman's mouth. She's still bent over like she thinks she might start vomiting again at any second. Jim doesn't need to see Chapel's face to know she's got a grimace plastered across it.

"'Course you are," McCoy softly agrees. He uses one hand to pat soothingly at his friend's hunched back. "In which case, Jimmy, you and the Commander ought to go on ahead. I'll stay here, man the fort. Arora'll just have to be okay with sendin' two errand boys instead of three."

Jim bites back a sigh at his friend's choice of words. He's not so naive as to believe that Arora's plan isn't, in essence, an 'errand' — which would, in turn, make them errand boys (errand men...?). Sometimes, being Captain is more about getting an item or individual from point A to point B than it is anything else. Doesn't mean you have to say so out loud.

"All right, everybody," Jim announces as he reenters the room sans Bones. Spock stands at attention, raising a curious eyebrow in his captain's direction, but doesn't utter a word. His gaze is trained on Jim when the Captain says, "A slight change of plans is in order."

"Is it, now?" an unimpressed Admiral Arora muses from the viewscreen. 

"Considering a little more than half of the people I have planetside are currently losing the contents of their stomachs, Admiral? Yes. Yes it is."

Arora's mouth opens and closes several times, almost like she's about to say something. Then, finally, Spock speaks. Jim was starting to wonder if he'd forgotten how. "Captain. Where is the doctor?"

"Did you hear a word of what I just said, Commander? The crew is sick. He's exactly where you'd expect him to be when he has patients who need him."

"And David? Is he unwell...?" Spock prods, sounding almost... anxious. If, y'know, Vulcans could sound anxious. Which Jim is pretty sure they can't. So.

Kirk can't help but smile, just slightly, when he assuredly states, "He's fine, Spock. Chapel thinks it was the wine that did it so— y'know. Not exactly a nine-year-old's drink of choice."

"You brought the child with you?" Arora exclaims, incredulous. Jim sighs.

"To a peaceful holiday celebration on a planet I personally vetted prior to beaming him down, Admiral? Yes. I did. Is that a problem?"

A look that could almost read as impressed flashes across the Betazoid woman's face for the briefest of moments. Then her black eyes go steely again. "Not at all, Captain. Let's get all our ducks in order so you can get back to... David, was it?"

Jim nods. "David, yeah. That's him."

At which point Ud-Xyl shifts in their seat, slime squelching against the fabric audibly. "Excuse me, Sirs— and, er, Madame...?"

"Just 'Admiral' is fine," Arora supplies, earning a slimy little nod.

"Very well, Admiral. Our wine is bottled by hand in a facility not far away from here. Should I send someone to retrieve an ingredient list for your Doctor McCoy to reference...?"

The Xyl leader's son-daughter both looks and sounds genuinely concerned when they ask this question. Jim sort of wants to believe Ud-Xyl had nothing to do with the crew's sudden sickness, though he also sort of wants to write off the whole damn planet and never, ever look back. "That would be wonderful, Ud," he manages, sounding only slightly strained. 

"Ute-Xyl will prepare the vehicle," Li-Xyl states. It's the first time they've spoken within earshot of Jim in at least fifteen minutes.

Ute stands and takes a step away from their seat. Jim notices, with a slight jolt to his system, that one of the Xyl's six lower appendages is in the process of regenerating. It's almost fully regrown, though not yet as long as its counterparts — dangling quite uselessly (and no doubt affecting Ute's balance in the process). Jim wonders how long it'll be before it once again reaches the floor.

Then he wonders how many Xyl in the western territories would kill for the ability to regrow their appendages, regardless of how long the process might take.

At that point, any empathy Jim had left for the slimy bastard sort of just... evaporates. 

Jim is admittedly a bit surprised when, some ten minutes after ending the call with Arora, he reenters the banquet area and realizes most — if not all — of the Enterprise's meal attendees are still very much present. Most of them looking... well. Worse for the wear.

Dr. McCoy is administering what appear to be cool washcloths to the sweatiest of patients. Most place the soothing fabric on their foreheads, though a few go for the back of the neck instead. "Bones," Kirk calls out, nearly squealing with relief when his best friend stands and gestures for the group to come closer. Which they do. 

"Oh, good. You're all here. Saves me from havin' to explain this over n'over..."

The issue itself is quite simple. In essence, it comes down to this: the Enterprise has only one CMO. Sure, they've got M'Benga and Chapel — both of whom are more than competent at their respective jobs — but at present, one of them's got her head in a bucket, and the other is acting as CMO for the three hundred and ninety-two souls who didn't beam down for this disaster of a party, so. Suffice it to say, everyone's got their hands full as is.

(Never mind the undoubtedly complicated logistics of transporting someone who is actively in the process of losing their slimy-as-all-hell lunch; how would several dozen sick patients get from point A to point B without the Enterprise needing a complete and total refit at the end of it all? They wouldn't, that's how.)

Once he's sure they've got all their ducks in order, Jim excuses himself. He feels two twin gazes hot on his back where Spock and Bones remain, still conversing with Li and Ud-Xyl, but he doesn't dare turn around. Instead he speeds up his footsteps, racing past the unofficially designated 'sick area' and towards the blessed few who managed to avoid such a fate.

Before Jim even has the chance to open his mouth and call for the boy, David comes running. "What's going on, Jim?" he immediately exclaims, eyes wide with fear. "Everyone started getting sick, and then—"

"Breathe, bud," Jim interrupts. He crouches down to eye-level, giving into the urge to reach out and squeeze each of the boy's shoulders with his own slightly-shaky hands. David seems to melt into the touch — comforted at least somewhat by the physical reminder of his father's presence — so Kirk keeps his hands there. He forces his voice to remain steady as he continues, "I know this is confusing and maybe a little scary, but— hey. Can you look at me for a sec?"

"...Okay," David whispers. When he meets Jim's gaze again, his eyes are wet with unshed tears.

"It's normal to be scared when something new and unexpected happens. It might not look like it right now, but I'm a little scared, too."

David's eyes widen. "Really?"

"Really," Jim confirms with one more squeeze to the boy's shoulders. He clears a bit of unwelcome emotion from his throat, then adds, "But you know what my Mom used to say? Fear is normal. It's how our bodies let us know to pay attention."

(Jim pointedly doesn't mention the fact that, more often than not, Winona used that exact logic to excuse away the very real PTSD symptoms that began to crop up in her youngest son post-Tarsus. He also doesn't minimize the boy's feelings by shouting that he should be grateful for the life he has now instead, so— y'know. Progress.)

"Will I get sick, too?" David whispers, and Jim's chest tightens at the very real worry he hears.

"Nah. Not unless you were sneaking sips of wine when I wasn't looking." Jim pauses, then adds, "You weren't, were you...?"

David makes a quick, incredulous noise. "Of course not!"

"Then you should be just fine. If you do feel sick, though, all you gotta do is tell a member of the crew so they can get you to Doctor McCoy. Mr. Spock and I will be back as soon as—"

"Wait," David interrupts, sounding just the tiniest bit gutted. "You're leaving?"

"Just for a little while, yeah."

David pauses to consider his father's words. After a few seconds he exhales audibly, then softly wonders, "Where will you go?"

"We, uh. We have to make a little delivery in the outer territories. It shouldn't take more than a few hours."

"Can I come, too?" David pleads. He gestures towards the bag still on his back, then excitedly adds, "I could bring my kite!"

It breaks Jim's heart to look down at his son's pleading face — at his big, blue eyes — and tell him no. "I'm sorry, bud. It's not safe for kids. You're better off here, with the crew. Speaking of which: Pav! Can you c'mere a sec?"

In an instant Chekov stands, clearing his throat, and murmurs something Jim can't hear to the pretty ensign with whom he'd been conversing. She smiles and swats at his arm playfully in reply. A few seconds later the Russian lieutenant hurries on over to Jim and David, eyes alight with worry, and breathlessly responds, "Yes, Captain?"

"I need you to keep an eye on David while Spock and I are gone. I know it's short notice, but—"

"Say no more, Captain!" Chekov interrupts, beaming with excitement. "I have been wanting to speak with David about the Enterprise's newest transporter update. This will be the perfect opportunity!"

The boy gasps quietly. "Another update?" he breathes, and Chekov laughs.

"Ha! I thought that would excite you."

To Jim's surprise, his son takes that moment to turn around and face his father directly. "Can I have a hug?" he asks, and Jim just about melts on the spot. He never would've imagined David asking for such a thing, especially so soon, and yet—

He can't deny that it's everything he's been too afraid to want since locking eyes with the boy back on Regula. So of course Jim says yes. "You can have as many hugs as you want," he tells his son, extending both arms as invitingly as he can manage. David hesitates for only a second before stepping forward and leaning into the embrace. 

Jim holds his breath for the duration of their hug.

The whole time he can't help but wonder if maybe, somehow, he's still dreaming. But Jim's subconscious is rarely so kind as to show him happy scenarios — much less ones involving the son he's only now getting to know. So he's pretty certain that this is for real.

When David pulls back, his eyes are glowing with an emotion Jim can't quite place (wonder? worry...?). He manages the swiftest of smiles in his father's direction before barreling back over to Chekov and excitedly asking, "Will you tell me about the update now, please?"

"Our offer remains, Sirs," Li-Xyl tells Jim and Spock, perpetually-wet eyes darting between the pair. "Do you truly insist upon departing unaccompanied?"

Jim forces himself not to flinch when he's met with an intense, alien expression. "It's a matter of protocol, Li," he insists, which is... sort of true — in the sense that it's protocol to follow the orders of your superior. And Arora, being Jim's superior, most certainly did order this.

So, yes. Jim's telling the truth. It's just not the whole truth, is all.

Because the Admiral's decision? It's a power play more than anything else. A way to show the Xyl that they're on thin ice with the Federation. Arora no longer trusts the Xyl to deliver the medicine themselves, so she needs to send someone she does trust. Who better to choose than some of the highest-ranking lackeys she has at her beck and call?

(And, okay. Maybe Jim's not being entirely fair to the Admiral. Maybe he should be remembering the lenience Arora showed to him and his crew after the whole Regula I fiasco. Hell— maybe he should be remembering the lenience and kindness she's showed him just today! But that's the thing about maybe. It's a disappointment of a word. Always setting anyone who dares utter it aloud up for failure.)

Jim grunts as he lugs the last crate of vaccines into the back of the strange, rotund vehicle. He's halfway through reaching up to close the trunk when he realizes his communicator isn't hooked onto his belt where it should be. And it isn't in the pocket where he sometimes stuffs it when he's feeling too lazy to hook the thing correctly, either. Damn it. "Any chance you see my comm lying around over there, Commander?"

Spock steps away from his inspection of the vehicle's front. His head moves all around in a way that would be comical, probably, if Jim wasn't still too pissed off at the Xyl to find humor in much of anything. After a beat, the Vulcan decidedly states, "No, Captain. I do not."

"Must've left it inside," Kirk grumbles, chancing a glance at the Vulcan's ever-stoic face. Spock raises a brow in question. Jim, in turn, follows his gut and asks, "D'you wanna come with...?"

"Very well, Captain. Perhaps my presence will serve to deter others from distracting you and thus further delaying our departure."

Jim pointedly ignores that comment. He doesn't bother to check if Spock is following him before turning on his heel. If not for the way he can almost feel Spock in any given room — that strange, nameless understanding of what, if any, space exists between their physical forms — he might think the guy was still standing by the vehicle. But instead Jim just knows, intrinsically, that Spock is walking three steps behind him. Probably with his hands hooked together at the small of his back. Maybe even with an eyebrow raised in question.

They try their best to keep things brief. It helps that some of the chattier crew members (namely: Gaila, Uhura, and Chapel) are too busy emptying their stomachs to do much talking. Jim ends up finding his communicator on a table near where he left Chekov and David — though, as he soon realizes, only one of the two is present in the room.

"Where'd David go?" Jim asks Chekov, and the Lieutenant blinks.

"The bathroom, Captain! He left just a minute or two ago."

Jim considers waiting, but it seems almost cruel to draw out the goodbye. Spock shifts beside him, softly deciding, "I will return to the vehicle, Captain. Please be cognizant of our intended timeframe."

The Captain smiles and nods. "I'm right behind you," he promises the Vulcan (wondering, fleetingly, how someone who has dedicated the majority of his life to the pursuit of logic and reason can be so damn impatient), then turns to face Chekov. "Thanks for this, Pav. Take care of him, all right?"

"Of course, sir," Chekov says, eyes twinkling with mirth when he adds, "And you must take care of the Commander, too!"

Jim rolls his eyes, flat-out refusing to turn around and check if the Vulcan in question is still within earshot before he murmurs, "'Course I will. That's what I always do."

It doesn't escape Jim's attention as he once again exits the building that Spock must've closed the trunk for him. How polite, he thinks, feeling strangely endeared. He also started the engine and — much to Jim's satisfaction — relinquished the driver's seat to its rightful owner without question.

All in all, the Vulcan man's actions are quite... chivalrous. Jim bites back a smirk at the realization.

"Thought I'd have to fight you for the wheel," the Captain murmurs as he slides into his seat and shuts the door behind him. He fully intends to thank the Vulcan for closing the trunk when he turns to face him, eyes sparkling, but then he sees Spock's face, and— really. Jim's only human. How's he supposed to remember anything about anything when those intense brown eyes are locked onto him...?

"The use of violence against one's superior is rarely logical, Captain."

"That 'rarely' is doing a whole lot for work for you, Commander," Jim counters, smirking at the Vulcan whilst he shifts the vehicle into gear. "You wanna handle the directions for me?"

Spock, who is already messing with the knobs that surround the vehicle's central screen, simply exhales. "'Want' would perhaps not have been my word of choice, but yes. I will assume responsibility for navigation."

By the time Jim's foot hits the gas pedal, he's grinning like a madman.

Chapter Text

It takes approximately three minutes of driving the Xyl 'car' for Jim to decidedly state, "I need one of these things for myself."

Spock, in typical Spock fashion, deadpans, "I assume you are referring to the vehicle."

"Obviously, yes," Jim snorts, looking away from the open road to shoot an annoyed glare in the Vulcan's direction. What else could he have been talking about? "Don't act dense. It's unbecoming of a man with such a long list of accolades."

(Which is a bold-faced lie, mind you — if only because Spock is physically incapable of being anything less than becoming in Jim's eyes. But alas, that's neither here nor there.)

"D'you like it though? The car, I mean. How's the ride...?"

Spock shifts in his seat. He pauses for a few seconds, then says, "I require more data before I can provide an accurate report of my experience as a passenger."

Jim's admittedly reluctant to look away from Spock's teasing gaze and back onto the road. He allows himself just a few seconds more to linger in the warmth of the Vulcan's attention before he murmurs, "Don't you trust me by now, Mr. Spock?"

"You are well aware of the depth of my trust in you, Jim."

"I am, yeah," Kirk allows, his voice just barely above a whisper. His eyes flicker back toward the road almost lazily. In an instant a blur of green shoots across his field of vision — carrying the shape of something vaguely cervine, though with far goopier antlers than the deer Jim's used to from back home — and Jim barely has time to think, let alone act. "Fuck!"

The Captain gasps whilst he slams on the brakes — which, much to his dismay, were created with several more feet in mind. Jim just barely manages to stop the vehicle before crashing into the not-deer, which proceeds to shriek aloud like a banshee before running off and out of sight, unharmed. At the same moment the vials in the trunk clank together, echoing loud enough to make Jim's teeth hurt, and then. Silence.

Kirk could hear a pin drop, probably, if not for the aggressive beating of his own heart.

After a few seconds of heavy breathing the Captain manages to think clearly enough to remember he's got a passenger to consider. It's then that he turns to Spock, wide eyed, and frantically asks, "Are you all right?"

"I am unharmed, Captain," Spock assures him with something almost like a smile on his lips. It lingers there for just a flicker of a second before fading into obscurity. The Vulcan cranes his neck to look behind them discerningly. After a few long seconds, Spock turns back to Jim and adds, "Given the absence of any shattering sound, I would surmise that the same can be said for the vials."

Through the rearview mirror, Jim's eyes scan over the tops of the crates he so carefully stacked together right before the lost communicator fiasco. He has half a mind to pull over and assess the potential damage for himself. Instead he puts his trust in Spock's judgment and the universe's pity (which, by Jim's calculations, seem to align with one another at an alarming rate; not that he's got the time or energy to dissect the origins of that phenomenon). 

"And you, Jim?" Spock prods after a few beats of silence. Kirk has to listen intently just to hear the words over the thrumming of his own pulse. Spock must sense this, because he makes a point to enunciate each syllable when he asks, "Are you also unharmed?"

"I'm, uh... yes?" Jim tries, feeling untethered. He chances a glance down at himself, noting his own heaving chest. He keeps his gaze there as he breathily continues, "Unharmed. That's— yeah. No injuries here." Every word, it seems, requires its own gulp of air. Jim feels just a bit lightheaded.

"... Are you certain of that?"

"Yes, Spock," Kirk sighs. Then, against his better judgment, he reaches for the gear shift. Lets his hand rest atop its slightly-slimy surface.

For a few long seconds, neither man says anything. Jim shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He winces when the fabric beneath him squelches (which—seriously? Goddamn those slimy, racist Xyl and their inability to give him even a second of reprieve). Then Spock presses onward, asking, "You are worried about David, then?," and. Shit. Jim's never felt so transparent in his entire life.

Jim can't help but wonder: Is he this easy for everyone to read? Are his deepest and most private emotions written in bold letters across his face at all times? Is Spock simply the only person in his life (save for Bones, most days) brave enough to say the words out loud?

Kirk straightens his posture, focusing once again on the road before them, and moves his foot back onto the gas. It isn't until they've gradually built back up to their previous speed that Jim swallows around the lump in his throat and softly admits, "It just hurt like hell to leave him behind, is all." Still not looking at Spock. How could he look at the guy, after an admission like that?

"It was the logical decision."

"Logical, sure," Jim agrees. He forces his eyes to remain on the road ahead when he adds, "It's not safe for a kid to be brought into this shit. Guess that means Carol had the right idea with her 'fleet ultimatum all along."

Spock makes a quiet noise of protest but says nothing.

Jim squares his jaw, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. He can't bear to look at the Vulcan he so adores when he admits, "I know it's stupid. What's logical about ruminating on shit you can't change? But I just can't stop thinking that— I dunno. I could've been there for him. For her. I could've— shit. I could've left when she asked me to. If I'd just done the one thing she wanted, Spock, we could've been a family. Would it really have been so hard?"

Spock is silent in the seconds that follow. He's already heard this part, after all, and anyway — what is there to say?

So, naturally, Jim's the one who continues: "I mean. Of course I thought about it, for pretty much every second of those nine months and then, y'know. On and off for the next nine years. But every time it crossed my mind, I'd come back around to the same stupid question: what the hell use am I, outside of all this? Who would I even be without Starfleet?"

"Jim—" Spock starts, but the Captain bulldozes right through his kindness. Jim's afraid that, if he stops now, he'll never get started again — and god knows it's been years since he's needed to get it all out in the open.

"I know what it's like to be the one thing anchoring your parent to a life they never wanted. That shit breeds resentment, Spock, like you wouldn't believe. On both ends. So of course, instead of dealing with my problems like an adult, I left her to raise him all alone. How selfish is that...?"

Spock pauses as if waiting for the Captain to say more. When Jim doesn't, the Vulcan decidedly states, "I could describe you using a myriad of adjectives, Jim, but 'selfish' would not be among them."

"Yeah? Would you go for 'piece-of-shit' instead?" Jim counters, half-expecting some pedantic response about how that's three words instead of one. What he gets instead is a dose of cold, hard truth. Enough of it to make his teeth sting.

"It is apparent that you sought to protect the boy above all else. You wished to shield David from a fate similar to that which you endured in the wake of your father's untimely demise. To spare him, perhaps, the anguish you alluded to earlier. Am I correct?"

Jim shrugs. Hums noncommittally. Refuses to look Spock in those pretty brown eyes (because, seasoned liar as he may be, James Kirk still turns to putty when that gaze is fixed on him; it simply can't be helped). "Sure, yeah. I guess you could say that," he tells the steering wheel. Keeps on driving like his stomach isn't about to turn itself inside-out with apprehension.

"My adjective of choice, then, would be 'considerate,'" Spock decidedly states. "Or, perhaps... 'thoughtful.' 'Caring.' Certainly not 'selfish,' however. I can think of no word less suited to your person."

Jim's face grows hot within seconds. His voice is light and teasing when he murmurs, "Careful, Commander. You'll make a guy blush with all those wayward compliments." But when Jim turns to peek at the Vulcan, expecting to find that familiar glimmer of something like amusement reflecting back at him, he's met instead with an expression of steely contemplation. For a second, Kirk's blood runs cold. Was it something he said? "Spock...?"

"I have often wondered how a man as perceptive as yourself could be so wholly incapable of unbiased self-reflection. I presumed, at first, that it was a farcical act — meant to play upon the bravado you exude as easily as you breathe, most days — but in the years that I have known you, Jim, I have come to understand that quite the opposite is true. You are continuously unwilling, if not entirely unable, to recognize your own virtues."

Kirk balks in response to his first officer's speech. Where the hell is this coming from...?

"Our colleagues are intelligent and principled individuals, Jim. Do you truly believe they would willingly follow the version of James Kirk you have fabricated within your mind — a man driven by selfishness and greed above all else? Because I, for one, do not. Your retention metrics alone speak volumes on the matter."

It's not often that Jim finds himself at a loss for words. In this moment, though, all he can manage to croak out is a pathetic little, "Spock." Hardly audible over the hum of the engine and the rattling of the vials.

"I would implore you to reconsider the lens through which you view yourself, Jim," Spock insists. He clears his throat, then adds, "You will need to turn right on the road ahead. It would be logical to utilize the vehicle's indicator before doing so."

The only sound Jim hears in the seconds that follow is the click click click of the turn signal as he does just that. When he turns the wheel, the vials clunk together again — not as loud as when Jim had to slam on the brakes, thankfully, though the sound still fills Kirk with momentary dread. Should they have pulled over to assess the damage after the encounter with the slime-deer? Was it stupid to keep on driving?

A few more seconds pass before the human manages to fully shake himself out of a Spock-induced stupor. "I forget sometimes that you're secretly the biggest sap of us all," he murmurs amusedly. 

"I am certain I do not understand your meaning, Jim."

"Mhm. Sure you don't."

They've been driving down the same road for at least ten minutes more, each man lost in his own thoughts, when Jim decides to break the companionable silence. No time like the present, after all. "Listen. The, uh. The mistletoe thing? I talked to Gaila a bit more, after breakfast. She really is sorry about it."

"Indeed?"

"Yeah. And I'm not just saying that because I heard the word 'sorry' come out of her mouth at least half a million times this morning, either. Gaila says a whole lot of shit she doesn't mean. But the way she looked when she apologized.... honestly, Spock. I think she actually feels bad. Which I sort of didn't know she was capable of."

"I see. And her accomplices...?" 

"Shall remain nameless for now," Jim supplies, feeling suddenly sheepish. Should he have pushed harder on the 'getting names' front when he and Gaila spoke? Is that what a truly clear-headed, not-at-all-lovestruck man would do in that scenario?

"Ah," the Vulcan muses. He pauses as if considering each of Jim's words one by one before he softly adds, "I would be inclined to suggest that we disregard the so-called 'mistletoe thing' altogether, if not for the fact that several of our colleagues insist upon the existence of a supposed curse. I fear they will not relent until we fulfill the requirements of the tradition."

The requirements of the tradition. What an utterly unromantic way to describe a hypothetical kiss between Captain and First Officer. And yet somehow, after hearing that string of five words through the ever-enticing filter of Spock's voice, Jim finds himself wanting. Needing. How inconvenient is that? "Um," Kirk says. He has to swallow around a mouthful of saliva before adding, "You sure you'd be okay with that...?"

"The gesture holds little significance in Vulcan culture," Spock replies, which very much isn't a response to Jim's question. 

"Doesn't always mean so much for us silly humans, either," the Captain manages with a suddenly hoarse-as-all-hell throat. Who had the bright idea to bring up this, of all topics, whilst stuck in a strange vehicle with no possible method of escape in sight? A masochist, that's who. A stupid, self-sacrificing masochist who lacks even the slightest semblance of self-preservation. "S'just, like... a thing people do, sometimes. Platonically."

"I see."

"...Yeah. So that's— um. That's all good, then? Next time we're all together, sans David, we'll just... get it over with. Put the curse thing to rest, once and for all."

"I am amenable to that plan, Captain."

Jim can't decide if he's more terrified or relieved to hear Spock say it out loud. Instead of ruminating too long on that thought, however, he leans forward and fiddles with the radio.

Scanning through Xyl radio stations takes a good bit of trial and error. Most of the songs they come across are — to put it bluntly — unlistenable. Eventually, though, Kirk lands on song with an actual beat. He cranks up the volume, leaning back in the driver's seat, and tries his best to tap along to the strange alien rhythm. It's not until the chorus begins, surrounding them in the odd embrace of Xyl vowel noises, that Kirk is so rudely reminded of the song performed in botched Standard at the unorthodox celebration of 'Christ and Nicholas' only a few days earlier.

"Holy shit," he says. Spock makes a questioning noise to his right.

"Jim...? Are you unwell?"

"Those slimy sons of bitches," is Jim's version of a response. He can't help but press down on the gas just a little bit harder, eyes narrowed in firm concentration. "First they ruin what was supposed to be a much-needed day off for my son and my crew. Then they ruin the only Christmas song I could ever listen to without wanting to brain myself by the last note. What's next, Spock? Are they gonna ruin bacon and orgasms, too? Is anything sacred?"

Because it's one thing for the Xyl to sing a cover of 'Blue Christmas' when they're choosing it at random from an endless catalogue of iconic Terran songs. That's just bad luck on Jim's end. Now, though? With the added context of the Xyl choosing to perform that particular song whilst quietly denying medicine to an entire group on the basis of said group having blue fucking skin?

It is, in a word, damning. Almost too on the nose for Jim to take his own anger seriously. (Almost.)

Kirk has to bite the insides of his own cheeks just to keep from growling like a caged animal. What the hell kind of planet is this, anyway? What was Starfleet thinking when they sent him here? He avoids dwelling on the situation by forcing himself to ask, "How far are we from the first checkpoint?"

As if James Kirk, of all people, doesn't know that they're a little less than forty minutes out. He could probably give a fairly accurate estimate of that very metric whilst tied up and blindfolded in the vehicle's trunk, even.

Spock must be channeling the holiday spirit, Jim thinks, because he takes his Captain's question at face value. "If we continue moving at our current rate of speed, we should arrive in no more than thirty six point oh-eight minutes. Shall I hail Doctor McCoy whilst we are still within range of the city proper?"

"He'll be jazzed to learn that we haven't perished in a fiery wreck, so... Yeah. Why not? Hail old Bonesy."

But when Spock proceeds to do just that, all they get from the action is a whole bunch of static. Jim watches through his periphery as the Vulcan struggles with the communicator in hand. Spock's breath does that subtle hitch that tells Jim he's frustrated — or, y'know, whatever the closest Vulcan equivalent is. Jim doesn't have the time nor the patience to be overly pedantic.

Spock tries hailing Bones again. And again. Then he tries hailing Chekov, Uhura, and Chapel — to no avail. All they get is static, static, and more static. Not a single, solitary word (in Standard or otherwise). Shit.

"That is... perplexing," Spock murmurs. Jim bites back the instinct to insist that 'perplexing' doesn't even begin to cover it. Not by a long shot.

"Seems like a bad omen to me," the Captain says instead. He shifts in his seat, still not looking away from the open road before them. "Should we go back, maybe...?"

"No, Jim. We cannot afford any further detour from our task."

"But David—"

"Is in capable hands," the Vulcan supplies, cutting Jim off mid-freakout. Internally, Kirk vacillates between throttling the guy and proclaiming his undying love for him. He knows Spock only ever wants to help, after all, but the fact is that David is Jim's kid. His blood. No amount of logical words or soft tones will be enough to turn that worry off. Not completely, anyway.

Seeming to sense this inner turmoil in his Captain and friend, Spock continues: "Turning around will only serve to prolong our collective presence on this planet and thus David's discomfort. Shall I hail the Enterprise? Perhaps Lieutenant Commander Scott can shed light upon our current predicament."

Kirk hums noncommittally. "Worth a try, I guess."

"If the Doctor has concluded that the illness is indeed non-transferrable, asymptomatic individuals may be permitted to—"

"Just do it, Spock," Kirk interrupts, ignoring the knee-to-gut feeling that pangs throughout his entire person. Jim can't think of anyone, save for maybe David himself, who deserves the verbal lashing less than his dutiful first officer at this particular moment in time. How much more misguided could one human get?

Just as Jim is gearing up to apologize for his harsh words, however, Spock raises the device to his mouth once more.

"Spock to Enterprise," the Vulcan says, tone suddenly devoid of any warmth. Jim nearly shivers at the sound of it. At the sheer difference. Does Spock usually soften his tone to that degree when it's just the two of them...? "Lieutenant Commander Scott, do you copy?"

Static. Jim's stomach plummets to his feet at the sound of it. Just as he's about to turn the vehicle around — logic and kind words be damned — a familiar voice says, "Aye Sir! Sorry for the delay. Has the ion storm exited the city proper already?"

"Ion storm?" Jim echoes, leaning closer to Spock on instinct. In his periphery Jim watches one elegant Vulcan finger press down on the button whilst raising the device closer to his Captain's face. Jim listens for the affirmative before softly adding, "Can you tell us which way it's going?"

"I cannae say for certain, Captain, but I reckon she's headed west. Southwest, maybe."

Shit, Jim thinks. Wouldn't that put them right in the storm's path?

Kirk peels his right palm off of the wheel without thinking about it. Within seconds he's reaching for Spock's communicator — still not tearing his gaze from the road even as their fingers brush together momentarily. The vehicle swerves slightly before Kirk collects himself enough to take the device in hand (and, regrettably, detach his fingers fully from Spock's). He opts to press the button for himself this time around. "Listen, Scotty. The Commander and I are on a little field trip away from the others. Any way you can let 'em know we're alive, once their comms come back on?"

"And that we are most likely experiencing similar outages," Spock adds. 

"Will do, Sirs. Now, Captain: I've locked onto the Commander's signal, but I'll need a comm from you as well. Any chance you've got yours at hand?" 

Jim nods, then realizes the engineer can't see him. "Sure, Scotty. Gimme just a sec," he says, handing Spock's comm back to the Vulcan whilst trying his best to keep at least seventy percent of his attention on the road. It's a task made significantly harder, Jim soon learns, the closer one is in proximity to the object of their affection. 

In other words? Their fingers brush together again, causing Jim to momentarily swerve into the (empty) opposite lane. He realizes too late that his own comm is tucked neatly into his belt where he can't reach it. Not without help, anyway.

"Hey, uh. Would you mind...?" he tries, gesturing vaguely towards his 'fleet issue belt. Spock hums the affirmative.

Thirty-six fumbling seconds later, Jim's got a smile twitching on his lips as well as his comm in hand. His fingertips are still buzzing from the contact with Spock. Hell, even the skin beneath his pocket feels hot — like the lightest brush of fingers could somehow be felt through several layers of clothing. Like Spock lingers somewhere deep within Jim, even when their physical bodies are no longer touching. Always connected. Always... touching.

But that's not possible, is it? Jim couldn't come up with a less logical concept if he tried.

"Captain," Spock prods, reminding Jim of the device in hand.

Kirk can't bring himself to sneak another glance at his Vulcan whilst he hails Scotty (on his own comm, this time around; funny how that's suddenly an option available to him). Kirk's not too proud to admit his unfounded fear that, if he does look at Spock, the Vulcan will suddenly be able to hear and pass judgment upon his innermost thoughts.

Most of which amount to little more than CareForDavid and SpockSpockSpock at present. And maybe also all the time. Who's to say?

"You still there, Lieutenant Commander?"

"Aye, Sir. Locking onto your signal now, and... yes! There you are. Right beside the Commander, naturally. Almost makes the second tracker redundant."

Jim's never been more glad to be on audio-only mode. He can't imagine how red his face must be when he squeaks out, "Yep. Almost! Doesn't hurt to be careful, though."

"It does not," Spock agrees, tone solemn. "Which is why I must remind you that it is of the utmost importance to keep our colleagues up-to-date regarding the wellbeing of their Captain and First Officer. Please do inform Doctor McCoy of our predicament as soon as you are capable."

"And make sure he tells David, too," Jim adds. No one can catastrophize quite like a precocious nine-year-old with far too much time and far too little data on his hands. Kirk would know, having been one himself (though, if he's honest, David's operating on levels far closer to Jim at thirteen than they are to Jim at nine; still, though, the point stands).

When Scotty speaks again, his voice is muffled by static. Jim's pretty sure he hears an "Aye, Sirs," followed closely thereafter by "I cannae hear you clearly." Then, just... nothing.

Shit. "Guess that means we're on our own."

Spock hums. "For now, Captain."

"For now, Jim," Kirk corrects, smirking wryly at his Vulcan. "Need I remind you that you promised it would be 'Jim' when it's just the two of us?"

"I offer my sincerest apologies, Jim," Spock counters. Kirk has to suppress a full-body shiver at the sound of his own name spoken through that gorgeous Vulcan timbre. Eyes on the road, Jimmy, he thinks, biting his own tongue just to keep his mouth from running (which, as anyone who has ever met Jim for more than a second knows, the stupid thing just loves to do).

"I'm sure you do, Mr. Spock," is Jim's only-slightly-wobbly response. He finally chances another glance at his first officer, both glad and gutted to realize those brown eyes aren't trained on him but rather the road ahead. "Vulcans can't lie, after all. Or is it 'Vulcans don't lie'? I never can seem to remember..."

Spock responds with one singular raised brow and a suspicious-sounding hum. 

Jim ends up laughing so hard that he nearly has to pull over.

Chapter Text

The outpost is tiny. That's the first thing Jim notices.

The second thing he notices is that every last window is broken. The masonry on the building's facade is falling apart. A tattered flag waves pathetically above the ramshackle door, trembling when said door swings open to reveal a lithe, blue form. Then another. Two aliens hover in place whilst Jim parks, only moving again once both members of the Enterprise's command team have stepped out of the vehicle and closed their respective doors behind them.

Both of the slimy, blue-skinned Xyl move further from the building's entrance with their arms interlocked. Neither raises a weapon, though Jim doesn't miss how the larger one's hand hovers over what he can only assume is some sort of phaser on their belt. "Spock—" he starts, but the Vulcan is (evidently) way ahead of him.

"We mean no harm," Spock insists. He raises two empty palms to further illustrate that point. If either of the Xyl understands the Vulcan's words or his actions, they certainly don't say as much. Or, y'know. Anything. They just keep on... staring. Waiting.

(But for what, exactly...?)

Jim clears his throat. "We're from Starfleet."

A brief flash of recognition, this time around. The smaller Xyl almost looks like they might say something, before thinking better of it.

In a moment of not-at-all-uncharacteristic impulsivity, Jim lets his legs guide him closer to the blue-skinned aliens against his better judgment. Within seconds the motion causes both of their gazes to lock onto his lower half. The seemingly horrific sight is enough to have both Xyl hissing like feral cats — which, in turn, spikes the shit out of Jim's heart rate. "It is infected!" the larger of the two spits in an accent that differs slightly from that of Li-Xyl and their cohort.

Jim might find that fact fascinating, he thinks, if the individual in question didn't have one slimy, blue appendage pointed right at him.

Beside them, the smaller Xyl adds, "As is its mate!"

(If there were any question in Jim's mind as to who that might be referring to, it's cleared up pretty quickly when Mr. Spock gets an appendage pointed in his direction as well; Kirk tries not to think too hard about this being the second time a member of the species has assumed, seemingly without any real evidence, that the two of them are an item.)

"We are not infected," Spock insists, speaking slow and clear so as to avoid any unwanted issues with the UT. "Both of our species are immune to Lyxylios. We have come to assist in your struggle against the disease for this very reason."

"With medicine!" Jim adds hastily. He braces himself to step forward once again, shifting slightly on his feet. "We've come with medicine. It's just in the trunk, if you'll allow me-"

"No!" both Xyl shout in unison. The Captain freezes in place.

Jim and Spock exchange uneasy glances, uncertain of how to proceed. Before Kirk can make sense of it, the smaller Xyl marches straight up to the trunk of the still-unlocked vehicle. They lean forward, activating the trunk's manual ascension, then step back just far enough to avoid being smacked in the face in the seconds that follow.

Before the trunk is even halfway up, the smaller Xyl starts hissing again. Almost at once their larger counterpart is at their side. Jim tries to crane his neck to see around the pair, but they've completely blocked both him and Mr. Spock from view. "Smugglers!" the smaller of the two spits with utter vitriol. They whirl around to face Jim and Spock, eyes wild with anger. "You cannot fool us, infected one!"

Jim gets the sense, just from the way those last two words are pronounced through the UT, that they're standing in place of something particularly derogatory. "'Smugglers'?" he echoes, ignoring the the potential insult entirely. "What exactly have we 'smuggled,' other than several hundred doses of the medicine that you people clearly need?"

"Jim," Spock warns the Captain. Rather than acknowledge his first officer's words, Kirk simply presses forward.

"No, I'm serious. I'd like to know, because—" 

But then the Xyl step away from one another, revealing the contents of the vehicle's trunk, and Jim is cut off by his own shocked gasp.

"David...?"

The sight of his son sitting knees-to-chest in the vehicle's trunk, eyes wide with a mixture of horror and embarrassment, is almost too much for Jim to fathom. It's all so absurd, in fact, that he pinches himself just to be certain it's not a dream. Which it isn't. Apparently.

"How did you even get back there?" Jim asks his son, incredulous — only to answer his own question with another one mere seconds later. "Spock wasn't the one who closed the trunk, was he?"

After the briefest moment's hesitation, David shakes his head.

"And my communicator?"

"I... took it."

Jim blinks. "Off my belt?"

"It wasn't hooked in properly."

Like that's an acceptable excuse. Jim has half a mind to frown and scoff at the kid, Winona-style. To make poor David feel guilty without ever saying a damn word ('cause god knows that's the only way he ever learned to wisen up). Before Kirk can make that sort of irrational decision, however, the smaller of the two Xyl demands, "Identify yourselves and the child immediately!"

Their slimy, blue-skinned partner unearths a vaguely phaser-shaped weapon and points it directly at the Captain.

Shit, Jim thinks, because. Well. Shit.

"I'm Captain James T. Kirk of the USS Enterprise. This is my First Officer, Mr. Spock, and this—" Kirk pauses, gesturing pointedly at the boy shaking like a leaf in the vehicle's trunk "—is my son, David. Who seems to have stowed himself away in here for, uh. Unknown reasons."

"We apologize on behalf of both Starfleet and the Federation," Spock adds hastily. "It was not our intent to deceive, nor cause undue stress—"

"They truly didn't know I was in there!" David interrupts, eyes wide and insistent. "It's my fault. Not theirs. I promise I'm not lying!"

A wave of dread crashes over Jim in the seconds that follow his son's outburst. It's like all the pieces come together at once, surrounding him on all sides. Boxing him in. There's nowhere to run from the sudden realization that, yes. David overheard... well. Everything. He heard Jim and Spock's discussion about the stupid mistletoe. More importantly, he heard what Jim had to say about Carol, which— shit.

Jim hadn't wanted that to be the way his boy found out about the sorta-kinda-maybe ultimatum. About the choices Jim made following said ultimatum. He was hoping to do that sometime far, far in the future (or, y'know, never). And if he had to have that conversation with David, Jim reckons, he would've liked to be aware that he was doing it at the time.

When the larger of the two Xyl speaks again, their tone is a bit softer around the edges. "Our son-daughter of fifteen years would do the same."

"Xyl-Sa fears nothing and questions all," their mate agrees. 

"Sounds a bit like somebody I know," Jim murmurs. His eyes flick between David and Spock for several moments before he hastily amends his own words: "Several somebodies, actually. Which is why I'm sure you two can understand, from my perspective—"

But the moment Jim tries taking a step towards the vehicle, both slimy aliens begin hissing all over again. 

"You cannot fool us with this appeal to emotion!" one Xyl exclaims. The ferocity in their voice is enough to stop Jim in his tracks.

"It is clear that the city-dwellers have sent you to further their plague!" the smaller-statured Xyl insists. 

"Quite the opposite," Spock counters flatly. Jim bites back a chuckle at the unexpected sass.

Rather than laugh, the Captain clears his throat. He breathes in once... twice... then solemnly insists, "The 'city-dwellers' didn't send us, actually. And, considering the fact that we were completely unaware of your existence until just under three hours ago, I'm fairly certain they hadn't intended for us to meet at all."

At that revelation, the hissing gets impossibly louder.

Jim locks eyes with his son over one slimy blue shoulder. He tries his best to smile like someone who isn't scared shitless about the wellbeing of a nine-year-old (plus himself and Mr. Spock, though both feel secondary at this particular moment). It's a lot harder than it sounds. "Jim...?" the boy squeaks, voice cracking.

Kirk has half a mind to barrel through the two-Xyl barricade and free David with his own bare hands. "S'all right, buddy," he insists oh-so-softly instead. He holds the boy's gaze steady in his own, gentle as anything. "Mr. Spock and I aren't gonna let anything happen to you. This is our job, remember? So you just sit tight and let us figure this shi— stuff, I mean. Let us figure this stuff out. The sooner we do that, the sooner we can have you reunited with Richard."

"...Okay," David eventually concedes. He pauses for a few seconds, still staring back at Jim, then softy adds, "What about the kite, though? Will there be time for us to fly it before we beam back onto the ship?"

The question throws Jim for a bit of a loop. He wonders, for a moment, if this is how Sam felt when a younger Jim used to trail behind him like a lost puppy — always wondering 'why?' and 'how?' and 'can I try that next?' 

As if sensing his Captain's uncertainty, Spock takes that moment to step in. "The response to your query is currently unclear, David. Your father and I must sort through our current predicament before he is able to consider that which lies beyond it. Do you understand?"

A shrug. Jim shoos away a flutter of unwelcome amusement as he watches his son pointedly avoiding a particularly piercing Vulcan gaze. Finally, after what feels like forever but probably amounts to no more than five seconds, David quietly murmurs, "Yes. I understand."

"Good," Jim exclaims. He claps both palms together, returning his attention to the Xyl pair with the most polite smile he can muster. "Any chance I could convince you two to bring this interrogation indoors? We'll gladly hand over the keys to this vehicle, if our possible escape is what has you so concerned..."

Spock makes a quiet noise of discontent. He opens his mouth as if intending to say something, then snaps it shut audibly instead.

Jim can hardly blame the guy for being concerned (if that's something a Vulcan can even be). The car is pretty much their only leverage, after all, and they've got several more stops planned before they're able to turn around. As it is, however, Kirk is willing do just about anything to get his kid out of that damn trunk and onto solid ground (or maybe even under a roof, if they can swing it).

"Very well," the smaller Xyl murmurs, holding out one slimy, expectant hand.

After a moment's hesitation, Jim acquiesces. He lets the keys drop into their palm. Almost instantly the Xyl split apart, fully revealing David's hunched-up form. The poor boy's knees just about touch his chin. He's holding onto them so hard that every one of his knuckles is visibly white. Slung over his shoulders is the 'fleet issue bag, still kite-shaped (though, if Jim's not mistaken, the thing looks slightly bent). "You ready to go inside, bud?"

For just a second, David hesitates. His gaze flickers between Jim and Spock several times before he manages to whisper, "Am I in trouble...?"

Jim considers the question now that his frustration has melted into a much more palatable sense of relief. Is David in trouble? Should he be? Would it do anybody any good? "No, David," he announces finally, reaching out to pat at the boy's blond curls. He resists the urge to ruffle them before pulling his hand away and shoving it back into his pocket. "You're not in trouble. We will be having a long-ass talk about this later — don't get me wrong — but as far as punishment goes...? I'm happy to consider it strike one of three."

Winona would no doubt call her youngest son 'soft,' were she to witness the exchange firsthand. She might even be right to do so. Maybe David should be in trouble. Maybe Jim shouldn't let this sort of stunt slide without any semblance of a reprimand to be found. 

But then there's the way David sounded when he asked, 'Am I in trouble?'

Jim's willing to do just about anything to avoid hearing that sort of fear in his boy's voice again. To avoid seeing that sad, defeated look on his face. 

And it's not like Winona's the poster child of effective parenting to begin with, so. Y'know. Perspective.

Jim was eight years old when he first stumbled upon a menorah in the attic of their farmhouse.

It sat nestled in a box of dusty decorations, wrapped up haphazardly in a gorgeous blue tablecloth. Jim was so excited to unearth the thing — so silver and so beautiful, even its tarnished state — that he hadn't thought to wonder why it ended up collecting dust there in the first place. 

At eight, he hadn't yet learned that some things are better left as they are. Soon, though, he would.

The box, as it turned out, was too heavy for Jim's little arms to carry. It took several trips for him to get its contents from the attic to the kitchen. Winona got home just as he finished setting the table using a matching set of plates, cups, and silverware he found in that same box.

Jim still remembers the expression on his mother's face when she realized what he'd done. She'd just opened her mouth, no doubt intending to comment upon the fact that her little boy was actually setting the table for once, when she caught sight of the menorah. All at once Winona froze. Her expression twisted from soft surprise to white hot fury, and—

Suffice it to say, the decorations didn't stay out for long.

Later that night, once he'd thoroughly soaked through the fabric of Sammy's t-shirt with snotty tears, Jim managed to croak out a question: "Why doesn't she like it?"

"I dunno," was his brother's whispered response. "It used to be different, before..."

Jim couldn't help the way his voice cracked when he filled in that blank: "Before me?"

Sam sighed, adjusting Jim in his grip so that the younger boy was forced to look him in the eye. "You can't think about it like that, Jimmy—"

"But it's true! You know it is!"

"I think—" Sam started, then seemed to think better of it. He took several audible breaths before forcing himself to continue. "I think somethin' happened to her head, after Dad... y'know."

"Died?"

"Died, yeah," the older boy awkwardly confirmed. He took another breath, then added, "And I think that's when she stopped believing in God. You probably don't remember 'cause you were so little, but Nana used to take us to temple sometimes. Mom was fine with it, probably 'cause it meant we were both out of the house, but..."

For several long seconds, Jim's teenage brother said nothing. Only once the younger boy prodded, "But what?," did he reluctantly continue.

"...But then I turned thirteen. That's a big deal for people like us, if you didn't know. But whenever Nana tried to remind Mom of that, Mom would get... weird. And mean. They started fighting a lot, and then Nana stopped coming around as much. The only way I could think to stop it was to tell them I didn't wanna do the whole bar mitzvah thing anyway."

Jim assessed his brother's crinkled-up features, trying to make sense of every minor twitch and blink. Only once he was certain of the older boy's unspoken opinion did he state, "But you did wanna."

All Sam could offer in response to those four words was an unconvincing shrug. "It doesn't matter anymore," he tried, though little Jim wasn't so sure he should believe his brother. Not when he looked and sounded so... well. Un-Sam-like. Then the older boy shifted, adjusting his grip on the nearly-too-big child seated on his lap, and added, "Remember that girl I told you about? The one who transferred to Riverside last year?"

"Aurelia?" Jim tried, and his brother chuckled.

"Aurelan," Sam corrected. His tone went softer, suddenly, and his gaze seemed a bit... faraway. "Her Mom's a rabbi. I'm supposed to meet her soon, 'cause I got invited to Passover Seder, but I dunno if Mom'll let me..."

Though Jim didn't recognize a lot of the terms coming out of his brother's mouth, he listened intently to every last one of them. He smiled and nodded all the while, genuinely transfixed by the older boy's wide-eyed excitement. Then he proceeded to ask enough questions to earn an annoyed grunt and a pinch just above his elbow. "Ow, Sammy!" he exclaimed, but the older boy just smiled.

"Sorry, kiddo. You know the rules. Ask five questions in a row and you gotta pay the question tax."

"But why don't you ever have to—" Jim cut himself off just before he could turn five questions into six. "Never mind..."

Jim is fully lost in his own memories, eyes glazed over, when David softly asks, "What happens after strike three?"

"Hmm...? Strike three?"

"You said this would be strike one of three," David softly reminds him, which. Oh. That's right.

"Why do you ask?" Jim counters, careful to inject an extra bit of levity in his tone. "You planning on batting zero, Bud?"

David's eyes glisten like they always do when he's got a particularly scathing comeback. Before the boy can verbalize his sass, however, an annoyed clicking sound comes from one of the Xyl at the building's entrance. "Captain," Spock calls out. His tone is as devoid of emotion as ever. Somehow, though, Kirk hears the worry underneath. He sees right through the familiar facade. 

"Right behind you, Mr. Spock," Jim calls back, though he keeps his gaze locked with David's. He leans in a bit closer to the boy, lowering his voice to a near-whisper. "You good to go, or d'you need a sec?"

"I'm good to go," David insists. He unfolds his knees and elbows in a near-instant, utilizing some of that youthful elasticity that Jim's own body has long since forgotten (or so it feels). Even with all that youth, however, the boy still lets out a quiet grunt when his feet finally hit the ground.

Kirk whistles softly. "Oof," he hisses, gesturing towards his son's wobbling legs. "Lemme guess. Pins and needles?"

David winces, then nods. "In both feet!"

"Yeah? Well, sitting in the same spot for an hour plus will do that to ya," Jim teases. He pauses for just a moment to shoot the boy a bemused smirk. He extends one forearm towards David, then adds, "In my experience, the best way to beat the feeling is to just start walking. You can use me for balance if you need it."

Jim's only slightly surprised when, after a moment's hesitation, the boy takes him up on his offer. He tries not to beam like an idiot whilst guiding the wobbly nine-year-old up a set of rickety stairs (and, based on the knowing look Spock gives him once they've made it, Jim's pretty sure he failed). "Captain," the Vulcan greets, his lips quirking up just slightly. "David."

Kirk's not sure whether his first officer's tone sounds more impressed or disappointed by the boy's unexpected presence. He decides, ultimately, that it's some mix of both (but would that make him 'dispressed' or 'impressapointed'?). The chaos of the mission must be getting to him, Jim thinks, because he has to literally bite his own tongue to refrain from laughing aloud at a random, fleeting thought inside his own head. At the concept of a made-up fucking word.

To put it more simply? They've got a long, long day ahead of them.

Chapter Text

The hostility from the Xyl duo simmers noticeably once they're all under one roof. The larger of the two even offers to quench their guests' thirst by presenting them with three glasses of blue-tinted 'water.'

Jim quickly learns that the liquid is far more viscous than it appears at first glance. He sputters around his mouthful (because, really; who knew water could be so damn slimy?), instinctually reaching for David's glass before the boy can make the same mistake he did. "Trust me," he murmurs out of the corner of his mouth, just loud enough for David — and potentially also Mr. Spock — to hear. "You really don't wanna drink that."

David surprises Jim by not putting up a fight. Maybe he saw his father's reaction and put two and two together, or maybe he's still worried about the whole 'being in trouble' thing. Whatever the cause may be, its effect is clear: the boy's slightly-shaky hands move to clasp around one another in his lap (their second favorite position, right behind 'wrapped around Richard'). His face smooths into something almost resembling calm — if only Jim didn't know better by now.

Kirk clears his throat, capturing the entire room's attention. He's making direct eye contact with the alien he now knows as Xyl-Aii when he states, "I should warn you both that we're about six minutes out from a pretty sizable ion storm."

When neither alien reacts, verbally or otherwise, the Captain nearly loses his nerve.

"I'm getting the sense you've dealt with this sort of thing before," Jim finally manages. He lets his gaze flicker between the two a few times more, then adds, "Am I right...?"

"What is there to 'deal with,' Sirs?" Xyl-Aii counters.

"The weather is not within our control," their mate agrees. "It will pass as all storms do."

"But your tech—" Jim starts, only to be cut off by the faint howling of wind in the distance. "Shit. It's getting closer. Should we disable our comms, Commander?"

The Vulcan pauses for just a second to consider his Captain's question. "I suppose that would be wise," he decides.

(Jim is equal parts charmed and annoyed by the fact that his first officer has to think about it at all. Shouldn't he just, like, trust Jim's gut implicitly at this point? Hasn't his fearless Captain earned such a luxury?)

Only once Jim has successfully powered down his own device does he chance another look at his Vulcan, who seems to have just finished doing the same. He and Spock lock eyes for a heated moment. Jim opens his mouth to say something snarky, then notices the Xyl haven't made any moves for their electronics. "I thought you guys said you were used to this sort of thing," he says before he can think better of it.

"We are," Aii's mate, Xyl-Sixe confirms. Even through the oft-stilted filter of the Universal Translator, Jim can sense the slightest bit of petulance in their tone. He wonders if he might be offending their hosts without even trying to do so. 

And so Jim Kirk finds himself at a sudden, uncharacteristic loss for words. Bones might even call it a miracle (if he were here to add his usual layer of snark to the conversation, that is).

It's David, of all people, who has the good sense to step up and ask, "Do your devices recalibrate automatically when a storm is set to approach?"

More confusion, this time without any actual words. Just two scrunched-up, slimy faces — both staring at a very astute nine-year-old. Looking like David might as well have sprouted a second head when, in reality, he asked what Jim would consider a very reasonable question. Kirk ends up clearing his throat just to divert their attention away from his increasingly red-faced child. He barely knows what he's saying when he asks, "Are your devices powered by dilithium?"

The duo shake their heads in unison. It's not a strange answer, per se, but given how prevalent the stuff is on this planet, Jim just sort of assumed.

"How 'bout sarium krellide?" he tries.

For a few long seconds the blue-skinned Xyl exchange a silent glance, seemingly speaking without words. Eventually, after what feels like forever, Xyl-Sixe asks, "What is 'sarium krellide,' Sir?"

"Fascinating," Spock murmurs, and Jim can't help but agree.

Before he can ask any more questions, however, the sandy-haired captain is interrupted by a rumbling beneath his feet. "Is that—" he starts, only to be interrupted by Xyl-Aii's concerned, semi-robotic tone.

"We must take shelter under the ground, Sirs!"

"Under the ground where?" Kirk counters.

There's a loud creaking sound somewhere behind Jim. He whirls around to find Xyl-Sixe standing over an open cellar door. The alien gestures to the entrance, then to their trio of guests. "In here, Sirs!"

Jim has just barely begun to consider that suggestion — admittedly concerned about the possibility of this whole thing being some sort of elaborate trap — when the wind picks up yet again. David makes a quiet noise of concern, grabbing onto his father's shirt sleeve, and suddenly there's no question at all. "C'mon, you two," he orders, because James T. Kirk is not above using his Captain Voice when the need arises. "It's not safe out here."

And, though his furrowed brows might scream discontent, Mr. Spock doesn't say a word to defy his Captain. He simply follows Jim into the ramshackle building's slightly-less-chaotic cellar. Situates himself at David's yet-unmanned right side. He watches, silent and pensive, as Sixe and Aii enter behind them and move to secure the door from the inside. Then they settle together across from their trio of guests. No one says anything.

"I thought you said the storm would pass," Jim murmurs eventually, breaking the silence.

"It will pass, yes," Xyl-Aii replies. "And we will remain safe in our shelter until it does."

Which, okay. Hard to argue with that logic.

If Jim's honest, he doesn't expect the Xyl to be right about the whole prepared for an ion storm thing. It isn't until the evidence plays out right in front of him that Kirk is forced to reckon with his own bias towards the unfamiliar aliens. With his expectation of... incompetence, frankly. No point in sugar coating it inside his own damn mind.

The Captain's only solace for his unspoken bigotry is that, when he chances a glance at Spock, he finds a muted version of his own awe reflected back at him. He's so struck by the similarity that he has to force himself to look away. To focus on something — anything — other than that damn gorgeous face. "I don't understand," Jim admits, earning twin looks of slimy suspicion from their blue-skinned hosts. "We're underground. There's an ion storm raging on above us. How is it that you're currently able to communicate with your son-daughter via your devices whilst ours are still very much down for the count?"

"Did you not disarm them yourselves just minutes ago, Sirs?" Xyl-Aii counters. Their tone and expression are devastatingly sincere when they go on to say, "You need only restore power."

"That's—" Jim starts, only to cut himself off with a frustrated sigh. "I see your point, Aii, but that's not exactly what happened."

Beside Jim, David lets out a quiet sound of amusement.

The Captain can't help but crack a smile of his own, still looking at Xyl-Aii when he says, "Okay. Maybe it is exactly what happened, but then there's the question of 'why.' We didn't power down our devices for fun. We— help me out here, Mr. Spock. This storm's got my brain all..."

As if underscoring his point, Jim loses complete track of his words. He resorts to gesturing wildly around his own head to (hopefully) get the point across.

"I believe the Captain wishes to underscore the preventative intent behind the action in question," Spock supplies, because he's a damn saint. And a genius. And not too rough on the eyes, either.

"Yes, that," Jim confirms, clearing his throat of nothing in particular. "You see, the thing about ion storms is— well. They don't blend well with our technology. It helps to turn devices off in preparation for a storm, but even then we can't rule out damage completely..."

Some fifteen minutes later, once Jim has thoroughly exhausted all facets of the tumultuous relationship between ion storms and Federation tech, the wind begins to die down. Because of course it does. The universe's timing is, as always, impeccable. It might even be comical, if not for the fact that Jim is currently nursing the mother of all migraines through a particularly complicated infancy. He just barely musters the energy (and courage) to ask their not-captors, "Is it just the three of you, or...?"

Both Xyl appear visibly confused at the sandy-haired human's words.

Spock's the one who ends up stepping in to explain, "The Captain is inquiring as to the size of your familial unit. You spoke of a son-daughter, Xyl-Sa, but did not mention any others who may require immunization."

"Exactly, Mr. Spock. Thank you. And, building off of that question, we... um. Well. We don't have the clearest idea of how many Xyl live west of the city proper. Some of the Xyl we spoke to said two thousand, others said closer to ten..."

"Our population fluctuates," Xyl-Sixe states matter-of-factly.

Jim blinks up at the blue-skinned alien once, then twice. He swears he can feel David's wide-eyed gaze burning into the side of his face when he tries, "How 'bout an estimate? Like, if we were to leave just three doses behind, would that be enough? One for each of you and one for Xyl-Sa...?"

(It's not not bait, but Jim's not about to admit to that out loud.)

For a few long seconds, neither Xyl says anything. Jim's almost certain he's offended them — already mapping the escape route for himself, his son, and Mr. Spock in his head, weather be damned — when Xyl-Aii speaks again in a voice that's... softer, somehow, than any of their previous utterings: "You truly wish to heal us, Sirs?"

The hesitance in their tone is, in a word, devastating. Is the thought really so unbelievable?

"Not heal you, exactly," Jim corrects, because he's not in the business of providing others with false hope. Not when he can help it, anyway. He gestures vaguely towards Xyl-Sixe's lower half, where two would-be legs lay frozen in time at distinctly different stages of growth. He's careful to keep his tone perfectly polite when he adds, "We can't give back what you already lost to the illness, unfortunately. What we can do is provide you with immunity in the future."

"And if one has been infected before?" Sixe tries.

The question confirms what the Captain already knew. The alien's partial limbs just look so... dead around the edges (to put it quite bluntly). Nothing like the sort of tissue that would be able to regenerate itself. Still, though — Jim's grateful to hear the confirmation out loud. Saves him from having to voice his own presumption. "I'd say it's not an exact science, but it definitely is. Just not one that's gonna make any sense coming out of my unscientific mouth."

Jim sort of means for Mr. Spock to step in at that point. To explain the things that his Captain can't. What he gets instead, however, is a very excited, "I can explain it," from the once-silent child at his side.

"You sure about that?" Jim can't help but ask, chancing a glance at the boy. "It's a really complicated process."

"Not to me," David counters, and his father nearly laughs. How can one child be so sincere yet so sassy at the same time? The boy eyes Jim, waiting for the now-familiar 'go for it' gesture before he continues. "Doctor McCoy says the vaccine works best on someone who has never had lyxylios before. It works second best on someone who did have lyxylios but never lost a limb..."

Once they're certain the storm is well and truly gone, they finally exit the cellar.

(Jim hopes his relief isn't too noticeable. He's never been a fan of enclosed spaces.)

Xyl-Aii pulls the Captain aside a few steps away from the still-open cellar entrance. They stare up at Jim, eyes wide and wet, and admit in a barely-audible whisper, "We belong to a clan of sixteen."

"Sixteen," Jim repeats, mostly just to confirm what he heard. He tries to look and sound as inviting as possible when he adds, "And you're all under one roof...?"

Aii falters, clearly thrown off by the human Captain's words. They both look and sound confused as all hell when they go on to say, "Our homes have their own roofs."

"Oh! Of course," Jim starts, realizing his mistake.

"Is this practice of sharing eaves common in your Federation?"

"Not in the way you're imagining, no. It's just— well. It's a figure of speech on my home planet."

Xyl-Aii hums like that makes all the sense in the world. 

By the time they're all standing around the car again — though with David safely outside of the trunk this time, thank God — Jim's almost reluctant to leave. Almost. The slimy pair aren't so bad, he's learned. They're also far less intimidating once they're no longer hissing like feral cats and pointing weapons in his face. Who'd've thought?

"We're gonna leave you with twenty-five doses, all right? I know you said you only needed sixteen, but these things can last up to ten years when refrigerated. Even longer in cryostasis." Jim can tell just from the way Sixe's face twists up that they're about to shoot him a counter, so he pushes onward before they can: "Just hear me out. Maybe sometime, say eight years from now, Xyl-Sa will bring home a partner who hasn't been vaccinated. Won't you be so glad that you didn't return these extra nine vials? That you kept 'em for when you knew you might need 'em?" 

"But the others," Xyl-Sixe says, tone stern yet hesitant. "Those living beyond the land-bridge require healing just as much as those of us who guard its mouth. Should they not receive priority over hypothetical Xyl who we have yet to meet? We wish for Sa's mate to be healthy, you see, but not at their expense."

Jim can't help but crack a smile. "That's beautifully selfless of you, Sixe, but your sacrifice isn't needed. Not today. We've got more than enough vaccines to accommodate even the city-dwellers' most outlandish population estimates. I'd bet you anything there are more vials in this trunk than there are Xyl living in the entire Western territory. We'll probably still have several dozen unused vials lying around once we've made our last delivery on the peninsula." 

"The peninsula," Sixe repeats, sounding... hesitant, almost. "You intend to go there now?"

Xyl-Aii makes a wet sort of clicking sound. They step closer to their mate, encircling Sixe's slimy arms in a tight embrace. They're looking Jim right in the eye when they insist, "You must be quick, Sirs. The sea will not allow you to exit once she has risen to swallow the land bridge."

Sixe nodds. "Already she has begun her ascent."

"Wait," Jim replies, because... seriously? Did he hear that right? "Are you saying we won't be able to cross the land bridge during high tide?"

Another slimy nod. "The sea protects us, Sirs," Aii insists. "She ensures that the city-dwellers cannot cross our borders unexpectedly. In return, we remain where she wishes us to be."

"Her ascent is quite slow," Sixe adds. "It will be several hours before she has fully swallowed the bridge. Still, Sirs — you must leave now if you are to follow her pace and return before the Swallowing."

As if anticipating Kirk's next question (some slightly-more-eloquent version of 'how long do we got?'), Aii elaborates: "The sea is set to complete her task in just under six hours. After the Swallowing she will not release the land-bridge again until three moonrises have passed. You mustn't waste any more time..."

✧ ✦ ✧

"You sure you're all right back there?" Jim asks for the second or third time, utilizing the rearview mirror to lock eyes with David. When the boy nods, meeting his father's gaze, it's as easy as anything for Kirk to teasingly add, "How's the seatbelt treatin' you this time around? Better than getting tossed around in the trunk, I bet."

Jim waits just long enough to see his son's cheeks turn pink before he looks away. Tries to feign ignorance by focusing again on the road ahead. He can't quite bite back the smirk that follows, however, and he's pretty sure David catches onto his amusement (though he can't be absolutely sure).

With Spock, it's not even a question. "I fail to see the humor in this particular topic," the Vulcan insists, which only serves to tickle Kirk even further.

"You fail to see the humor in every topic. It's kind of, like, your whole thing."

"I thought Commander Spock's whole thing was science," David counters.

This time, Jim laughs for real. "It's one of them, yeah. I'd argue he's got at least three. There's science, logic, Vulcan history— oh! And chess! Can't forget about that one."

"I would argue that chess falls under the pre-established category of logic," Spock interjects.

"Let's add 'being pedantic' to the list. You writing all this down, David...?"

Once he's done teasing Spock, Jim puts the Vulcan to work. He'd probably be fiddling with the comms himself — driving be damned — if not for the very precious cargo they've got in the vehicle's backseat (the vials in the trunk are important too — though, Jim would argue, not as important as the adorable little stowaway in his rearview).

"Can you try Chekov again?" Jim asks.

Spock does just that, only to be met with the same static they've gotten from Bones, Uhura, and Chapel several times over. "No response, Captain. I believe our continued proximity with the ion storm is prolonging its effect on our communicators."

Jim resists the urge to press harder on the gas. He ends up grinding his teeth together. Ends up clutching the steering wheel hard enough to turn his knuckles white. He can feel the headache coming on — as inevitable as anything, it would seem— when the thought occurs to him. He's asking the question before he can think better of it: "Did you have a bar mitzvah, Mr. Spock?"

"I fail to see how such a query is relevant at present."

"Yeah?" Jim counters playfully, chancing a glance at his first officer. As per usual, Spock's expression betrays absolutely nothing. So Jim pushes forward. "Well, I fail to see why you're dodging the question."

From the back seat, David softly wonders, "What's a bar mitzvah?"

Before Jim can provide his own (most likely subpar) response, he's beat to the punch by a very matter-of-fact Vulcan. "The Captain's question lacks specificity," Spock states plainly, though his brown eyes twinkle with something like mirth.

Kirk exhales through his nose in an almost-laugh. "Does it...?"

"Yes."

"Please enlighten me, then," Jim tries. He's got his attention focused on the road once again (though, in truth, the human can't quite stop himself from tracking Spock's every movement in his periphery; it's a damn good thing there hasn't been another driver for miles).

"Enlighten us," David corrects. Jim bites back a smirk.

Spock lets out an almost-sigh, shooting his Captain a belabored look. He appears to consider his words for a few long seconds before he explains, "I became bar mitzvah on the thirteenth anniversary of my birth. Such is the case for all boys born into the Jewish faith."

Oh, Jim thinks, suddenly at a loss for words. Did he really get that so wrong...?

"If Jim is referring — as I presume he is — to the subsequent celebration of the same name, then my answer is 'yes.' My mother insisted upon celebrating this milestone in accordance with familial tradition."

It takes a second for the words to sink in. When they do, Jim barks out laughter loud enough to surprise himself. "You think you're so funny, Mr. Spock."

"I can assure you I do not," the Commander immediately counters.

From the back seat, David lets out a quiet sound of annoyance. "I still don't know what 'bar mitzvah' means!"

What happens next is equal parts hilarious and humiliating (for Jim, anyway; jury's still out on Mr. Spock's ability to feel either). Just as Kirk opens his stupid human mouth to say, "It's sort of like a fancy birthday party," his second-in-command decidedly states, "It exemplifies a child's entrance into adulthood in the eyes of the faith."

Which, wow. Talk about a mixed message. "What...?" David wonders aloud, clearly flummoxed.

Jim cringes at his own inability to shut up for even a second. He half-expects Spock to look disappointed in him the next time he sneaks a glance, but instead he finds that the Vulcan's gaze is infuriatingly thoughtful. "I suppose both definitions are accurate. The 'fancy birthday party,' as your father put it, is a celebration in honor of the aforementioned rite of passage. It is not technically required, though in my case I had little choice."

"Did you guys do it on Vulcan?" Jim asks, suddenly curious. What would that even look like?

"Negative. We traveled to Earth for the celebration," Spock says. He pauses for a second, seeming to consider whether he should share more. Jim's just about to give the guy an out when Spock clears his throat and continues: "As the eldest of my cousins, I was expected to set an example. Rabbi Graham was so taken by my Hebrew pronunciation that she later tasked me with tutoring several other children, including my cousin Cole, via holovid."

Before Jim can ask any further questions about this elusive 'cousin Cole,' who Spock has mentioned at least twice now, the device on his belt begins to beep. "That might be Bones," Kirk says, clumsily grabbing for the thing and pressing the receiver. 

A familiar voice floods the vehicle almost instantly. "Captain Kirk? I dinnae if you can hear me, Sir—"

"I'm here, Scotty! We can year you, loud and— uh. Maybe not clear, exactly, but we can year you better than the static we're getting from everybody else. How's it going up there?"

"Everything is fine on the Enterprise, Sir," the engineer assures him, and for a second Jim truly feels like he can breathe a little easier.

"How 'bout the others down here? You hear from them yet?"

"...Yes," Scotty manages after a particularly pregnant pause. "I spoke with the Doctor just a few minutes ago. He says most of the sick are improving—"

"That's great!"

"It is great, yes. There's something else though, Captain, and there's no easy way to say it. David's— well. He's gone missing. That's why I called, actually. Poor Pavel's been tryin' to get a'hold of ya forever."

Jim nearly bursts into laughter. It's really not funny — he can hear the fear in his friend's voice, and he can only imagine what a wreck Chekov must be — but David stowing away feels like such old news at this point that it hardly even crossed his mind to mention it. "Oh! He's right here, Scotty!" Kirk exclaims, smiling as he says it. "The little troublemaker stowed away in the trunk while we weren't looking. I would've told 'em myself if only our damn comms would work. Say 'hi,' David!"

"Hi, Lieutenant Commander Scott," the boy calls from the back seat. Jim's smile grows even wider. "Can you tell Lieutenant Chekov I'm sorry for worrying him?"

"I'll tell the whole crew, Laddie!" Scotty exclaims, sounding genuinely ecstatic. "The good Doctor's been up to high doh—"

"Sorry, Scotty," Jim interrupts, because he can already hear the crackling increasing to a near-inaudible degree. "We don't have much time. We're following the storm into the peninsula, and we've gotta get there and back before the tide rises. When you tell them David's safe, can you also let them know that we've dropped off twenty-five vials so far, and that the locals seem pretty damn harmless...?"

The only response they get is a whole lot of static.

Chapter Text

"I always hated playing telephone," Jim grumbles into the silence that follows the dropped comm. "Too many variables out of my control, y'know?"

Spock wastes only a moment in confusion before pulling himself together enough to say, "Indeed, Captain. Control is important."

To which Jim snorts, then mutters, "You're tellin' me."

"I am in fact telling you this, yes."

David tries and fails to muffle laughter into the fabric of his shirt. Jim doesn't have to sneak a glance at the back seat to know his kid's gone red in the face with the effort. He's impressed, therefore, when a few seconds later the boy collects himself enough to manage an only-slightly-wobbly, "What's telephone...?"

The question throws Jim a bit off-guard. After all, what sort of kid doesn't know the game of telephone? He wonders, briefly, if the boy might know it by another (perhaps more English) name. Just as he's about to voice this thought, however, an even more insidious one slides into its place with practiced ease: Did David have anyone else to play that sort of game with in the first place? Did he even have any friends — other than his own mother — on that now-wrecked satellite?

All Jim knows for certain is that, sometime between David's second and third birthday, Carol moved herself and the toddler off-Earth. Now, he allows himself to wonder: Did they go straight to Regula? Did they stop somewhere else first?  Did David have the chance to make a friend or two along the way, or was his first introduction to children his own age via virtual schooling?

"I myself am unfamiliar with the activity in question," Spock admits. Jim sort of wants to call bullshit, because really? Both of them? Somehow, though, the timing doesn't feel particularly appropriate.

"It's a kid's game," Jim starts, suddenly at a loss for words. "It— well. The crux of the game, I guess you could say, is that you're trying to get a message around a circle of people. The first person whispers a phrase in the ear of the person next to them, who whispers to the person next to them, and so on. That keeps going 'til the last person says out loud what they heard, and the group gets to see if anything was lost in translation along the way."

"That sounds boring," David murmurs, and Jim snorts.

"Like I said, it was never really my thing. Half the time you'd have one or more kids messing it up for kicks anyway. My point in referencing the game was just— it's not a great way to pass a message along, is all. You're better off going straight to the source whenever you can."

David ponders this for a few silent moments. Eventually, once he's seemingly worked the logistics through that smart little head of his, the boy softly asks, "Can we play it sometime?"

Jim's tempted to point out that he didn't exactly give 'telephone' a raving review (and that David himself called the very concept 'boring' just seconds ago). Instead, he spares another glance at his son through the rearview. Flashes the boy a smile. "'Course we can! I'm not sure Mr. Spock here would be the fairest opponent, though. He'd probably be able to hear every last whisper around the circle."

"Perhaps this would inspire honesty within our fellow players," Spock suggests. Jim laughs for what must be the hundredth time today.

"Maybe, yeah. Or perhaps it'd inspire a mutiny. Are we really in a position to take that sort of risk, Mr. Spock?"

✧ ✦ ✧

They don't see a singular soul on the road until they're nearly at the land-bridge. Another Xyl pair, looking about as attached at the hip as the duo before them, waves them onto the shoulder. Jim rolls down the window and smiles politely at the alien strangers. "Hi there. I'm not sure if you heard from Aii and Sixe about us, but—"

"Sirs James, Spock, and David?" one Xyl interrupts. Jim nods. "We were told to expect your vehicle."

Jim nearly melts from the sheer relief of being met with something other than open hostility. "Great! Then you already know we're not a threat."

The pair exchange a glance, seemingly talking without words. "That much is evident, yes," one eventually murmurs. Jim gets the sense that he's missing something obvious. 

"So we're good then?" the Captain prods. "I'd offer vaccines, but I'm assuming you two belong to the clan of sixteen that Aii and Sixe mentioned?" Kirk pauses, waiting for verbal confirmation before he continues, "Great! That means you've already got vials waiting for you both at home..."

It's not long before they're being waved back towards the land-bridge. One member of the duo, Xyl-Min, encourages Jim to shift the vehicle into 'twelfth gear' before crossing. "Just until you have reached the other side," they explain, and their mate Xyl-Kho chirps in agreement.

"Do not stop driving until you see the yellow boulder!" Kho adds, tone solemn yet stern. "The sea will carry you as long as you trust her to do so."

It's then that Jim realizes the land-bridge is already covered in a thin layer of sea water.

Logically, Kirk knows that their borrowed vehicle is pretty damn durable — that it survived today's monster of an ion storm without as much as a scratch to show for it — but that knowledge doesn't change the very real fact that he's being encouraged to do something dangerous. He can almost hear Winona chiding him for his recklessness all the way from Earth.

("It's the Kirk in you, I swear! You boys never could walk away from a damn challenge.")

It wasn't hard, living up to Winona's near-nonexistent expectations. Thrill-seeking has always lit a certain... spark, one might say, within Jim — though whether it formed as a result of his mother's nagging or in spite of it never was clear to him, nor to anyone else. All Jim knew for sure was that nothing could compare to the feeling of wind in his hair, an open road in front of him, and every last one of his problems in the rearview.

If only it were still so easy. It isn't, though. Not by a long shot.

If there's anything Jim has learned in the years since Pike convinced him to join Starfleet in the first place, it's this: when it's just you risking death or serious injury, you can shrug away almost anything. He'd only been doing that very thing for his entire life, after all — though it took barely any time at all for him to learn his lesson in that regard. It's significantly harder, as it turns out, to be reckless when other lives are at stake. Especially lives as precious to Jim as these two particular passengers.

And oh, are they precious to him. David and Spock both. To the point where 'precious' almost feels like too casual a word.

Jim wants to turn the car around. He wants to say 'fuck it' and drive them all the way back to the city proper. But then where would they be? Waiting three days for the tide to un-swallow the land-bridge? Leaving the vials behind for the green-skinned Xyl to facilitate the hand-off without Federation supervision?

No. Hell no.

"Spock, turn on your communicator."

The Vulcan makes a quiet noise of confusion. "My communicator, Captain? Have you forgotten—"

Exasperated and impatient, Jim interrupts: "The ion storm? Of course I haven't! But it's at least a few minutes now that we've been idling in this same spot. Assuming the storm is moving at the same rate as it was half an hour ago..."

"...we should be out of range again in the next minute or so!" David exclaims, finishing his father's sentence for him. 

"Yes, exactly. If we can get Mr. Scott to lock onto our devices—" Jim pauses, craning his neck back to look his son right in the eye "—and if you, Mr. Smarty Pants, can keep your hands on my shoulders the whole time we're crossing, then he should be able to beam us out if this thing goes south. Which it won't, mind you, because I'm a damn good driver and this car is a certifiable tank. Doesn't hurt to be safe, though."

Spock nods. "Indeed it does not, Captain."

Once they're back in place on the road, Jim leans out the window and calls to Min and Kho, "Thank you both for your assistance!"

The Xyl chirp happily in response. "Thank you, Sir James! Your actions will bring prosperity to the entire peninsula!"

"Tell Aii and Sixe we say 'hello,'" is Jim's awkward response. It's not like he created the vaccine, after all, and it feels wrong taking credit for someone else's work. Jim's just the guy who has been tasked with moving the vials from point A to point B (and only because the city-dwelling Xyl are apparently too damn racist to do it themselves). He's no superhero. He's just a guy doing his job. So Jim smiles awkwardly at the Xyl and rolls up the window. Then, after a second's hesitation, he reaches for the gear shift. 

"All good on your end, Lieutenant Commander?" Jim calls out, hopefully loud enough for his comm to pick up the sound from where it's strapped into his belt.

"Aye, Captain," Scotty replies after a few seconds' delay. There's a beep on the other end, followed by static, and then that same voice rings out from Spock's device on the vehicle's passenger side: "I'm locked onto both signals, Sirs. Just say the word and I'll have ye out of there in seconds!"

Jim forces himself to smile with all the confidence he patently doesn't have swirling in his system at present. Scotty might not be able to see his face from all the way on the Enterprise, but David sure as hell can. The last thing Jim needs is for his kid to know how damn anxious he is about this whole endeavor. About putting David and Spock in danger just to right a wrong that has nothing to do with any of them in the first place.

As if sensing his Captain's hesitance to speak, Spock says, "I will keep this line open until we have reached safety. Your assistance is much appreciated, Lieutenant Commander."

"Don't mention it," is Scotty's easy reply. Spock raises a brow in confusion but doesn't comment on the (admittedly strange) colloquialism. 

"You're probably gonna want to hold onto something, guys," Jim tells both of his passengers. It's not every day you hydroplane on purpose, after all. Especially not whilst operating an alien vehicle designed for someone with thrice as many appendages below their waist — and not even the fun kind of appendages, either. "And by 'something,' David, I mean me." 

The land-bridge, which is presently covered in an ever-growing layer of sea water, stretches out in front of them for what feels like an eternity. Jim's not used to feeling anxious about this sort of stunt (or anything, really; he's the damn Captain, after all). Risk-taking has been his whole schtick since, like, forever — probably due to the whole 'being born on an escape shuttle in space' thing, but who really knows?

Once he's sure both Spock and David have both heeded his warning (with the latter using a surprisingly strong grip on each of his shoulders), Kirk calls out, "Hands at the ready, Mr. Scott?"

He waits for Scotty's, "Aye sir," then guns it.

The way Jim learned to drive was, admittedly, unorthodox — mostly because his teacher was on an entirely different planet at the time. But also because he's Jim and Sam's Sam and, well. Brothers are brothers. Even when one of them runs away and leaves the other one behind to clean up the mess.

It was almost dizzying, the way Jim would vacillate between hating and idolizing his brother on any given day. He'd spend six days in a single week resenting the older boy, only to worship him all over again when Sam finally bothered to return his calls on the seventh. "Remember, Jimmy," he'd start, and just like that his little brother would be hanging on his every word. "You can get your instruction permit at fourteen so long as you pass the written test. Now, tell me: what do you do at a blinking yellow light...?"

Jim didn't end up getting his instruction permit until he was nearly fifteen and a half — mostly due to Tarsus getting in the way of, well, everything. And also because of the car-off-cliff stunt that got him sent there in the first place. He still made sure to send Sammy a comm once he did take the test (passing on the first try, naturally). He was only slightly dejected when the call went straight to the older boy's machine.

"This is Sam. Sorry I missed your call," a familiar voice told him. Jim could barely wait until the beep to start babbling.

"I did it, Sammy! I passed! They said I have to wear my glasses when I drive at night, but that's okay— oh! And Mom told me, if I do my chores for the next few months without a single complaint, she might let me try for my restricted license. I sort of think she wants me to get it anyway, though, 'cause then an adult won't have to accompany me anymore. I heard her and Frank arguing about it the other night, and he threatened to leave again..."

Their journey across the land-bridge is undoubtedly the longest minute of Jim's entire life. And that's saying a whole lot, mind you, because he literally died of radiation poisoning. That shit felt like being flayed alive in slow-motion.

This, though? Somehow this is worse.

The wheel seems to jerk on its own accord, moving this way and that. Jim's relatively certain he'll have burns on his palms when this is all over just from the effort of holding it in place. He can't think about that, though, because apparently putting the vehicle in twelfth gear disables the goddamn brakes. Jim almost starts to wonder if this was all an elaborate ruse to send two decorated members of Starfleet (plus a little boy who can do advanced calculus in his head) to their deaths.

All the while, as Jim's panicking, Sam's voice rings out in his head. 'Don't panic if you start to lose control,' he says, and Jim is almost comforted by the words. Almost. 'You're gonna wanna gently pump the brakes to see if you can get any traction.' If only Sam had thought to consider hulking alien cars with the ability to shift into at least twelve gears when offering such sage advice. Alas, however, all of his teachings seem to have become moot in a matter of seconds.

And so, against his better judgment, Jim doesn't listen to his big brother's voice in his head.

He listens instead to Kho and Min. Focuses on the road ahead and the feeling of David's surprisingly strong grip on his shoulders. He trusts the vehicle to take them across and somehow, in all that doubt and uncertainty, it does.

They're carried across the land-bridge by nothing but a lack of friction and sheer, unadulterated luck. Jim's heart keeps on racing even after they've passed the yellow boulder. Even once he's regained control of the vehicle, shifting out of twelfth gear whilst he searches for somewhere safe to pull over. 

Somehow, they make it to the shoulder. Jim manages to stop the vehicle without blocking the road. He tries his best to steady his breathing, willing his heart to get with the damn program, until finally he intakes enough air to ask, "Are you guys okay?"

"Are you okay?" David counters. His grip loosens on Jim's shoulders, though he doesn't pull away fully.

Despite his breathlessness, Jim laughs at the question. "I will be, kid. Just gotta —hah!— let my body catch up to the fact that we're... safe... on the other side of the, uh..."

"Land-bridge," Spock interjects, finishing his Captain's sentence for him. "Breathe, Jim. All is well."

But it's not. It's really not. If the land-bridge is already that submerged, there's no way the three of them will be able to get back across it before the Swallowing is complete. Which means they'll be stuck here on the peninsula — which really shouldn't even be called a 'peninsula', given its apparent propensity for becoming a literal damn island when the tides command it — for three whole days. With nothing but a trunk full of vials and good intentions to keep them fed and warm.

Jim can't say any of this out loud, of course, because there's a nine-year-old in the back seat who is currently hanging on his and Mr. Spock's every word. All he can do is look Spock in the eye and hope, somehow, that a wordless expression gets the message across. We're so fucked.

Spock stares back, just as silent as Jim, until finally he extends one hand to brush lightly against the human's exposed wrist. All will be well, a voice that isn't Jim's own promises. The sound echoes all throughout his head, combining with the anxious thoughts and turning them calm in an instant. You mustn't panic in front of David.

Then Spock pulls his hand away.

"How the hell—" Kirk starts, pulled out of the sensation the instant Spock's skin is no longer touching his own. One look in his first officer's direction is enough to shut him up. To remind him that, yes, he's a parent now. And the last thing a parent should be doing is giving their kid more reasons to worry. "Never mind. You still there, Mister Scott?"

"Aye, Sir!" Scotty's tinny voice calls out from Spock's comm. He's cutting out at nearly every other word. "I take it... got there... one piece?"

"Scotty, you're breaking up," Jim says. He waits for another response, but this time it's all static. He leans back in his seat, sighing aloud, and adds, "If you can hear us, thank you for your help. We'll be in contact when we can. Kirk out."

Once they've ended the call with Scotty — and once both Kirk and Spock have dutifully powered down their respective devices, per David's astute instruction — Jim addresses the brainy duo: "We ready to keep going, or d'you guys need another minute...?"

David surprises Jim by decidedly stating, "We should keep going." He pauses, seemingly for dramatic effect, then adds, "The water level on the land bridge is already quite high, after all."

"An astute observation, David," Spock says plainly. Neither his tone nor his expression give away any of the concern that Jim felt when their skin touched just a few moments earlier.

(Privately, Kirk wonders if Lady Amanda Grayson ever felt overwhelmed by her son's genius. It must've been near-impossible to get anything over on Spock throughout his childhood. Jim has recently learned through personal experience that it's hard enough doing that with David — a fully-human brainiac of a child with decidedly zero telepathic abilities — so he can only imagine.)

"It'll be fine," Jim says assuredly. In the rearview, David appears... unconvinced, though he says nothing out loud to convey as much.

"How far are we from the next outpost?" the boy asks instead.

To which Spock says, "Our knowledge of geography past the land-bridge is below average."

And that's the thing about Spock. About Vulcans. Despite what they may imply with their words and actions, Vulcans as a species are not incapable of lying. Not at all. For supposedly logical reasons, however, it's treated as an absolute last resort. Most Vulcans — and this one especially, though he's mellowed out somewhat in recent years — would rather bend the truth 'til it's just about to snap, dancing on that cliff's edge without a fear in the world, than say something that isn't at least technically factual.

Still. If you ask Jim, 'below average' is stretching the definition of truth just as bit too far. All they actually know for sure about the peninsula is that it exists. Hell, it's not even actually a peninsula! It's a goddamn tidal island. They might as well be flying blind.

"Ten minutes, maybe," Jim declares, entirely without merit.

It somehow sounds like less of a lie to his own ears than his first officer's carefully-crafted statement. 

Chapter Text

Jim, for whatever reason, expected the population density on this side of the bridge to be about as sparse as it was on the other (which is to say: barely populated at all). That pretty quickly reveals itself not to be the case.

Kirk has just barely lost sight of the yellow boulder in his rearview when a bright blue Xyl vehicle approaches them from the other direction — followed shortly thereafter by two more. Jim rolls down the window, slowing to a stop beside the first car, and offers the kindest smile he can manage. "Hi there. I'm—"

"Sir James!" the slimy driver interrupts, voice wavering in time with their persistent full-body purr. "We have been expecting you and your kin! Please allow us to show you the way..."

And so begins the trip to who-knows-where via (seemingly unnecessary) three-car escort. Jim swallows back a mixture of excitement and apprehension and focuses on the road ahead.

The outpost ends up being a lot less 'outpost' and a lot more 'community center.' It's much bigger than Aii and Sa's station, for one thing — with half as many broken windows and a much sturdier-looking facade. The flags are also noticeably less tattered (though not exactly pristine), displaying the same swirling blue-green design as those on the previous outpost.

As soon as Jim steps out of the car, he's surrounded by a flurry of Xyl children. They chirp and purr and poke at his uniform with their sticky, slimy hands. "Oh!" Kirk exclaims uncertainly, catching Spock's eye over the hood of the vehicle. "Um. Hey there, kids."

"'Kids'?" David echoes, bursting out of the back seat at near-superhuman speed.

(His excitement makes Jim smile. It also puts a damn pit in his stomach.)

Several of the Xyl children unlatch themselves from Jim in order to hobble on over to the human boy's side. "How many years do you have?" one child with skin as blue as sapphire wonders aloud. Before David can answer, they excitedly flail their upper appendages (one of which appears half-dead) and add, "I have seven!"

Beside them, a blue-green child exclaims, "I have five years, and soon I will have six!"

A teenage-sized Xyl with two missing legs limps towards the group, their long white hair flowing rather majestically in the wind behind them. "Are my brother-sisters bothering you, child?" they ask David, who quickly shakes his head. 

"Not at all! My name is David, and I'm nine— sorry. I meant to say, I have nine years."

Spock appears at Jim's side a few seconds later. Together they watch the children giggle and press their heads close together. One uses a half-dead arm to coax David into coming closer. It's then that Jim realizes, with a rush of horror, that not a single one of the children encircling his son has all ten of their appendages. Most don't even have nine. "Spock," he whispers, turning to his left. Something in the Vulcan's expression tells him they're on the same page already.

"Their circumstance does not appear to diminish their spirits, Captain."

Spock's right, of course. Too bad that fact doesn't make the pit in Jim's stomach go away any faster. 

All the Xyl children have now abandoned Jim in favor of surrounding David, who is attempting to smooth the slightly-bent kite against his chest. "It's supposed to lie flat like this," he explains, earning delighted purrs from several of his slimy audience members.

"I've never seen one without holes in it!" one child exclaims. The pit in Jim's stomach grows impossibly deeper.

The same Xyl that greeted them after they crossed the land-bridge approaches Jim and Spock a minute or two into David's impromptu presentation. "Excuse me, Sirs," they start, sounding both hesitant and excited. "Shall we discuss the details of your shipment?"

"Yes, of course!" is Jim's easy reply, though his gaze darts over to his son instinctually. He'd rather not let David out of his sight, if he's honest — though he'll gladly settle for remaining within earshot if need be.

"You worry for your child," the Xyl notes. Jim forces back a sigh. Before he can voice his response, however, the blue-skinned alien adds, "It is understandable. But my son-daughters are of no threat, Sirs. Xyl-Niwe is quite skilled at keeping them occupied."

It takes a second for the words to sink in. "They're... all yours?" Jim asks.

The Xyl's expression falters slightly. "Though only Xyl-Niwe and Xyl-Meah share my blood, I am indeed mother-father to all orphan children in this clan. I see no difference between the two, Sirs, though others may disagree. I had assumed, given your own child's clear lack of relation to one half of your pair, that you would understand."

"Oh," Jim says, because. Oh. "Pardon me— um, actually. I don't think I caught your name...?"

"I am Xyl-Hix, Sir."

Kirk nods his understanding. "Pardon me, Xyl-Hix. I didn't mean to imply any sort of judgment towards your familial makeup. In fact, I find it quite admirable. Each of your children greeted my son like an old friend and made him feel welcome. Where I'm from, we call that being raised right."

It's then that Spock, ever the king of segues, asks, "How many are there in your clan, Xyl-Hix?"

"Sixty-three," is Hix's easy response. They seem to consider their words for a moment before adding, "My son-daughter, Xyl-Meah, is expecting a litter of four. This means we will soon be a clan of sixty-seven."

"That's great! In that case: what d'you think, Mr. Spock? Should we make it an even eighty vials...?"

It feels almost cruel, peeling David away from his new friends. Especially before they're even able to get the kite up in the air. Jim softens the blow by promising to stop by Xyl-Hix's compound on their way back — should time permit, of course. Which it likely will, given the whole trapped-here-for-three-days thing. 

"Why can't I just stay here 'til you get back?" the boy pleads, and for a second Jim considers giving in. After all, Xyl-Niwe seemed skilled enough in the realm of wrangling children. Jim's also relatively certain, after speaking with Xyl-Hixe for not long at all, that he'd trust the blue-skinned alien with his life. Maybe even his son's life.

It's the principle of the thing, though.

"You haven't exactly proven your ability to stay where we leave you."

David screws up his face like he wants to spit out a rebuttal. Something in Kirk's expression must take the wind out of his sails, however, because he deflates almost as soon as they make eye contact. "M'sorry, Jim," the boy says with devastating sincerity. Jim sighs.

"I know you are, Bud. You still can't stay behind."

✧ ✦ ✧

Each clan they visit is unique. One, governed by a trio of curly-haired Xyl, is home to a bustling market full of handmade goods and fresh produce. Another specializes in weaponry and stonework. Most memorable, perhaps, is the group at the very center of the peninsula. They host the one and only hospital found on this side of the land-bridge. Within its walls, patients of all colors — from blue to teal to emerald green — are tended to with the sort of care a mother might show her own child.

(Not Jim's mother, mind you, but that's neither here nor there.)

"Our patients come from everywhere," the chief Doctor, Xyl-Veer, explains, effectively answering Kirk's unspoken question. "Here, Sirs, it matters only that they are sick and in need of helping."

"That's how it should be," Jim says, because it's true.

Xyl-Veer's teal-toned face twists itself from a smile into a pained frown and then back again. When they speak, it's as if nothing ever happened: "I am glad that you agree, Sir James. Allow me to show you where we intend to store the vials..."

✧ ✦ ✧

"Do I really have to do this?" David whines, staring up at Jim with pleading eyes. They've pulled over onto the side of the road in-between the hospital and whatever fuckery awaits them next, all a bit cranky and a lot dehydrated.

Kirk sighs. "It's this or drinking slime. That might sound cool in theory, bud, but in practice—"

"It's gross, I get it," the boy interrupts, crossing his arms over his chest with a pout. For a second Jim is genuinely dumbfounded.

That's when Spock steps in, insisting, "Not just 'gross,' David. The so-called 'water' our hosts have offered is potentially harmful to our unaccustomed bodies. We do not currently have the means to test its properties. As such, accepting a hypospray is the most logical course of action."

"It's just saline fluid," Jim adds. "Would it help if you watched Mr. Spock inject me with mine first?"

David hesitates, then nods. "Maybe," he grumbles.

Jim bites back a groan. It takes everything in him to keep his voice steady when he bares his neck and says, "Have at it, Commander." He forces his wince to remain internal, counting to ten in his head, and nearly bites off his own tongue to quell the instinctual yelp when that telltale sting hits his skin. Kirk's voice is hoarse but (mostly) steady when he straightens and says, "See, David? Not so bad. Just a quick pinch."

If only Bones could see him now.

✧ ✦ ✧

At the very tip of the peninsula is a tiny, tight-knit community. They don't have one clear leader, though a particularly charismatic (and oddly attractive) individual named Gee-Xyl does the majority of the speaking. "We thank you, Sirs, for your gift to our people," they say. The other Xyl purr their agreement.

"We're just doing our jobs," Jim insists for either the tenth or eleventh time. He's lost count.

Something about Gee in particular is... inviting. Jim's not able to put a finger on it, exactly, but he's sure Spock and David feel it too. The former does more talking than he has at any other stop, and the latter? Well. Jim's pretty sure his son has a big fat crush on Gee-Xyl. Plain and simple. And it's not like he can blame the kid, either. The alien is damn interesting.

For one, there's their name. Gee-Xyl. Not Xyl-Gee. They use the same naming convention as the Xyl from the city proper. They've also got the same pale green skin that Jim had originally thought was characteristic of the entire species (prior to the whole 'but they're blue!' debacle). Unlike those city-dwelling Xyl with whom they share a resemblance, however, Gee has a certain glow about them that is decidedly... Western.

And maybe that's what has Jim so entranced. The both and neither of it all. He's always had a bit of a thing for ambiguity. What can he say?

On a balcony not so far away, Spock and David are attempting to fly the still-slightly-bent kite. Unfortunately for them, however, they've chosen to do so in an atmosphere that doesn't act the way it ought to. Not by most Earth standards, anyway, and certainly not by Vulcan ones. 

They're standing close enough that Jim's relatively certain Spock can hear when Gee-Xyl says, "You are wondering of my origin." He can't be sure, though. The Vulcan doesn't visibly react.

"A bit, maybe," Jim admits, because what's the point in lying? 

"I was born far from this place, yes. I do not resemble the majority of my brother-sisters. I think you will find, however, that such things matter very little on this side of the land-bridge."

Jim smiles, awkward yet sincere. "I'm starting to see that, yeah. It's... pretty great."

It's then that, in typical Xyl fashion, Gee-Xyl throws Jim entirely off-kilter with a few simple words: "Your mate is less certain of our good will."

And maybe it's the exhaustion from driving all day. Maybe it's the emptiness in Jim's stomach that no amount of protein supplements can truly satiate. Maybe it's the fact that Gee-Xyl is strangely beautiful and Jim is... himself. Whatever the case may be, Kirk feels comfortable enough to voice the question he's been wondering ever since they met their first presumptuous Xyl: "What makes you think he's my mate?"

For a second, Gee-Xyl falters. "Is he not?"

Jim swears he can see the slightest tilt of Spock's head from where he's stood beside David. He clears his throat and shakes away the image. "Well. I guess that depends. What does 'mate' mean to you? To your people, I mean. Translation's a tricky thing, you see, and that word can be... vague."

"He is the one by your side always," Gee says, more question than comment. 

"Well, yeah, but—"

"He is the complement to all that you are. You feel his absence as surely as his presence. All imagined futures include him within their depths."

Jim shuffles awkwardly, then clears his throat. "Of course. He's— Spock's important to me. One of the most important people in my life. And the idea of doing any of this without him is... laughable. But I'm still not sure you understand. This word you're using —'mate'— can mean 'friend' or 'lover' depending on the context. Spock's my friend, clearly, but he's— we're, um. It's not like that." 

Kirk and Gee sit in awkward silence for a few long seconds before the alien softly says, "And yet you bear his mark."

What...? Kirk thinks, nearly tripping over the nonsense words threatening to flood from his mouth.

Before Jim can turn into more of a sputtering mess than he already is, Gee speaks again. "Surely you have scented it, Sir James. Even muted as it is now by my peoples' additional marking, his claim is present."

"His claim," Jim repeats, trying out the feel of the word in his mouth. When he chances another glance at the balcony, he finds Spock staring right at him with eyes as wide as saucers. The Vulcan is wearing the same look of frozen terror that they saw on the slime-deer they nearly hit only a few hours ago (though, if Jim's honest, it feels like a whole week has passed since then). Kirk only breaks their eye contact when another thought occurs to him, forcing him to face Gee head-on once more. "Did you say additional marking? As in, I've been 'marked' more than once?"

"Of course," is the slimy alien's instant response. "How else would we have known to trust you and your kin?"

When Gaila put in a request to be transferred to the Enterprise, Jim was hesitant — for the obvious reasons, naturally, but also for... other reasons. Ones he couldn't and still can't quite put into words. If he were to try, he'd say this: the woman is damn observant. On top of that, she won't hesitate to voice said observations to any and all audiences at the drop of a hat. That sort of person can be ticking time bomb when you're one of the youngest Captains in the 'fleet, still trying to outrun your own reckless reputation. Even more so when you're Jim Kirk.

So, yeah. He took a few days to contemplate signing the papers.

He tried drinking it out with Bones first. Then, Scotty. When both instances proved themselves unhelpful, Jim dragged his hungover ass on over to Spock and Uhura's condo and all but begged for their honest opinions. 

Getting coffee was Nyota's idea."It's neutral," she'd explained when Jim's brows went up at the suggestion. "Less sexy than a bar, less clinical than a conference room... Also, you can sip your drink when things get awkward."

"'When'?" Jim had countered, because really? Did the woman have zero faith in his ability to play it cool?

Spock, who had up until that point said very little, hummed his agreement. "You are rarely so outwardly pessimistic, Nyota. Should you not expect more of your friend and potential colleague?"

"It's Gaila, Spock! She'll probably ask about his sex life before she asks how his day is going. If that happens in a dark bar with music playing, poor Jim here is toast! We've got to be strategic..."

In a surprising turn of events, Gaila didn't come in flirting. In fact, for the entirety of their coffee not-date, she hardly flirted at all. Sure, there was the initial purr of "Hey there, handsome," followed thereafter by a too-tight hug, but then—

Gaila stepped back, cocking her head to the side. She took a few long seconds to observe her would-be Captain, eyes narrowed, and then stepped in closer so that she could audibly sniff his shoulder. Only once she stepped back again, both looking and sounding just slightly put-off, did the Orion woman put her reaction into words.

"Why, Jimmy Kirk! I didn't know you had it in you."

To which Jim wondered, "Didn't know I had what in where...?"

And Gaila had laughed, seemingly unmoved by her friend's (truthful!) claim of ignorance. When she spoke again, it was more to herself than to Jim: "Mr. 'I'm-Not-Built-For-Monogamy' shows up to our coffee date smelling taken and expects me not to notice."

"You must have your wires crossed somewhere, Gail. I'm definitely not 'taken,' and if I smell like anything it's the coconut shampoo Bones pawned off on me."

"Huh. Funny. That's not what your pheromones are saying..."

They didn't discuss the scent thing again in the months between Gaila's initial request and the Enterprise's departure. Not explicitly, anyway. 

Jim quietly approved Gaila's transfer paperwork. Gaila, in turn, seamlessly wove herself back into Jim's life, then Nyota's. The three of them fell back into a dynamic not unlike the one they had at the Academy — except that now the very real animosity between Kirk and Uhura had been replaced by more lighthearted, almost sibling-like rivalry.

Oh, and there wasn't any sex. That was a big shift for Jim and Gaila both.

So big, in fact, that Kirk was willing to overlook the occasional scrunched-up face or under-the-breath comment when the Orion got a whiff of him. He told himself she must've been scenting one of several partners he'd taken to bed in the weeks and months following the event (which Jim had privately dubbed The Coffee Incident). Even as said partners got fewer and further in-between — and even though most, if not all, were biologically incapable of projecting pheromones — Jim continued to believe his own lie.

Then Spock and Uhura broke up. Gaila took the reins in putting Nyota back together, eventually enlisting the help of one Christine Chapel (which, by Jim's observations, went just swimmingly; he wonders whether that was intentional on their Orion friend's part or a happy accident).

Between that, the start of their mission, and Jim's more recent addition of a whole nine-year-old child into his life, he never did get the chance to revisit the 'taken' question.

He's certainly revisiting it now.

Jim blinks several times in Gee's general direction. "That makes a lot of sense, actually," he says, because it's true. "Humans aren't— we can't scent pheromones in that way. They do still affect us, though."

The corners of Gee's eyes crinkle with something like amusement. "I have observed this."

"Yeah?" Jim counters, because he can in fact put two and two together (despite what a certain cranky doctor might like to believe). "Then I'm guessing you've been marked as trustworthy too. By multiple Xyl, even." 

"Of course, Sir James! Their additions to my membrane convey their confidence. Not all can be present when I speak for the clan, you see, but their marks can."

Kirk tries sneaking another look at his first officer. Spock, who now has his back turned, seems entirely engrossed in the task of watching David fly his kite (and isn't that embarrassing? Did Jim expect the guy to just keep on staring forever...?). The Captain feels his face growing hot when he faces Gee again. "The membrane?" he prompts, mostly out of genuine curiosity. A little bit to get his mind off of Spock.

Gee reaches out with one appendage, patting at the (already-slimy) fabric on Jim's left shoulder. "Like this," they say, and the pieces start to fall together in Jim's brain. "We were told that your kind do not carry it on your skin. Is this why you wear such strange garments? To carry your membrane?"

"Not exactly," Jim replies through a forced smile. This alien may indeed have some serious pheromone action going on, but no amount of chemicals — nor sheer charm — can make up for the boner-killer that is Xyl slime. It's simply unavoidable. "Listen, um—"

A squeal from the balcony cuts Jim's sentence off short. He quickly pivots his body once more, ready to run to his son's aid, only to realize with a satisfied jolt that the squeal he heard was a happy one. "Jim!" David cries out, chancing a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure his father is listening. "We thought the kite might be too heavy, but look! It's flying!"

Jim finds it's incredibly easy to match his boy's excited energy. "Woah!" he exclaims, beaming wide enough to make his cheeks hurt. "How high can it go, David?"

The boy's face goes a bit serious then. "No higher than this today. There's a storm nearby, you know."

Beside David, Spock makes a sound that could almost be a laugh (if he wasn't, y'know. A Vulcan).

"A storm? Really?" Jim counters, tone light. "I had no idea."

"It's a good thing I'm here, then," is David's instant, sure-as-all-hell reply. 

And it is. It really, really is.

Chapter Text

"We should comm Scotty again," Jim says, shifting their borrowed vehicle into drive. "We can let him know the last delivery went well. See if he's got any updates on the crew in the city."

"A logical course of action, Captain. Shall I hail the Lieutenant Commander now?"

Jim holds up a hand to halt his first officer. "Nah, I'll do it," he says, pretending not to notice how Spock's gaze lingers on his open palm. He uses his other hand to grab for his communicator, raising it towards his face. "You still there, Mr. Scott?"

After a few seconds' delay, a familiar (and only slightly static-filled) voice says, "Aye, Sir. How's the wee lad doing?"

"Mr. Spock's doing just fine," Jim jokes, causing his son to squeak with surprised laughter in the backseat. "Oh, you meant David? He's fine too. Made a few slimy friends who we plan to visit on our way back. Speaking of which: what's the status on that ion storm?"

"She's nearly over the ocean now, Captain. Shouldn't be causin' you trouble any time soon."

All three of the car's occupants breathe out a collective sigh of relief.

Next is Doctor McCoy. Jim half-expects his best friend to start ranting and raving right away, but as soon as he picks up all the doctor says is, "Oh, thank God." No trace of humor. Not even any sarcasm. Just pure, unabashed relief (and a notable lack of static). 

"Hey Bones," Jim replies, tone soft. "Everything all right on your end?"

"Better if a certain towheaded nuisance would make his presence known," McCoy drawls, and there he is. The cranky bastard they all know and love.

"He means you, little stowaway," Jim explains good-naturedly.

From the backseat, David calls out, "M'here, Doctor McCoy! And safe. I'm sorry if I worried you."

Bones laughs. "No 'if' needed, kiddo. Trust me when I say every last one of us was worried out of our minds. But we're back on the ship now, tryin' to clean the slime off our clothes, and it's damn good to hear ya soundin' so chipper from down below. So long as you don't pull that sort of stunt again..."

"I won't!" David exclaims assuredly. Bones's tinny laugh makes Jim smile.

"I'll believe it when I see it, kid."

Jim pipes in then, unable to fully disguise his excitement when he asks, "Is everyone really back on the ship?"

"As of a few minutes ago, yes. I've already got a line forming outside Medbay. Speaking of which: how soon can I schedule you three in for your post-leave check-ups?" 

"About that," Jim immediately cuts in, knowing otherwise David will gladly explain their tide-related predicament all by himself. The kid's smart, sure, but he hasn't yet learned how to speak to the country doctor so as to avoid lighting any of the man's (many) errant fuses. It's an art that very few have mastered. "Listen, Bones. We've run into a bit of an issue with the timeline..."

Try as he might, even a seasoned expert like Captain Kirk can't save them all from the inevitable, "Dammit, Jim!" that rings through the entire vehicle once he's walked Bones through the extent of their present situation. 

"You're acting like I control the tides or something," Jim says in a tone that he patently refuses to characterize as whiny.

"No, not the tides— just the death-trap cars you use to drive over 'em. Because that's so much better..."

✧ ✦ ✧

On their way back, they drop the remaining vials off at the hospital.

"Thank you again, Sirs," Xyl-Veer exclaims, purring so loudly that their whole body seems to vibrate. "Your kindness will not be forgotten!"

This time, when the blue-skinned alien reaches out to pat at Jim's now-perpetually-slimy shoulder, he knows without having to ask that he's been marked as safe once more. 

✧ ✦ ✧

"Mister Spock...?" David says, sounding strangely hesitant. Jim resists the urge to look away from the road to check on his son's facial expression in the back seat.

Spock's voice is soft when he responds, "Yes, David?"

"I was just wondering— I know you said the Alice book you gave me belonged to your Mum, and that the chess board was new... So, um. Is the kite new, too, or did it also come from somewhere...?"

"All things come from somewhere, David," is Spock's initial response. He allows the nine-year-old to sputter for just a second before he continues, "If you are inquiring as to whether that specific kite holds sentimental or historical value outside of this recent holiday, the answer is no. It is simply something I thought you would enjoy."

David can barely wait for Spock to finish speaking before he exclaims, "I do enjoy it! It's great! I just— I've been thinking about what Xyl-Maai said. How all their kites have holes. And later, when you guys were talking to their mother-father, Xyl-Kiin said they'd never even seen one in the air before..."

Oh, David, Jim thinks. His whole chest swells with pride. He can't help but sneak a quick peek at his boy in the rearview, noting his flushed face and dodgy eyes. How'd you get to be so good?

"...so I was thinking, if it would be okay with you, that I might— or that we could, um. Give it to them?"

And what can I do to help you stay that way?

Jim clears his throat. "I think that's a wonderful idea, David," he says truthfully (if not a bit thickly). "Thoughtful, too. How'd you think of that?"

"Mum always says, 'if they need it and you can spare it, you should give others what you've got.' And I thought, since Li-Xyl lied to us about the peninsula, he probably lied to Father Christmas too. Otherwise Xyl-Hix's kids would each have their own kites to play with. Ones without holes. So since I have one with me already, and we could easily get another once we leave..."

For a second Jim is genuinely concerned that he might explode from the sheer affection and adoration swelling up within him. He blinks away a few unwanted tears, eyes focused back on the road, and works to steady his breathing. Then Spock says, "Both logical and charitable indeed. I only wish we had more than one kite to offer your new friends."

"Me too," David admits. "They're all good at sharing, though, so it'll be okay."

✧ ✦ ✧

The sun is in the process of setting by the time they pull back up to Xyl-Hix's compound. They exit the vehicle to find a sky painted in strokes of blue and pink and purple in-between. There's barely a cloud to break it all up, now that the storm has cleared. The whole scene is... beautiful. Calming.

Jim stretches both arms above his head, feeling a little stiff and a lot exhausted. He's less surprised this time when the children surround him upon his exit from the vehicle. Their slimy hands do still make him want to shiver, though.

"Have you completed your task, Sir Jim?" one wonders.

Another asks, "Where is David?"

That's when the nine-year-old appears, trying and failing to stifle a yawn against the skin of one palm. "M'here," he manages. He uses his free hand to rub sleepily at one eye. "Just need a sec to... wake up..."

"Did you not have time for your afternoon nap today?" Xyl-Niwe asks, wet eyes darting between David, Jim, and Spock on the other side of the vehicle. Their brow furrows in some mixture of confusion and concern.

"Oh," Jim says. He completely forgot that most (if not all) Xyl take daily midday naps. It's one of their more enviable norms. "No. We've, uh— we've been on the road all day. Haven't had the time to stop."

One child with dusty blue skin and ice-blond hair looks up at Jim, eyes wide. "Not even to rest?"

"There is always time for rest, Sir James," the adoptive sibling to their left insists.

"Son-daughters, please," Xyl-Hix calls out, and just like that Jim can breathe again. He finds Spock's face amid a swirling sea of blue and teal once the children have detached from his person. The two of them exchange a meaningful glance. Then Hix clears their throat, capturing everybody's attention, and adds, "Our guests will need a clean place to rest their heads. Who will volunteer to change the bedding in Gee-Xyl's former suite?"

Several little limbs of varying length and hue rise up all at once.

At first, Jim just assumes David will be joining them in the aforementioned suite. It takes a bit of coaxing from Xyl-Hix — plus a good amount of begging from the child himself — but eventually, Jim concedes to letting David stay where the rest of the children do. "Take my comm, though," he insists, holding the device out for his son to grab. "That way you can hail us if you need anything."

They shed the sleepy boy — who mumbles something nearly unintelligible about missing Richard — in a room full of furniture that vaguely resembles bunk beds. David barely gets under the covers of the bed Niwe tells him is his before he's out like a light.

Jim pulls the silky comforter over his son's shoulders, careful not to wake him in the process. "Night, kid," he whispers. He gently removes his comm from David's now-slack hand. He gingerly places the device on the table beside the boy's borrowed bed. Then he steps back, just looking for a moment, and allows his chest to swell with affection. "Sweet dreams."

Niwe and Spock are waiting for him at the room's threshold, neither face betraying emotion the way a human would. Jim spares one more glance back at David before he joins them.

"Young David will be safe with us," Xyl-Niwe insists. Jim wonders if they can sense his anxiety through his pheromones alone. Is that how that works?

(Or maybe the worry is just that evident on Jim's face. That's certainly a possibility too.)

"Thank you, Niwe," Spock murmurs. Jim nearly startles when a guiding hand finds its way to his lower back. "This way, you said...?"

The alien teenager nods, expression illegible, and uses one half-dead arm to gesture down the hallway. "We hope you will find your room acceptable, Sirs."

"Just so long as I've got a bed, I don't much care," Jim admits foggily.

"I thought you might say so," Niwe purrs. Something about their six-word sentence makes Spock's posture stiffen.

It doesn't take long at all for Jim to eat his words. Less than three minutes, in fact.

Only once Spock has all but carried him down the hallway, seemingly unaffected by his sudden responsibility for eighty percent of the captain's body weight, does it occur to Jim that Niwe said 'your room.' Singular. Not rooms, plural. Just as the rusty cogs in his mind move themselves fast enough to put two and two together re: their sleeping situation, Jim is guided into a room with exactly one bed.

Because of course he is.

"At least it's bigger than David's," he grumbles, reluctantly pulling himself out of Spock's helpful grip. He grabs at his tunic, clumsily pulling it over his head — only for the slimy fabric to get stuck to itself halfway through the process. 

"Jim?" Spock questions. If Jim could see him through the fabric, he's sure the Vulcan would be frowning.

"Mind giving me a hand?"

Neither man says anything as Spock gently detaches Jim's shirt from itself and then from him. Jim can't decide if he finds the quiet more peaceful or terrifying. Once he's freed his captain Spock steps away, opening a nearby closet and grabbing one of several oddly-shaped hangers. "We should not let the fabric touch itself," he explains, and Jim nods. "Otherwise it will adhere."

Kirk can't help but snort. "I had started to get that impression, yes," he says, gesturing towards his own sticky shirt in Spock's hand. Halfway through the motion, his body forces out a yawn. "Gah. Driving all day is the worst."

"You attribute your exhaustion to our being inside of a vehicle for the majority of the day," Spock says, and it's not a question. All the same, Jim takes a second to consider it like one. Spock, meanwhile, places Jim's shirt on the hanger.

"I guess so, yeah. Is that crazy to say?"

"I suppose not. I, however, am far more exhausted by the social aspect of our endeavors. I found our time in the vehicle to be a welcome respite."

Jim smirks. It feels strangely awkward, grabbing for his fly, but he's not about to climb into their nice clean bed wearing the same slimy clothes he trekked all around the peninsula in. The only reason David got away with doing so is because the kid somehow entered dreamland the literal second his curly head hit the pillow.

(And even then, Jim considered waking him to insist he reconsider.)

Only once Kirk has discarded his pants, trotting across the room in his briefs, does he sneak a glance at Spock. The Vulcan has shed his own trousers and is in the process of removing his shirt in a manner far more graceful than that of his captain before him. Jim forces himself to look away before Spock can catch him staring. He purposefully hangs his pants far enough away from his tunic to avoid the fabric touching and sticking together.

The sound of Spock clearing his throat startles Jim slightly. He forces himself to meet the Vulcan's gaze, gulping audibly when he notices that the object of his affection is now shirtless, too. "Woah," he says, because his brain-to-mouth filter has clearly already gone to bed without him. "Sorry, I mean— were you gonna say something?"

"Just that you appear exhausted, Jim. Perhaps you should lie down."

"That's— yeah. You're probably right," Jim says, because he is (probably right, that is; Spock's usually right. He's also usually clothed). The human dutifully climbs into the vaguely full-sized bed they're meant to share, noting the soft fabric of its silky sheets. He closes his eyes, curling in on himself, and quietly breathes, "G'night, Spock."

"Sleep well, Jim. I must meditate before I join you in resting."

Jim hopes that he'll fall asleep as easily as his son did. Instead, he drowsily listens as Spock shuffles around the room. Then, for who-knows-how-long, all he hears are the Vulcan's even breaths.

In... out. In... out...

Over and over, always on the same beat. Never faltering.

It should be enough to lull Kirk to sleep, but it doesn't. Instead he stays wide awake.

It isn't until Spock himself slides into bed, (presumably) well-meditated, that Jim feels himself doing anything close to settling down. "You should be asleep," the Vulcan says softly, and Jim huffs out a laugh.

"You can say that again."

Just a second passes before Spock dutifully whispers,"You should be asleep."

"I've been trying, believe me. None of the usual tricks seem to be working. I don't suppose you've got some special Vulcan ritual you can do to help me along?"

"No ritual, Jim," Spock responds, seemingly hesitating. Jim can almost hear the unspoken words. Then the Vulcan exhales, breath warm on Jim's bare back. "I can, however, provide calm— just as I did in the vehicle this afternoon. Would you like for me to repeat the action?"

Jim nods, too tired to verbalize his agreement. Anything, he thinks, audibly sighing with relief when he feels Spock's familiar touch against his wrist. Two gentle fingers press against the spot where Jim's pulse is strongest. For a second there's nothing, and then— safety. Warmth.

"Mnhh, thank you," Jim hums into the pillow, already closer to rest than he has been for the past however-long. His whole body seems to swell with a rush of affection and something else he can't quite name. It sends him floating on a cloud.

Just before he's fully out, Kirk hears Spock softly whisper, "Rest well, ashayam."

You too, Jim thinks.

Many off-worlders assume the Vulcan planet to be perpetually warm in temperature. This assumption is, of course, erroneous. Such a fact does not stop Cole Grayson from telling every child who will listen that his elder cousin cannot go outside in the winter without his entire body turning to ice.

"My Aunt Amanda carries a hairdryer in her purse all the time, just in case," Cole lies, prompting even the kindest children in the shul to snicker amusement into the fabric of their sleeves. 

At twelve years old, Spock no longer blames these children for their participation in such cruelty. He does not even blame his cousin. An only child raised with such little structure cannot be expected to overcome his own lack of empathy at just ten years of age. Especially not without assistance from his well-meaning (yet, ultimately, unequipped) parents. 

Rather than acknowledge Cole's farcical comment, Spock continues to parse through his book passage. 

"I know you can hear me, Spock-o," Cole teases, flicking a folded-up paper triangle in his cousin's direction. Spock pretends not to notice when it clatters onto the floor by his feet. Then another triangle flies, this time landing at almost the direct center of Spock's open page, and Cole lets out a self-satisfied whoop. "Hole in one!"

Spock, who has endured endless lectures from his Uncle Aaron on this very topic, cannot help but correct the younger boy: "One cannot have a 'hole in one' after missing their initial shot. Such a claim is antithetical to the rules of golf."

This time, the chorus of children's' laughter is directed at Cole. Spock swallows back the strange taste of satisfaction in his mouth. He watches in his periphery as Cole stands, strutting up to his cousin with a particularly menacing gait. 

"I would suggest you refrain from coming any closer," Spock warns, finally meeting Cole's glistening gaze.

The human boy's smile grows to a menacing degree. Cole raises one hand as if preparing to strike. Before he can do so, however, Spock reaches out with one confident hand to administer a skillful pinch to the nerve between his cousin's shoulder and neck.

Without another word, teasing or otherwise, Cole falls to the ground in a lifeless heap. Spock remains frozen in place with his arm still outstretched.

Several long, silent seconds pass before the other children begin to scream.

"I just don't get it. You know better. How many times have we been through it at this point?"

"Mother—"

Amanda silences her son with a singular raised hand. "If what you're about to say is an excuse, Spock, don't bother. I seriously don't want to hear it."

"It is not an excuse, Mother," the boy counters, because it's not. Not entirely, anyway. "Would you accept an explanation?"

The human woman scoffs, then gestures around herself as if to ask, 'What have I got to lose?'

"I did as you suggested, Mother. I ignored his teasing and focused on my work. Even as Cole continued to spread baseless and illogical lies about my Vulcan biology, I did not respond. My lack of reaction in front of the other children only seemed to strengthen his resolve."

"So you nerve-pinched him?"

"I administered the to'tsu'k'hy, yes, but only as Cole was raising a hand to enact violence upon my person. It was an act of self-defense."

"That's not what Cole says."

Spock peers up at his human mother, raising one eyebrow in question. "Cole also says I was born with horns and a tail, both of which you and Father removed via surgical intervention. Should his accounts truly be considered as fact?"

Amanda holds her son's gaze, brows furrowed. She opens and closes her mouth several times before she says, "I don't think your Aunt Myra would let poor Aaron live it down if I didn't dole out some sort of punishment."

"Surely even she realizes the illogic in punishing her husband for his sister's parenting decisions."

"Ha!" Spock's mother exclaims. "Have you forgotten you're on Earth, my sweet boy? We don't do logic here."

The Vulcan boy frowns. "Logic is not something that is 'done,' Mother. It is—"

"How 'bout this?" Amanda interrupts, halting Spock's tangent before it can truly begin. "For your 'punishment'" —she mimics quotation marks with her fingers— "I'm sending you to finish your work in your room. Alone. You'll stay there 'til I come fetch you for supper. Does that sound sufficiently painful, Spock? A worthy punishment for nerve-pinching your cousin?"

Spock shakes his head. "Hardly," he admits, having craved nothing but solitude for hours on end. He's already well into planning a much-needed meditation session in his mind when his mother throws her head back and laughs.

"Don't let Myra hear you say that. She might make me punish you for real."

Jim jolts awake. He's lying beneath silky Xyl sheets, face pressed into a chest full of hair far softer than the stuff that grows from his own body. It takes a second for his groggy mind to process that said chest's owner — who just so happens to smell amazing — is lying far too still to be asleep.

He's also, essentially, trapped beneath Jim's grip.

It takes an embarrassing amount of self-control for Kirk to detach himself from the warmth and comfort he awoke into. It takes even longer for him to connect the dots between their skin-to-skin contact and what he just witnessed. Not a dream, really, but a memory.

A memory of Amanda Grayson. Of Spock's childhood.

A memory that wasn't Jim's to recollect.

"Sorry," Jim grumbles, unable to meet Spock's gaze. "I didn't mean to intrude."

He means it in terms of the dream, sure, but he also means the physical intrusion. There's a certain amount of contact that can't be avoided when sharing a bed of this size with another full-grown man — Jim learned that much during his time at the Academy — but latching onto the other person like a damn koala? Entirely avoidable.

Or it should be, anyway.

"You did not intrude," Spock says, speaking so softly that Jim nearly misses it. 

Jim nods, wondering if the Vulcan can see better than he can in this dark. "Your cousin was a little shit," he says, because it's true. Once it's clear Spock won't be entertaining that particular comment, he continues, "Are all Vulcan dreams so... literal?"

"Vulcans do not dream," Spock says, which. What?

"Well, I beg to differ. I know at least one who does. I'm assuming you inherited that ability from your Mom, though?"

The pause that follows is, frankly, awkward. So long that Jim sort of wonders if Spock fell back asleep. He's just about to change the subject, already regretting his decision to push, when the Vulcan speaks again. "Jim," he breathes, and just that syllable is enough to raise the human's heart-rate. How the hell does Spock do that? "Prior to tonight, I had only ever had one singular dream throughout my lifetime. Said dream came to me exactly one week after my Mother's passing."

"Oh?" Jim responds, unsure if he should prod further. He allows himself to settle on his side once again, now committed to lying and chatting with Spock in the dark at this unknown hour. His eyes have adjusted just enough that he can see the vaguest outline of the Vulcan's nose when he tilts his head just so. It's beautiful.

"Perhaps one day I will tell you more about the dream itself," Spock breathes, and it sounds like a promise.

A few minutes of silence pass. Jim closes his eyes, trying and failing to lull himself back to sleep. He listens to Spock's even breathing. He wonders if that gorgeous Vulcan head is full of whirling thoughts like his own. 

They're lying just far enough away from one another on the bed that no part of their bodies is touching. Jim's pretty sure, if he rolled over the wrong way in his sleep, he'd find himself on the floor. Probably with a sizable bump on his head to boot. Still, he doesn't move closer. He's not sure if he should.

"Spock?" he tries, and the Vulcan hums his attention. 

"Yes, Jim?"

The human falters for just a second, feeling uncharacteristically reticent. "Did I... make that happen? 'Cause I'm sorry if I did. It wasn't, like, intentional. I just—"

"Jim," Spock interrupts, tone fond. "You are not to blame. I should have raised my shields when we elected to shed our clothes. Skin-to-skin contact was a statistically inevitable result of our sharing a bed."

"Inevitable, huh?" Jim teases. Spock makes a quiet noise that he can't quite decipher. "In that case, you better start the shield-raising now. I'm halfway back to sleep already."

"... As you wish, Jim."

Chapter Text

The next time Jim wakes, it's to the sound of someone frantically knocking on their door. For a second he thinks they're under attack. Then their mystery knocker speaks.

"Jim?" a small voice calls out from the other side. "Mr. Spock? Are you in there?"

It takes only a second for Kirk's mind to put a face to the voice in question. Another for him to get to his feet. "Just a minute, David!" he calls out, stumbling towards the closet to grab both his and Spock's now-crusty clothes. He's talking mostly to himself when he mumbles, "This is so disgusting."

"I concur," Spock murmurs behind him, startling the still-not-entirely-awake captain with his sudden proximity.

"You think there's any chance Gee-Xyl left something behind that we could wear instead...?"

Spock takes his own clothes from Jim's hands. He grimaces, stepping into his trousers, then says, "Unlikely. The Xyl do not seem particularly interested in adorning their bodies with anything other than their own membrane."

Jim snorts. "Was that a joke?" he asks, voice muffled slightly by the fabric of his tunic as he tries and fails to pull it over his head. Joke or not, Spock's comment does make him realize that the Xyl don't really do clothes. Their slime is just more... concentrated in some places than it is in others. Opaque near the lower appendages but translucent around the face.

"Vulcans do not 'joke,' Jim," Spock counters, which very much isn't a no.

Once they're both reasonably clothed (Jim having been forced to ditch his slime-ruined tunic), Kirk and Spock approach the door. Jim reaches for the knob, his face already equipped with his signature 'good morning' smile. Then, he opens the door. He sees the look on David's face. Sees the still-wet tracks his of the nine-year-old's tears. The illusion shatters. 

When David wetly asks, "Why didn't you answer my comms?," Jim's heart breaks. Shatters, even.

"What comms?" the Captain counters, then immediately steps aside. "Here, bud. We can chat in here."

Spock is already halfway across the room, reaching for the communicator on his nightstand, when Jim closes the door behind his shaky son. He guides David to sit on the end of their shared bed. Then he looks at Spock again, finding the Vulcan bent over his device with brows furrowed. "I see no sign of attempted communications from the Captain's communicator, nor any other device, in the last nine hours."

David, who is currently in possession of the Captain's device, holds it out for Jim to take back. "You have three missed comms and one unread message from Doctor McCoy."

Huh. It's not unheard of, necessarily, for the captain to have that many missed comms whilst his first officer has zero. People tend to hail the two of them for different reasons. Still, though — when one considers that the initiators of said comms (Bones twice, Scotty once) were in fact very aware that their Captain and First Officer were in the same place as one another — it stands to reason that they should've tried comming Spock after Jim didn't answer. Right...?

And yet, even now, the Vulcan's communicator remains eerily silent. It shows no evidence of David's calls, nor any others. Double huh.

"Maybe you should reset it?" Jim suggests, sneaking a glance at Spock's hunched form. He lets it linger for a second longer than he should once he realizes Spock isn't looking. "Or, um. Is the battery low, maybe...?"

(It's quite an illogical assertion, if Jim's honest. The devices are devastatingly efficient, after all, and his first officer even more so; the only way Spock's comm would be low on battery would be if something had actively drained the thing overnight.)

"Negative, Captain. The device has retained ninety-eight point oh-six percent of its initial charge since we left the ship. I will attempt to reset it now."

Jim nods, sufficiently convinced that his first officer can handle this particular predicament. Then he turns around to face his boy. He elects to squat in front of David so that their eyes are vaguely level, ignoring the aching in his muscles that tells him he really ought to stretch more. "Why'd you comm us, David?" he asks, careful to keep his tone soft. The boy shakes his head and keeps his gaze low. "Hey. Can you look at me for a sec?"

David does just that, sniffling once. His baby blue eyes are wet with yet-unshed tears. "I'm s-sorry—" he starts, and nope. Jim's having none of that.

"You've got nothing to be sorry for, kid," Kirk insists. He reaches out, gently squeezing at the boy's shoulder. "I told you you could comm us if you needed us, didn't I? Musta been real scary when you tried and didn't get an answer. Plus you weren't there when Niwe took us to our room, so you had no idea where to find us. Did you have trouble getting here?"

Another sniffle. David shrugs, then nods. "I did, a little bit... until I heard you snoring."

Jim lets out a noise that is somehow a mixture of surprise, amusement, and mortification all at once. He can feel his cheeks growing hot — admittedly insecure as he is about that somewhat-recent development in his ever-changing body — but he brushes off the mild embarrassment in favor of matching his boy's shy smile. "I was that loud, huh?"

"I guess the walls are a bit thicker on the Enterprise," David responds with a shrug, both looking and sounding significantly less terrified now that he's sure both Kirk and Spock are safe.

Jim knows just by the way his son's mouth quirks up ever-so-slightly that the deadpan comment is meant to be a joke. It's a funny one, too, which is why he means it when he throws his head back and laughs. "You're lucky you're so cute, kid, but okay. Point taken. Now: how 'bout you tell me what made you want to comm us in the first place? Did something happen with the other kids? Do I need to kick somebody's slimy butt?"

"No butt-kicking necessary!" the boy insists, which is good. Jim wasn't looking forward to cleaning membrane out from between his toes. "The other kids are still asleep. I dunno what time Xyl usually wake up in the morning—"

"Late, in my experience," Jim interjects. David gives him a look.

"Mum says it's rude to interrupt."

From across the room, Spock murmurs, "It is indeed."

Jim raises both hands in surrender. "Sorry, sorry. You're both right. Now: what were you saying, David?"

"Just that I was bored. And hungry. And then, when I went to comm you, no one answered. I tried to go back to sleep, but I couldn't, and then I tried comming you again, and-and—" 

Instinctually, Jim reaches out to pull David in. "Hey, shh. It's okay," he softly insists, cradling the shaky boy in his own sturdy arms. "We're all together now, right?"

David hesitates for a second before nodding into Jim's chest. "Right," he repeats, voice muffled, and Jim smiles.

"How's that reset coming, Mr. Spock?" Kirk calls over his shoulder, hoping to cheer his boy up with some good news.

"Not well," Spock replies, which. Shit. So much for that.

Jim pulls his head back to sneak a look down at David, intent upon distracting the boy with whatever his mind manage to conjure up. Then he sees the inquisitive look on his son's face. He follows the line of David's gaze to the device in Spock's hand. Jim wonders, with a private rush of amusement, if he's somehow developed touch telepathy, because he knows exactly where the kid's mind is. "You really think you can fix it?"

David shrugs. "I think I can try."

David, for all his many wonderful qualities, is no miracle worker. He does manage to slightly boost the signal on Spock's communicator — an action which, whilst impressive, would be much more useful if it were projecting anything other than static back at them — but eventually, even he has to give up.

"It's not a big deal, though, right?" the boy wonders aloud, eyes darting between Jim and Spock several times. "We're all in the same place. We don't need two communicators."

"Not right now," Jim allows. To himself he adds: Later, though...? Who knows?

They might need two communicators. They certainly would've if things had gone south back on the land-bridge. Scotty couldn't have beamed all three of them out with just one comm. The only reason David would've been able to hitch a ride in the first place is 'cause he's so damn little. A full grown adult, though? A full grown Vulcan?

Even Scotty couldn't pull off that sort of miracle. Not reliably, anyway.

Jim clears his throat, then insists, "We've got a more pressing issue to deal with."

"What's that?" David wonders. His tone betrays the slightest hint of fear.

"We've got absolutely nothing to wear!"

"I'm not so sure about this," David says. "Won't I look silly?"

Jim shushes his son good-naturedly from where he's fiddling with the fabric behind his back. "If you stop fidgeting, you'll be able see for yourself in just a second," he teases. Then, craning his neck to lock eyes with his first officer behind him, he adds, "Can you hold this here for me while I grab something...?"

Spock (unsurprisingly) complies.

Less than a minute later Jim returns with a thin strip of fabric in hand. When Spock opens his mouth — presumably to ask where he procured such an item — the Captain softly shakes his head. David doesn't need to hear that his father tore up a perfectly good set of sheets just to make sure the makeshift garment wouldn't fall off of his body.

Jim reaches towards Spock's hands. He suppresses a shiver when the backs of their knuckles brush against one another. "Keep it right there," he instructs gently. He expertly ties the torn silk ribbon around the gathered fabric, looping it several times more than is strictly necessary. Only once he's certain everything's in place does Kirk exhale, signaling to Spock that he can let go now. "All right, Mister. Turn around so we can see you in all your glory."

David hesitates for just a second before complying with his father's request. 

When the boy turns, Jim is pleasantly surprised to find that his vision came together quite nicely. "Look at you!" he says through a genuine smile. "Not so bad, if I do say so myself!"

(In truth, the silk sheet wrapped around David's body looks more like a toga than anything else. It's a secure toga, though, and that's what really matters.)

Fifteen minutes and two more makeshift garments later, the three of them emerge into an eerily quiet hallway. Jim gestures for David and Spock to follow him towards where he's pretty sure he saw the entrance to a balcony whilst groggily trudging along last night. "I think we all could use a bit of fresh air," he says.

They do end up finding the balcony in question without taking any wrong turns. Jim's both excited and unsurprised to find the door not only unlocked, but entirely lacking in a locking mechanism to begin with. The Xyl on this side of the peninsula are almost dangerously trusting (though, then again, they've got built-in pheromone receptors that let them know one another's intentions; maybe a lock on a door is redundant).

One look at the view once they've stepped outside is enough to tell Jim he made the right choice in bringing Spock and David out here. "Goddamn," he breathes. He's incapable of articulating anything more complex whilst the ocean breeze is blowing so gently on his face and through his hair.

David, in a similar vein, lets out a quiet "Woah."

"I had not realized the sea would be visible from this distance," Spock notes. He sounds just-slightly-awestruck himself.

Jim nods, still too overwhelmed by the beauty of nature to speak in full sentences (or at all). To their left, the not-peninsula's coastline fades perfectly into the blue-green hue of the ocean. Seafoam rides along the waves and onto the shore — only to be pulled back out again at the tide's command. Jim takes in a deep breath, tasting nothing but clean, sea air. The laughter bubbles up within him before he even realizes it's happened.

David makes a quiet sound of confusion to Jim's left. "What's so funny?"

"What? Oh— its just. I was thinking about something."

"Yeah?" David prods. "What's that?"

And Jim's not sure if it's the sincerity on his boy's face or the sheer strength of his own nostalgia that does it, but either way he finds he can't say 'no.' Can't lie or obfuscate this time around. It wouldn't feel right, he reasons, and anyway — a smart kid like David would probably see right through him. He would know his father was (and is) full of shit.

So Jim tells the truth.

"I never got to see the ocean when I was a kid. Iowa's right in the middle of everything, y'know? Too far from either coast for a trip to make much sense — especially when the lakes are right there. My Mom always said it was essentially the same, and I believed her. It wasn't 'til I got to the Academy in San Francisco that I actually smelled ocean air for the first time. It was so..."

When his father trails off, David helpfully supplies, "Salty?"

"That, yeah. And fresh. I only lived by the ocean for a handful of years, mind you, but I swear this place smells more like home than the corn fields ever did."

Beside Jim, the nine-year-old inhales audibly. David seems to savor the scent for a few long seconds before letting the air out of his lungs once more. He repeats the action three more times before he asks, "This is what San Francisco smells like?"

Jim turns to catch Spock's eye and finds the Vulcan already looking at him with one brow raised. Through a poorly-disguised laugh, Kirk responds, "Not exactly." He hopes his expression is enough to convey to his first officer that he could use an assist. Cities are cities, after all, and not one of them smells like roses one hundred percent of the time.

"It is one of many scents one encounters in the area," is Spock's smooth explanation. "The closer one is to the coast, the more pronounced it becomes."

"That makes sense," David murmurs softly. When Jim looks at his boy again, the nine-year-old appears lost in thought — staring out into the ocean with an unreadable expression on his face. 

It's a long while before any of them speak again. 

✧ ✦ ✧

Jim's not close enough to hear what David says when he offers the kite to the Xyl children. He is, however, close enough to hear their collective squeals in response. He's also close enough to watch them all engulf his boy in one big, slimy group hug. The warmth that fills his chest at the sight is a feeling that's grown increasingly familiar, as of late — reserved for times when he's watching David be David.

It's a mixture of love, pride, and the tiniest hint of melancholy. 

"In your words, Sir James, I believe young David was 'raised right,'" Xyl-Hix murmurs as they too watch the display unfold.

The comment is enough to bring tears to Kirk's eyes. "He was, yeah," he chokes out, relishing in the warmth of Spock's hand coming to rest on his left tricep. It feels wrong not to mention that he wasn't the one to do said raising — that an incredible genius of a woman deserves all the credit and more for the boy ultimately becoming who he is — but the thought gets stuck somewhere in Jim's throat. 

"David is quite fond of your son-daughters," Spock interjects. Jim does his best to project gratitude through his body and into the hand still touching his arm. "Perhaps they might continue this friendship via virtual means once we have departed...?"

Which gives Jim the sort of idea that has his lips curving upwards.

✧ ✦ ✧

"Any luck, Lieutenant Commander?"

"Nothing yet, Sir. I'm afraid I cannae boost a signal that isn't there to begin with."

Which is the same issue David had when he tried. Jim withholds the belabored sigh that so badly wants to pour from his lips. His voice is strained when he says, "I know Lieutenant Uhura's still recovering—"

Scotty laughs. "'Recovering' implies she ever let herself rest in the first place, Captain."

(Which, admittedly, sounds like the Nyota Jim knows.)

"I couldn't just sit around when you three needed me," Uhura interjects, making her presence known for the first time since Jim initiated the call. Her voice still slightly hoarse from yesterday's ordeal, he notices, but she sounds no less determined than she does when she's actually on duty.

"And I couldn't let my girlfriend be an idiot all by herself," Chapel adds, because of course she's there too. Why wouldn't she be?

Jim snorts. "Guess I should've expected that," he mutters, using his free hand to fiddle with Spock's non-functional device. "You guys've tried everything, then? How 'bout getting an outside opinion? Someone who knows comms, maybe...? Not that you don't, but— y'know. A specialist."

"Trust me, Captain," Chapel insists good-naturedly. "Nyota's working on it."

Her genius of a girlfriend hums her assent. "That I am, Captain. We all wanna bring you three home as quickly and safely as we can— preferably before we ring in the new year, 'cause you know Gaila would hate it if the three of you missed her party."

"She'd never let us live it down," Kirk realizes.

"My thoughts exactly," Nyota says. Jim swears he can hear her smile through the comm. "Oh, and Jim! Will you tell David I've almost finished drafting the lesson plan for our first official Andorian Tuesday? I've just gotta decide whether we're gonna watch the Shuralan Shla’hlast series in order of release or chronologically..."

Chapter Text

As far as worn fabrics go, Jim would argue that Xyl silk isn't half bad. For one: it's soft as hell. Breathable, too. It also happens to look real nice when it clings to a certain first officer's body (though you didn't hear that last part from him). 

The most notable quality of the fabric by far, however, is its slime-repelling factor. The stuff damn near works miracles.

Jim all but jumps for joy the first time Xyl-Hix grabs his shoulder — presumably intending to mark him for the hundredth time — and leaves zero residue behind. When the Xyl tries again, eyes narrowed in suspicion, Jim almost thinks they're offended. Then Hix says, "Your garment is not unlike Xyl bedding," sounding fascinated rather than accusatory, and the Captain lets out a much-needed sigh of relief.

"Is it?" Kirk wonders, feigning ignorance. "Huh. I hadn't realized."

"It makes sense that they'd sleep on silk like this," Jim tells Spock a short while later. He pinches the fabric between two fingers and rubs at it absentmindedly.

Spock doesn't take his eyes away from Xyl-Hix's retreating figure when he murmurs, "Indeed." He does, however, angle his body towards Jim's. It's such a quick, almost instinctual movement that Kirk has to wonder whether it was done with intention. Is it possible that Spock feels the same gravitational pull that he does? Is it possible that Spock's body also routinely threatens to overpower his mind, going after what it wants — who it wants — with little, if any, thought to venue or general appropriateness?

But that doesn't sound very Vulcan. It certainly doesn't sound very Spock. If Jim knows one thing, it's that his first officer is devastatingly intentional. There's always a 'why.'

In a desperate plea for Spock's undivided attention, Kirk asks the first question that comes to mind: "Could you sense them?"

And that's what finally, finally, gets those brown eyes trained on his person once more. Thank god. Spock's gaze is thoughtful when he softly says, "Your query lacks specificity." 

Jim doesn't bother trying to disguise his responding smirk. "The pheromones," he says, drawing out the word a bit longer than is strictly necessary. Spock's face twitches for a fraction of a second — betraying something Jim can't quite name — before returning to its usual smooth coolness. When the Vulcan doesn't move to speak, Jim presses, "Did you know? Before Gee told us, I mean. Could you sense that they were marking us?"

"Perhaps subconsciously," Spock allows, sounding far more vague than any self-respecting Vulcan ought to.

Jim so wants to press further — to ask the real question that's on his mind regarding this whole marking situation — but he knows it's nearly time for their hosts to take an afternoon nap. He also knows that, come said nap, a certain nine-year-old boy will make his reappearance. Jim would really rather not have David come back in the middle of, well. That.

"Have you figured out how their tech kept on functioning during the ion storm...?" Kirk prods, skillfully steering them out of those dangerous waters before either man has the barest chance to get his feet wet.

David ends up approaching them about halfway through Spock's description of his personal hypothesis.

"...the membrane acts as a conduit of sorts, allowing the charge to flow from the ground below and into the device in hand," the Vulcan explains in a voice that is somehow even smoother and more comforting than the silk they're wearing on their bodies.

"From the ground?" Jim prods. He catches his boy's eye a second later. David hovers several steps away, seemingly unsure of himself, so Jim waves him closer with a smile. Then he turns back to Spock and adds, "So— okay. You're saying this whole peninsula is sitting on top of some sort of... natural power plant?"

"Not just the peninsula," the Vulcan counters.

David seats himself right in-between Captain and First Officer, smile wide and boyish, and Jim watches Spock's expression soften at the sight of him. Both adults know without being told that the boy intends to join in on the explanation — because of course he does. He just spent several hours learning about and observing his new friends, after all. The subsequent sharing of information was sort of inevitable.

(Plus, in the wise words of Carol: the kid's a natural born scientist.)

David is practically humming with excitement when he exclaims, "It's the whole continent, Jim! Not just the peninsula. And any spot of open dirt can be used as a power source. Xyl-Kiin says the ion storms actually help with their connection, 'cause it replenishes the reservoir. Can you believe that?"

"Honestly? No," Kirk admits, smiling to let his son know he's (mostly) kidding. He believes that David believes it, at the very least — that it goes along with everything the boy has learned and observed so far — but the logic feels... off. Feels incomplete. "I've touched that dirt with my bare hands. We were surrounded by it in Sixe and Aii's cellar. Shouldn't it have, I dunno, shocked us?"

That's when Spock steps in once more and says, "It is my belief that the dirt in question is particularly saturated with the very same slime that populates Xyl skin."

"So, what? You think they're using their membrane to syphon the energy through the soil and into their devices?"

"That is indeed the crux of my hypothesis."

Jim huffs out a semi-exasperated laugh. "Y'know what. Why the hell not?" he exclaims, hands clapping down on his thighs hard enough to make a sound that echoes around the room. "It's better than any of the hypotheses I've come up with thus far. It'd at the very least explain their disinterest in dilithium. Why bother going through the trouble of mining a power source when you've got one at your literal fingertips?"

David's giggling when he says, "But Jim! Xyl don't have fingertips!"

"Hmm. You're right. Would 'appendage-tips' be better, then...?"

"It wouldn't be worse," the boy manages, his forced smile looking more like a grimace than a true display of joy.

Jim laughs and uses one hand to ruffle David's soft curls. "You're a real treat, kid."

✧ ✦ ✧

The slimy child sitting directly opposite Jim — who is either named Xyl-Naer or Xyl-Maie, he's almost certain — both looks and sounds harmless enough when they ask, "Are enjoying your broth?"

Yet something in their tone makes him... uneasy. Almost like it's a trick.

Jim forces a smile, prodding at the meal in question, then swallows around a mouthful of nothing. "It's really good," he lies. Naer-slash-Maie's eyes go wide.

"Truly, Sir Jim? You enjoy my cooking?"

And Oh, Jim thinks. Oh shit. "You made this?" he asks. The child purrs their confirmation.

David, who is sitting directly beside the dubiously-named youth, somewhat-convincingly insists, "It's delicious, Maie." Kirk silently thanks the boy for answering his unspoken question of which kid is which (because, seriously, Maie and Naer could pass for twins).

Jim doesn't have to feign interest when he asks, "All by yourself?"

It's not that Kirk doesn't believe the kid. It's just that all of Xyl-Hix's children are present at this particular meal. There must be at least forty individuals seated at the too-long table. That's a whole lot of mouths to feed at once.

The child seated at David's other side — who, by process of elimination, must be Xyl-Naer — says, "I helped with the slicing and peeling." It makes a good amount of sense once you consider that Maie only has one functional upper appendage and four lower ones. Logistically speaking, it'd take them a long-ass time to do those tasks on their own. Jim can see that Naer's missing an upper appendage, too, but he quickly learns that they've got enough left down below to hold their balance whilst utilizing one for food prep purposes.

"Both of you exhibit a high level of skill," Spock says, ending the minutes-long vow of silence that he (seemingly) imposed upon himself when the meal began. Jim hopes his excitement at the Vulcan's self-inclusion isn't too obvious. "I prefer this dish to any consumed in the city proper."

It's not a tough bar to pass, Jim must admit, but it's true — this slimy slop is notably better than the slop they had before. It's still very much full of slime and still (arguably) slop, but. Well. At least there's some sort of flavor profile beyond pure yuck. So Kirk clears his throat, trying and failing to rid it of any excess slime, then says, "I agree."

"I wish to one day feed the entire peninsula!" Xyl-Maie admits, eyes wet and wide with the sort of youthful hope the Captain himself hasn't felt in years.

"I'm sure one day you will," Jim says. He means every word of it.

✧ ✦ ✧

Jim's asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.

At first, his mind swirls with the usual things — vague echoes of places he's been and people he's seen, only none of it fits together quite right. One moment he's hurrying down the hallway of his former high school, scanning the empty halls for something (only he can't recall what that something is, exactly, much less what it might look like). The next moment, it becomes his elementary school instead. 

Jim opens the door to the janitor's closet he used to hide in during recess. Instead of the brooms and cleaning supplies he'd usually find there, however, he looks straight into his and Sam's shared bedroom in Riverside. It looks exactly like it did the day before Sammy left.

Jim steps further into the room and lets the door slide shut behind him.

After that, Kirk spends a good few minutes tearing through his belongings. He tries and fails to find... whatever it was he was searching for. I'll know it when I see it, he thinks. I'm sure I will.

He double-checks the places he already looked. Then he checks them again for a third time — just in case he missed something before.

Eventually Jim's forced to move onto Sam's side of the room. He rifles more gently through his brother's belongings than he did his own. He wonders, absently: isn't Sam supposed to be home soon? And, shit, won't he be angry if he sees that Jim's been putting his grubby hands on all of his older brother's stuff...?

Then Jim hears a muffled noise coming from somewhere behind him. He whirls around in search of the exact source of the sound. He takes careful steps as he moves towards it, avoiding the creaky floorboards that used to drive Frank crazy.

As he gets closer, Jim realizes the sound is a voice.

One he might even recognize, if only he could actually hear what it was saying.

It doesn't take long to pinpoint Sammy's closet as his target. Jim spares a quick glance at the door he entered through, still convinced his big brother will return at any second and find his side of the room in disarray. Will Jim ever be allowed to watch him play video games again?

When the muffled voice grows more desperate, Jim swallows his pride and grabs for the closet door. It takes several tries before he's able to tug the thing open. Jim half-expects to be knocked over by an avalanche of shoes and band t-shirts when he finally does it.

Instead, he's bombarded by a wall of dry, unrelenting heat. 

Two Vulcans stand face-to-face in the light of the midday sun. One, significantly smaller than the other, speaks in a tone that is somehow both firm and soft. "You are forbidden from this place," he insists, to which the other, larger Vulcan actually laughs.

"And yet here I am all the same," the bigger one says, his tone sounding just as bemused as it does melancholy. Nothing about him, other than his pointed ears and up-slanted eyebrows, says 'Vulcan.' Even less about him says 'sane.' The younger one, whilst clearly on edge, doesn't seem particularly threatened. The more accurate term to use might be 'peeved.' The older one's voice is quiet and teasing when he adds, "It's almost like the rules are all made up."

Several seconds of silence pass between the pair before the child —Spock, evidently— whispers, "Father says you are v'tosh ka'tur." He says it like it's a curse word. Like it tastes wrong in his mouth.

Again, the other Vulcan laughs. "That's hardly surprising. I'm more interested in what Lady Amanda has to say, though. Does she agree with our dearest Father?"

"She says—" young Spock starts, then hesitates. The other Vulcan tuts in annoyance as if to say 'get on with it.' The younger boy takes several deep breaths, then continues, "She says you are a selfish child who enjoys causing chaos in the lives of others. She says our family is better off without you." 

To which the mysterious older Vulcan throws his head back and laughs even more boisterously than before. "Well, she's mostly right," he admits good-naturedly. "I do love me some chaos. Wouldn't say I'm selfish, necessarily, but I'll give her that one too. Calling me a child, though? That's just factually incorrect. I've been an adult in the legal sense for almost a year now."

Spock shrugs. "Mother is rarely preoccupied with miniscule facts."

"Oh, I know she's not. That's one of my favorite things about her. I'll miss your Mom, honestly— nearly as much as I'll miss you."

"Where will you go, Sybok...?" 

The other Vulcan —Sybok— sighs, squeezing at the child's shoulder. "It's better if you don't know where I'm headed. I just wanted to see you one last time before— well. Whatever happens next. People like Sarek live to pretend like they're in control, but people like me know the truth: it'll never go according to plan. Which means, more often than not, planning itself is a big old waste of time."

"It is logical to plan for one's future," Spock insists. Again Sybok laughs.

"Well, I'd hate to be considered something as horrific as illogical!"

"Hate is—"

"A disgustingly unVulcan thing to feel, I know. We can skip the lecture. How 'bout you just close your eyes and count to one hundred? That way, when Father asks if you know which way I went, you won't have to lie to him."

The younger boy hesitates for only a second before he complies.

Jim doesn't shoot awake this time.

On the contrary, his eyes open and close with several false starts before he manages to get a semi-reliable grip on his own so-called consciousness. Once his sleep-addled brain remembers how to interpret information correctly, Kirk realizes he's once again pressed against a chest full of impossibly soft hair.

(A chest which his face has become increasingly familiar with, as of late. Who'd've thought?)

"Oh," Kirk whispers. Then, the body beneath him twitches.

Jim pulls away from Spock's apparently-awake form faster than he would've ever thought himself capable. He all but shoots into a standing position a moment later, eager to put space between himself and the tempting Vulcan. Eager to avoid embarrassing himself any further.

Then the blood starts to rush to his head.

Jim inwardly —and maybe also outwardly?— curses his own inability to wait a damn second for his body and mind to catch up to one another. He just barely notices Spock catapulting across the bed as his legs crumble beneath him. He feels the Vulcan's strong grip on his person long before his mind can make sense of why. Soon enough a gentle hand is guiding his head back atop the silky pillow where it belongs. Another pulls the comforter back over his legs. "M'fine," Kirk tries to insist, but his words get all jumbled together. "Just a little... head rush..."

"I believe you are experiencing postural hypotension," Spock says, which. Duh. The Vulcan proceeds to double down on speaking the obvious, it seems, because a few seconds later he adds, "This is likely due to a combination of dehydration and the speed at which you attempted to stand."

"I coulda told you that," Jim says. He's (mostly) glad that it's too dark for him to see the half-naked Vulcan clearly. He's not sure he could handle the sight of Spock in only his underwear, all but straddling his Captain, without losing his shit completely. Jim has half a mind to close the minuscule space left between their two heads. To feel that mouth against his own the way he's wanted to since forever. Instead, he does his best impression of Bones: "Goddamn slime planet."

Jim feels more than sees it when Spock blinks fondly down at him. "Your face has regained its color," the Vulcan notes, and the human below him laughs.

"Glad to hear it. Any chance I look well enough to avoid getting a hypo to the neck...?"

A few minutes later, long after the sting from the hypo has faded, Jim continues rubbing soothingly at the injection site on his neck. He curses everyone who insisted he'd get used to the feeling eventually. That he'd become more-or-less immune to the quick rush of panic that runs cold through his body whenever he realizes he's about to be pricked with a needle.

He's been in the 'fleet for over a decade now and it still fills him with dread. The only thing Jim's gotten better at is hiding his fear behind his and Bones's exaggerated banter (not that the Doc himself was ever truly fooled, mind you, but those outside of Jim's inner circle might've been).

Spock, who is unfortunately no longer hovering over his Captain's body, hums softly from his side of the bed. "Are you unwell, Jim?"

"M'fine," Kirk insists, pressing his face into the pillow. "Just... ngh— trying to get comfortable."

Another hum from Spock. Jim sighs, twisting his body around so that he's facing the Vulcan instead of looking away from him (not that he can actually see the guy at the moment, mind you, but Jim can certainly feel Spock's gaze). Just as the human about to speak again, Spock clears his throat and says, "You have done quite well in disguising your phobia around David."

"Yeah?" Jim prods, because the idea of receiving unfounded praise doesn't seem quite so mortifying once he knows it's coming from Spock. 

"Rest now, Jim," the Vulcan whispers. "We can continue this discussion in the morning."

"...M'kay."

Twenty minutes later, a thoroughly exhausted Jim lies in bed as wide awake as ever. It seems that, despite how desperately both his body and his mind crave rest, he can't seem to figure out how to turn them off. Not when he's still got so many damn questions for the man lying beside him. So instead he sighs, then whispers, "Hey Spock...?"

The pause that follows Jim's question has him wondering if the Vulcan even heard him at all. Is it possible Spock is already asleep again? After a few seconds, however, his temporary bedmate stirs. "Yes, Jim?" Spock responds, tone grittier than Jim thinks he's ever heard it.

(Which shouldn't be so goddamn hot. What the hell?)

"What about Nyota?"

"...I fail to see how Lieutenant Uhura is relevant at this moment."

Kirk sighs, adjusting his position so that he's lying on his back. Staring up at a pitch black ceiling he can't actually see. "She was your partner for a decade, Spock. You guys shared a home and a bed. You're telling me she never once influenced your dreams? Never once triggered a memory in your subconscious, even though I've done it twice now?"

"Never," the Vulcan confirms, his tone sounding tighter than it did a few seconds before.

"Why?" Jim can't help but ask. "What's different, between her and me?"

Spock lets them sit in silence for several long seconds before he says, "I do not know."

Jim hesitates to say what he's thinking. He fakes himself out twice before he finally asks, "Is it related to the— uhh. The pheromone thing?"

This time, Spock's silence goes on even longer — to the point where Jim almost thinks he's not going to get an answer at all. Then the Vulcan once again admits, "I do not know." Jim almost can't comprehend the depth of emotion behind those four whispered words.

"Okay," he whispers back, because what else is there to say? 

Chapter Text

On the third morning after the Swallowing, Jim gives into David's less-than-subtle desire to explore the land beyond Xyl-Hix's compound. He's admittedly somewhat curious himself — having only witnessed the peninsula via the lens of its main central road — but hesitant to voice that fact. Hesitant in general, really, because who knows what else might be waiting for them on this strange, slimy planet?

But Jim's only human. After a certain amount of pouting and puppy-dog eyes, something's gotta give.

(Not to mention that the Captain is feeling pretty damn stir-crazy himself. Hell— even Spock seems on-edge. They could all use a bit of time in the great outdoors.)

Thanks to Xyl-Niwe, who so generously provides instructions on how to get to their 'preferred outlook' from Hix's compound, they manage their exit in no time at all. Jim ends up comming Uhura just as they're turning onto the main road in their borrowed vehicle. "Any luck with Spock's signal?" he asks, though he hardly expects much in terms of news. Anything worth sharing would've come through within seconds of Nyota having the info at her disposal.

"Still a bunch of static. Gaila's got this hunch, though..."

They comm Scotty next — mostly to make sure someone's actively monitoring Jim's device. And also because they've got a good fifteen minutes of driving ahead of them and he's fun to talk to.

When Scotty asks, "How's it goin' down there, laddies?," Jim simply sits back and lets his passengers take the reins. He smiles at just how well the two manage to convey an idea in tandem — David's pauses leading directly into Spock's explanations, and vice versa — without ever losing their captive audience of two (one of whom already knows everything they're saying, mind you).

It's honestly adorable. It's also slightly frightening. Has Jim created a monster?

They end the call by confirming that, yes, Scotty's still locked onto the signal coming from Jim's device. He and two of his favorite ensigns will be on standby to assist if anything should go wrong. All Jim has to do is press down on the receiver three times in a row and they'll beam him up ASAP.

"David's such a wee thing, it shouldn't be a problem," Scotty insists when Jim asks if holding onto the boy will be enough to ensure they both end up aboard the Enterprise. "We cannae get a strong enough signal to bring all three of ye, unfortunately, but I'm certain we can do one plus the boy."

Jim smiles. "Hopefully it won't come to that, Lieutenant Commander, but thanks. You too, Ensigns Rayne and Bell. We really appreciate your time and energy."

With a few minutes left in their ride, Jim makes the mistake of letting David pick the radio station.

The boy waits for him flick between several off-putting songs before settling, finally, on something that is entirely offensive to Jim's ears. The unsettling tune dances all around the vehicle — causing even Spock to flinch — then whirls right back in Jim's direction.

It takes everything in the Captain to force a smile when he asks, "You like this one, huh?"

David nods. "Mum says the best music is the kind that makes you feel something."

"And what does this music make you feel, exactly?"

David pauses to think for several seconds before he says, "Curious."

Jim smirks at his boy through the rearview. "Not the description I'd use, but okay. To each their own."

The outlook is even more gorgeous than what Jim imagined based on Xyl-Niwe's description. They most definitely waxed poetic about the view, it's true, but Jim just sort of assumed it'd be on par with the one from Hix's balcony. Beautiful, sure, but not... this.

Because this is genuinely breathtaking. It's like nothing Jim's ever seen.

Kirk is actively gawking as he puts the vehicle into park. He's unable to tear his eyes from the sight when he murmurs a soft warning to David, reminding the boy to stay close. He steps out and closes the door behind himself, staring out at the cliff face in utter awe. "This is..." he starts, then realizes he has no words.

"Beautiful?" David tries once he, too, has exited the vehicle. Jim nods.

"Among other things, yes."

Jim checks to make sure his comm is secured into the belt he salvaged from his otherwise-ruined uniform and now wears over his makeshift robes. Spock moves to join them on their side of the car. They cross the street together — David in the middle — and stop a good fifteen steps before the cliff's edge. Just close enough to see the white-capped waves roaring and raging below. 

It's odd, Jim thinks, how the terrain shifted so quickly from sandy beaches to this within the span of a twenty-minute drive. The cliffs are impressive in both size and beauty. If not for the visible continent in the distance, one might almost think they were standing at the literal end of the world.

"Is that the mainland?" David wonders, pointing towards the land mass in question. Jim nods.

"Looks like it, yeah."

The boy hums thoughtfully, still staring out at the view and looking absolutely awestruck. The three of them watch in comfortable silence for a few minutes more, lulled into an almost meditative state by the repetitive sound of crashing waves. Eventually David softly asks, "Did San Francisco have this, too?"

"There are cliffs there, sure. But cliffs like these...?" Jim smiles and shakes his head. "Not even close."

"Can we get any closer?" David pleads a few minutes later. Jim and Spock lock gazes over the boy's head.

"Um," Kirk says, pausing to consider the question. He can't seem to break eye-contact with Spock, even as he continues, "Just a little bit. We've all gotta stick together, though. I want you both close enough to grab at all times."

Spock nods. Jim looks away to chance a glance down at David, who meets his gaze with an expression that's a bit too knowing for his father's liking. "Yes, Jim," the nine-year-old insists impatiently. Kirk frowns at his disrespectful tone.

"Quick question, David. How many strikes've you got left...?"

The boy's face scrunches up into a frown of his own, staying frozen like that for several seconds before he huffs out a petulant, "Two." 

And, god. Jim's never felt more like his mother than he does when he says, "Mhm. Exactly."

(It does work, though. David's attitude just about adjusts itself on command.)

Together, the three of them take a few steps closer to the edge. Jim moves himself in-between David and Spock, hand ghosting along both of their shoulders. "I wonder if the Xyl ever swim," he says, causing both of his companions to turn and look at him with questioning eyes. "What?"

"I am uncertain if their membrane could sustain submersion," Spock supplies.

David, in turn, adds, "They don't seem to have showers or bathtubs."

"Maybe that's because they clean themselves in the ocean," Jim counters, feeling suddenly ganged up on. "Or, I dunno. Maybe they shower in the rain!"

"Maybe," Spock allows. Jim struggles to find true sincerity in his tone.

Kirk laughs, returning his attention to the view. The wind whistles around them — not too strong but not entirely unnoticeable, either. Jim tightens his grip on both David and Spock's silken robes. "Bet you're wishing you'd waited to give your kite away until after this, huh?" he teases. The boy joins in on the levity with a delighted giggle of his own.

"Only slightly!"

Jim's laughter grows louder and more spirited along with David's. It's that, mixed with the hard-to-miss soundtrack of waves crashing and wind howling all around them, that stops them from noticing right away when a new sound enters their general vicinity. 

In fact, it's not until the hissing suddenly stops that Jim realizes it was even there at all.

"Did you—" he starts, cut off by Spock grabbing at his wrist to silence him. Jim can see through his periphery that his first officer has craned his neck just far enough to discern what the source of the sound might've been.

"Do not move," the Vulcan orders in a tone as cold as ice. "Do not speak, either of you."

Jim can feel David freeze up beneath his grip. He tightens his hand around the fabric of the boy's makeshift robe, resisting the urge to tug his son a bit closer, and instead cranes his neck just enough to meet Spock's wide-eyed expression. What is it? he thinks, hoping that by now his mind has figured out the whole telepathy thing enough to convey a message to the Vulcan. The responding wave of apprehension that wracks Jim's body tells him it must've worked. Spock...?

It is a vaguely serpentine creature, the Vulcan starts, sounding (or would it be feeling?) hesitant, almost. The markings on its face, coupled with the general shape and placement of its fangs, indicate a high likelihood that it is venomous.

Can we make it back to the car in one piece?

Only if we separate.

No, Jim thinks, just barely managing to keep the word contained within his own mind. His mouth itches to protest —loudly— against the mere idea of splitting up. Then an image flashes across his field of vision, clear as day, and Jim becomes even more frozen in place.

It's the creature from Spock's perspective. All at once, Jim understands his use of the word 'serpentine.' The thing is long and undoubtedly slithery, covered in the same thick slime as every other life form they've encountered on this planet thus far. It's not a snake, technically, on account of it having at least a dozen pairs of legs. It sure moves like one, though. Hisses like one too. It's got a spiky sort of collar around its neck that expands when it hisses. It's also got all sorts of markings along its face and body that mean very little to Jim but seemingly a whole lot to his first officer. Spock, he thinks, feeling desperate and oh so very lost. 

I know, Jim. But you must think of David.

And Kirk knows he's right. God, does he ever. He swears he can feel his boy's heartbeat through his hand on David's shoulder, somehow. Swears he hears it pattering relentlessly inside of David's tiny chest. His son needs to get to safety, and he needs to do it now.

So, naturally, Jim wonders: What's your plan?

(Not because he intends to follow it, mind you, but because he could use a good jumping off point. Spock's plans are logical to a fault. They almost always require a bit of Kirk pizzazz to be actually successful; sort of like how Jim's plans almost always benefit from an added dose of Vulcan rationality.)

It goes like this.

First, Spock runs towards the creature. Its dangerous and pretty damn counterintuitive, of course, but it's also the only chance Jim has to get a grip on his son (literally). So he waits for Spock's signal (a previously agreed-upon clearing of the throat), then moves to squat in front of the boy with his back turned. Jim's voice is gruff with a cocktail of exertion and anxiety when he orders, "Get on my back!"

"What?" David counters, hesitating. Kirk knows without looking that those blue eyes must be trained right on Spock. He hopes to god the Vulcan isn't too close to the maybe-predator hissing in his direction. Hopes whatever David's seeing won't scar the poor kid for life any more than this year already has.

"Jump on my back, David! Now!"

After just another second of hesitation, the boy complies. His voice is barely above a squeak when he asks, "What's Mr. Spock doing?"

Jim takes advantage of the fact that he's already kneeling. He reaches for several of the rocks at his feet, tucking them in-between his belt and the silky fabric of his robe. Then he murmurs, "Hold on tight, Kiddo," and brings them both to a stand.

When Jim finally turns his body to face Spock, his breath catches in his throat. The Vulcan is bent in a defensive crouch with both arms raised, reacting to the quick movements of the creature's head as it snaps in his direction over and over. Each snap brings the not-snake just a bit closer to the vulnerable Vulcan, causing Jim's stomach to clench with worry. David's grip tightens around his neck like he's feeling that very same pit of dread. "We have to help him, Jim!"

Kirk nods. "I know," he whispers, reaching for one of the rocks that is poking at the skin of his waist even through several layers of fabric. He tries to remember the way Sam taught him to play catch via holo, bending his arm just so before he sends the rock soaring right for the snake thing. It ends up hitting the fucker square in the head, causing the creature's attention to turn on Jim almost instantly. It hisses even more aggressively than it had in Spock's direction, eyes narrowing to slits. Jim hopes David really is holding on as tight as it feels like he is when he jolts away from the predatory creature instinctually. "Go, Spock! Towards the car!"

Spock complies, though not without looking over his shoulder what feels like every three seconds to check on Jim and David. Kirk just barely notes the movement in his periphery as he does the same dance with the not-snake as Spock was doing just a minute earlier.

The Vulcan ends up stopping a bit less than halfway towards the vehicle. He bends over and grabs for a rock of his own, launching it at the creature's head without a second thought. Jim briefly wonders if they should start some sort of intramural baseball-slash-softball situation back on the Enterprise. If so, Spock would be a shoo-in for pitcher.

The snake thing whirls around, basically spitting with anger by now, and launches itself back in Spock's direction. This back-and-forth continues until, finally, the Vulcan is within grabbing distance of the vehicle's driver-side door. Jim thanks his past self for leaving the keys in the ignition like a too-trustworthy fool, because it means the object of his affection doesn't have to fumble with the lock. 

Spock does, however, have to deal with the near-rabid snake creature hobbling in his direction.

This time, when he throws his first rock, Jim misses the thing entirely. The second comes just close enough to hit its lower back, though the creature seems entirely unfazed by the impact. It's not until Jim's third throw hits the thing square in the back of the head that it finally whirls around, eyes hot with hatred, and shrieks in Jim and David's direction.

It's at that very second that Spock manages to open the vehicle door. The snake thing moves as if intending to turn back around. Jim acts on instinct, lunging towards it, and lets out a shriek of his own. He gives his first officer just enough time to slam the door shut behind himself.

Which, naturally, is when the creature truly begins to pursue the still-stranded humans. "You holding on, David?" Jim asks despite feeling the boy's grip on him to the point of discomfort. He waits for the affirmative hum before he grabs for the device at his belt and hovers his thumb above the receiver. Just in case.

And that's when it all starts to go to shit.

First, the car won't start. Its engine sputters and whines several times over but it doesn't actually turn on. Jim, who was sort of counting on Spock to swing the vehicle around so he and David could hop in, is forced instead to focus on defending himself and David with nothing more than a few measly rocks as weapons. The creature barely registers the hits that bounce off of its scaly, slimy skin. The collar of skin around its neck appears to grow bigger and bigger, which feels like a threat.

And, well. Consider Jim thoroughly threatened. He just nearly avoids the impulse to step back, remembering the cliff just a few footsteps behind him. One wrong move and he and his son are both toast.

"Go away!" David orders from his place on Jim's back. Somehow, the snake-thing doesn't seem all that keen on listening to him. It jumps forward yet again, jaws snapping just inches from Jim's calf. Kirk lets out an unmanly noise at the near-miss.

"Fuck off, slimy!" he tries, because why the hell not? Maybe his words will get through to the thing somehow. "No one wants you here!"

David makes a sound that's almost like a laugh, tightening his grip around Jim's neck. He kicks out at the alien creature with his skinny little legs. Shouts threats in its direction. It launches itself at the boy, jaws snapping mere centimeters away from the exposed skin of his ankle. "Agh!" David exclaims. Jim hikes his son up a bit higher on his back.

A few seconds later, the car door swings open again. Jim's just about to admonish Spock for not following orders when a sudden, ear-splitting screech stops him short. He looks up to find another, even larger version of the same creature standing far too close to his second in command for comfort. The sound causes the smaller creature to whirl its head around, too — which means all three of them (Jim, David, and the damned snake with legs) get a front row seat to watch as its maybe-mother tears a gash into one of Spock's shoulders.

The Vulcan's blood immediately begins to stain the silk around the wound, causing Kirk's heart-rate to spike at the growing pool of green. "Spock," he calls out, then realizes the creature nearest to him is once again focusing all of its attention on David. "Shit!"

"Jim!" the Vulcan calls out, and Kirk's tempted to order him back into the car.

(If only Spock weren't the one thing standing between his son and imminent danger. Wouldn't that be so much more convenient for them all...?)

"Spock," Jim breathes again, kicking at the face of his attacker. It squeals in what sounds like an equal mixture of pain and fury. Jim can't blame the thing, really, because they are invaders in its home. How is it supposed to know that they've come in peace? "I can't."

The Vulcan shakes his head. He knows without having to ask exactly what his Captain means. "You must, Jim."

David all but whimpers in his father's ear. "What's going on, Jim?"

Jim opens his mouth, hoping he'll find it in himself to say something —anything!— that might put both himself and his son at ease. Instead he feels a searing pain shoot through his whole ankle, burning like a motherfucker, and when he looks down he sees the creature's got its whole damn jaw latched onto his leg like a vice. "Agh!" Jim gasps, knees weakening beneath him. It takes every ounce of his energy to keep both his body and David's upright.

It takes only a second for the decision to flash across Spock's face, clear as day. For a second Jim thinks he's hallucinating from the pain. Then he realizes, no — his first officer is actually charging in his direction. Spock's got his eyes focused entirely on the animal still biting into Jim, and the battlecry he lets out as he's nearly upon them is enough to send a chill through Jim's entire body. He stomps on the ground behind the creature, clearly capturing its attention, then stomps again — aiming directly for its tail.

It shrieks, letting go of Kirk's leg, and Jim howls with relief. "Fuck!" he exclaims, his whole body feeling as if it's searing with pain. He barely registers the Vulcan whirling back around to face the larger of the two creatures. David's voice in his ear sounds like it's coming from underwater.

Then Spock hisses, "Now, Jim!," and it's so much more of an order than it is a suggestion.

"But you—"

"Cannot return to the vehicle until you are safe," Spock interrupts. When he turns back to face Jim, eyes wild, Kirk could almost swear he sees raw emotion there. He's not sure what emotion, exactly, but it's enough to catch him off-guard for a few infinitely-long seconds.

The smaller snake-thing, now totally focused on Spock, sees another chance to bite at some ankles and takes it. The last thing Jim hears from the Vulcan he so adores is a pained grunt, barely disguised behind a crumbling wall of control. "We'll come back for you," he promises, though he has no idea how.

Jim forces himself to look away before letting his finger come down on the receiver three times fast. He can still smell Spock's blood even as the transporter's glow brings him and his son far, far away from the chaotic scene. Far from danger, sure, but also far from Spock.

And damn if it doesn't feel bone-chillingly wrong, doing so.

For a second, once they're back in the transporter room, it's like both Jim and David are frozen in time. Neither moves nor says anything, breaths heaving in and out like they've just completed a marathon.

It isn't until a familiar voice calls out, "What a sight for sore eyes you two are," that the spell seemingly breaks.

David jumps off of Jim's back with a gasp. "We have to go back!" he exclaims the second his feet hit the floor. He sprints towards Scotty, gesturing wildly at the machine for which the engineer is currently responsible. "You've gotta reverse the signal, Lieutenant Commander! You've gotta send us back! Mr. Spock's still down there, and—"

"I'm afraid I cannae do that, laddie—"

"But he's in danger!"

Jim, whose seemingly-endless supply of adrenaline has finally depleted enough for him to realize just how bad the pain in his legs has gotten, crumbles to the ground where he stands. "David," he starts, but then sees the very real pain and fear in his son's eyes and realizes he has no words. None that could actually help, anyway.

"How could you leave him like that?" the boy shouts, blue eyes welling with tears that appear to be mere seconds away from falling. "How could you leave him all alone out there?"

"David," Jim tries again, shaking his head. He feels dizzy and thirsty and terrified, and— dammit. He wants nothing more than to be back on the planet with Spock. His vision whirls as his son approaches him with both fists clenched at his side. Jim frowns in confusion at how David seems to tower over him. Did he get smaller, or did the boy get bigger...? "Saving you was the only choice I could've made down there. Spock understands that."

Kirk isn't sure what he expects David to say next. All he knows is that, when the boy chokes out his barely-audible question, it's the most heartbreaking string of words he's ever heard spoken aloud:

"Why would you choose me now?"

Chapter Text

At first nobody says anything at all.

It's Scotty, ultimately, who reacts to David's words via an audible gasp. This in turn compels both ensigns to pretend to focus on the console in front of them. Jim blinks yet again in the direction of the blurry image of his son hovering above him. For the third time since returning to the ship, he pathetically croaks out, "David."

At which point the boy turns on his heel and runs in the other direction.

"Wait," Jim tries, but when he attempts to stand his legs flat out refuse to heed the command.

"I'll go after him, Captain," Scotty promises. Jim doesn't quite catch whatever he mumbles to the ensigns before he makes his speedy exit, but it leads Rayne and Bell right to their Captain's side. Together they carry him away from the transporter pad, supporting Jim's weight all the way out the door and into the too-bright hallway.

Kirk has just enough energy left in him to wonder aloud, "Where're we going...?"

"To sick bay, Captain," either Rayne or Bell replies. 

Halfway through formulating something resembling a refusal, Jim is hit by a quick and oh-so-intense wave of nausea. Suddenly he has no choice but to devote every last ounce of his energy to keeping the contents of his stomach in one place as he's dragged off to Medbay with the limp-bodied grace of a literal corpse.

But Jim Kirk isn't dead. Not yet.

(He just so happens to maybe-sorta-kinda wish he was.)

It's difficult, Jim learns, to relay the events of his day with his head in a bucket. His own voice echoes around in his ears when he says, "...and then the thing bit me. Hard."

"I can see that, yeah," McCoy replies whilst cleaning the wound in question. "Now tell me, Jimmy— did this creature happen to have about a zillion legs and a hood of skin around its neck?"

"Um," Jim starts, because what the hell? "How'd you know?"

"Let's just say I've got good news and bad news..."

The good news, as it turns out, is that the venom currently attacking Jim's cells was one of several ingredients found in the Xyl wine from a few days prior. In fact, it's the very ingredient that turned many a stomach — added, purportedly, for taste, and not in an attempt to hurt or kill any member of the Enterprise crew.

"The slimy sons-of-bitches are entirely immune," the doctor explains, sounding morbidly curious and disgusted all at once. "Wouldn't've believed it if Ud-Xyl hadn't downed the stuff right in front of me, but they did. Apparently it's got a sweet aftertaste."

That comment has Jim fighting back a particularly strong wave of nausea. He doesn't think he'll ever be able to forget the sweetish scent of the snake-thing's saliva. He's still hunched over the bucket, lifting his head just enough to get a semi-proper look at his best friend's face, but he has no choice other than to let his shoulders droop in the seconds that follow. His head falls once more as he loses the contents of an already-empty stomach.

Which brings him to the bad news.

The bad news, to put it quite simply, is that Jim can't take the damn cure. Not until the fever plaguing his system has completely run its course, anyway. 

"You're worse off than the others," Bones admits. The good doctor has never been one to mince words. It's one of Jim's favorite things about him, most of the time. "Their version of the venom was much more diluted. Didn't go straight to the bloodstream, either."

When Jim asks, "Am I gonna live?," he's mostly joking.

Bones nods. "'Course you will, kid. You just might start feelin' like you wanna die first."

I'm already halfway there, then, Jim thinks. He knows better than to say so out loud.

Jim's vaguely aware of Bones exiting Medbay. The doc is almost immediately replaced by none other than Nurse Chapel. The last time Jim saw her, she had her head in a bucket. Now he's the one losing his guts as she hovers awkwardly in the entrance to the room. Chapel remains entirely silent until Jim sneaks a peek at her over the edge of the bucket. "You're acting like I'm contagious or something," he grumbles, which seemingly breaks the spell. Christine steps in far enough for the door to slide shut behind her. "You scared of losing your lunch again, or are you just lost in thought?"

"Honestly? I've been working out the most discreet way to ask about the whole toga thing."

It hurts to laugh, but Jim can't help it. He lets out a quick, surprised guffaw — sneaking a glance down at himself, clad in the usual Medbay garb — then bemusedly asks, "Who the hell told you about that?"

Rather than respond verbally, Chapel simply smiles and shakes her head. Jim finds that he can't keep his own head up for long enough to search her face for answers. He instead lets his neck fall limp and wishes he were able to fast-forward time.

Chapel's voice is soft when she says, "David's in Engineering with Nyota, Gaila, and Monty."

Jim hums as if to ask, Is that so?

"I'm told he's already been a great help."

"Yeah?" Kirk prods amusedly. He can see the image so clearly in his mind. "He still in his toga?"

Christine's the one who laughs this time around. Her lips are still curved upwards when she's calmed down enough to say, "Nah. He's got pants on again. They wouldn't let him through the doors until Rand declared him officially de-slimed, which as you can imagine was a thorough procedure."

Jim lets out a soft laugh of his own, wincing at the way it makes his nervous stomach ache. Eventually he finds the energy to sneak another glance at the blonde nurse. "They getting anywhere with Spock's comm?" he wonders.

Chris's responding silence, coupled with the small grimace worn on her pink-tinted lips, is answer enough.

"Shit," Kirk grunts. He thinks of Spock, all alone — likely suffering these very same symptoms. Unlike Jim, however, the Vulcan isn't hooked up to a bunch of machines that are meant to keep him safe and hydrated. All Spock has is a car that won't start, an open wound, and two pissed off snake-things with a taste for blood.

Even a Vulcan as capable as Spock is bound to struggle against those odds.

"He'll be okay, you know," Christine promises. Jim bites back the urge to tell her she has no right to make such a claim. "We aren't even sure how the venom affects Vulcans. He could be immune, for all we know."

"Yeah, or he could be deathly allergic."

Chapel makes a quiet noise like she's gearing up to provide a polite, well-structured rebuttal. Then the door slides open with an audible hiss. Bones grumbles a hello to his colleague and patient, respectively. Chapel murmurs something too softly for the bedridden Captain to understand.

The only thing Jim hears for certain is the Nurse's soft, "Get well soon, Jim." Then the door slides shut behind her, and he and Doctor McCoy are alone once more. Silence hangs heavy over them for several long seconds until Jim can't stand it anymore. Until he has no choice but to break it with his own bare hands.

"What if I left him there to die, Bones?"

Jim's too afraid and exhausted to look up at his friend's face when he speaks. He's pretty sure he knows what expression he'd find there, anyway — which is all but confirmed when the Doctor responds in his most gentle tone: "Oh, Jimmy. You can't—"

"Can't what?" Kirk interrupts, feeling angry and terrified and oh so very nauseous. "Can't think like that? Well that's too bad, Bones, 'cause I already am thinking like that! And I'm not the only one, either, 'cause— fuck. Never mind."

A pregnant pause passes between them before McCoy softly admits, "I heard about what David said in the transporter room."

Jim can't help but groan aloud at his friend's words. "Yeah? Bet the whole crew's heard the story by now."

"Not the whole crew," McCoy assures him. "Just the ones with little birdies who sing in their ears from time to time."

"Ha! Little birdies named Montgomery, I'll bet."

McCoy's responding chuckle is faint yet audible. "I can neither confirm nor deny that claim. Now, how 'bout you try and sit still for once? Let me see if I can't check your vitals without you screwin' up the readings again..."

It's sometime later, once Jim's feeling well enough to leave the bucket on the table at his bedside (rather than firmly planted in his lap, where it lay for hours before), that he decides to bite the bullet. Admit what he's been feeling since they left Spock behind. Since that heartbreaking string of words left his son's mouth. "It just feels like, no matter how all this turns out, he's gonna hate me forever," he whispers.

In response, Bones actually laughs. The shock must show on Jim's face because the doctor is quick to clear his throat and explain, "Sorry. I know it's not funny. It's just— you wouldn't believe how many times I've thought the same exact thing about Joanna. Hell, she's told me she hates me."

"We're talking about the Jojo I know? Sweet little girl, loves classic literature...?"

"Not so sweet these days," McCoy counters. "Not so little either. Truth is, kid, we can't all be the fun uncle. Someone's gotta play the bad guy. It just so happens that the absentee father fits the bill more often than not. Or that's what I tell myself, anyway. Maybe Joanna's right to hate me. Maybe it all really is my fault, every single time." 

Jim snorts. "Great pep talk, Bones. Really. You're a natural."

The Doctor lets out a snort of his own. He doesn't say anything more before he resumes scanning the Captain's vitals. He does, however, hum to himself as he runs his tricorder along the line of Jim's body. For what feels like a long while, the only sound in the whole room comes in the form of machines beeping and Bones's vocal cords rubbing together. 

McCoy's not looking at Kirk when he says, "What you've gotta realize, kid, is that the boy is scared. God knows your mouth starts runnin' when that happens, so who knows? Maybe it's genetic."

Kirk groans, throwing his head his back against his pillow so he can stare up at the blank white ceiling above. He's got about a million snarky rebuttals he'd like to toss in his friend's direction. All he can manage in the end, however, is a belabored sigh.

"How's the nausea? Better?" McCoy prods, because he's a merciful man who can see just how badly his Captain desires a change of subject. He's already confirmed via tricorder that Jim is no longer running a fever.

"Yeah," Jim admits. He's just about to say more when he feels a sudden, sharp pain in his neck. He reaches up to grab at the spot instinctively, knowing without having to be told that his bastard of a best friend just hit him with a surprise hypo. "Gah! What the hell, Bones?"

But the world's already fading into blackness by the time he gets his response: "Sorry, kid. Your body needs the rest."

And just like that, Jim is out.

Somewhere in the space that exists in-between sleep and the waking world, Jim floats on his back down a river of song.

The tune that carries him along the riverbank feels strangely familiar, though Jim can't quite manage to put a finger on why. He wonders if it might be something Frank used to play around the house (because, for all of his stepfather's many faults, Jim can't deny that the man has near-impeccable music taste; it's just about the only thing they ever managed to agree upon). 

And so Jim drifts along, carried further and further down the length of the river by the persistent rhythm of its current. Content to float off into nothingness as he's lulled into an almost... meditative state...

The river holds Jim close. Its grip on his person feels both firm and affectionate. In this cloudy daydream Jim begins to wonder: has he found himself in the afterlife, somehow? Is this what 'Heaven' is...?

And it's that one thought, more than anything else, that clues Jim into the fact that he's not awake. Jim Kirk and Heaven go together just about as well as oil and water, if you ask him. "Bones?" he calls out, craning his neck to take a look at his surroundings. "Spock...?"

At the mention of the second name, the music stops. The river stills. Silence stretches out for so long that Jim begins to believe he imagined the strange song altogether. Just as he's about to give up hope, however, a familiar voice says, "Jim...?"

Jim uses all the strength he has to crane his neck towards the source of the voice. He finds a familiar pair of brown eyes staring back at him, full of both warmth and confusion. "Spock," he replies, just slightly frantic now. He tries and fails to get off of his back so he can stand in the shallow water. "Is that really you?"

"Yes and no," the Vulcan replies, and Jim could swear the guy's addicted to being unnecessarily vague. It's becoming a serious problem. "You appear to have entered my subconscious." 

"But I thought you said Vulcans don't dream," Jim counters, halfway convinced his whole brain is making this up. He watches the Vulcan, sat cross-legged on the ground not far away, and struggles to find the words for what he's feeling. Is it fear or is it joy?

Spock nods. His eyes are so very soft. His voice is even softer when he explains, "That is correct, Captain. Vulcans do not dream. We do, however, meditate."

The pieces click together in Jim's brain. He finally finds the strength to stand, clothing dripping with water from the river. He approaches Spock on shaky legs. Kneels a few footsteps away from the Vulcan so they can be at eye-level. "Spock," he breathes, and the air around them seems to hum. "How am I here right now?"

"It is my assumption that, upon coming into physical contact with my body in its healing trance, you were once again pulled—"

"But I'm not in physical contact with your body, Spock. I'm on a cot in Medbay."

Spock's eyes widen. He blinks several times like he's trying to clear his vision. His mouth opens and closes once, then twice. All Jim can think is that he's never seen his Vulcan look so dumbfounded. So out of his depth. 

Then Jim feels a tug on his subconscious. He winces, struggling against its pull, but already the image of Spock is fading before his eyes. "Are you still in the car?" he asks, frantic. "Have you gotten it to start yet? How badly are you hurt?"

"I—" Spock starts. Jim wakes up before he gets to hear the rest.

"Hey there, sleepyhead. Welcome back to the land of the living."

Jim grunts, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes and rubbing vigorously. Darkness swirls behind his eyelids as well as deep within his mind. "Why the hell did you wake me? I was just starting to get somewhere!"

Only once the same voice speaks again does Kirk realize it doesn't belong to his beloved doctor. "I'm sure it was a wonderful dream," Gaila coos. Something about her tone makes Jim's skin itch like he's being watched. He blinks away the fuzziness until he can see his friend's smirking face clearly.

"It wasn't a drea—"

"Nuh uh!" the Orion interrupts, raising a finger to playfully admonish her captain and longtime friend. "We'll have time for gossip later. For now, I need you to think back to the radio station that was playing when you, David, and Spock last used the Xyl vehicle."

"The radio station? Why the hell—"

It's clear when Gaila interrupts the Captain for a second time that she's becoming genuinely agitated. "There's no time, Jim. I need you to try and remember the exact frequency that was playing in the car. David says it's the station he liked best, but since he wasn't the one switching between them he never saw the number. You did, though. Can you try and remember it for me?"

Jim's brain is still foggy from whatever the hell Bones used to knock him out. He closes his eyes, trying to recall the moment in question. Was he looking at the screen or at the road? Did his eyes happen to scan over the numbers that symbolized what frequency they were tuned into (and, if they did, were those numbers written in a language he could actually understand)?

"Just think about it, okay?" Gaila says once it's clear she's not going to get a reply. "Try and remember. I gotta get back to Engineering. You can comm any one of us if it comes to you."

Jim nods. He watches in silence as his friend nears the exit. He ends up saying "Wait, Gaila," just as she's about to trigger the automatic door. Instantly the Orion woman freezes, turning to face her Captain once more. Her brows are furrowed with impatience when she gestures for him to continue. "Can you, um. Can you tell David that I'm sorry? And that I'm proud of him for being such a big help?"

At which point Gaila's whole expression softens. "Of course I can, Jimmy," she promises. She blows a kiss in the human's direction, gaze lingering for a moment longer than necessary. Then she's gone.

"It was him, Bones. I'm serious."

"I am in no way denying that Spock was in your dream, Jimmy. He's hurt and you're worried. That's how the subconscious works."

Jim tugs at his own hair out of pure frustration. "But it wasn't a dream! That's what I'm trying to tell you!"

Finally McCoy looks up from his PADD, placing one hand on his hip and staring his best friend right in the eye. "What was it, then? Somethin' you've experienced before?"

"Um," Jim says, then audibly gulps. He hadn't planned on telling Bones about him and Spock sharing a bed, much less them sharing dreams. Which is probably why his voice wobbles so much when he says, "Yes...?"

"You don't sound too sure of yourself."

Jim laughs humorlessly. "That'd be because I'm not. The circumstances are so different from the other times it's happened. All I know for sure is that it was real, Bones. It was Spock."

Leonard fully discards his PADD. He lets his other hand mirror its twin on the opposite hip. He towers over his seated friend, gaze curious and concerned. "What aren't you tellin' me, kid?"

Jim shakes his head. He's got no idea what to think, much less what to say. All he can do is avert his gaze and pretend he doesn't feel Bones's eyes on him.

"What's different between this time and the others?"

"Well. We're not on the same planet, for one— much less in the same bed."

Before Kirk even realizes what he's just implied, his best friend laughs out loud. "Well, I'll be damned! I might just owe Scotty a bottle of Saurian brandy."

"Wait, what?" Kirk sputters in reply. "Are you saying— do you guys have some sort of bet going on about me and Spock?"

"'Course we do. Why'd you think Gaila went to all that trouble with the mistletoe?"

And maybe it's the drugs, or the fact that he's still not fully awake — or, hell, maybe it's the residual venom still lingering in his system — but something compels Jim to bark out a confused laugh of his own. "You guys are insane. Like, actually insane. And I've got about a billion questions that I'll be expecting answers for later, but for now I only care about one: how soon can you put me back to sleep?"

"How soon can I do what?"

Bones refuses to look at Jim the entire time he fumbles with the controls on his biobed.

Kirk eyes the contents of his nearly-empty glass of water, raising it to his lips. He lets out an exaggerated ahh sound once he's downed the remainder of its contents. Then he puts the glass back on the coaster. "There," he says matter-of-factly. "S'that what you wanted?"

"What I wanted was for you to come up with a plan that isn't completely harebrained." 

"Well, in lieu of that..." Jim teases, adjusting his position on the bed. He has to build up the courage to push forward, feeling strangely awkward all of a sudden: "Would you settle for knowing your brandy stash can stay where it is?"

McCoy grunts. "What's that supposed to mean, kid?"

"Means nothing happened between me and Mr. Spock," Jim replies. He's not looking at Bones, but he can feel the doctor's gaze on him. "We only slept in the same bed 'cause the Xyl got the wrong idea. So unless this bet is specifically about the two of us sharing a sleeping space—"

"It's not," the doctor assures him. "Are you being serious, though?"

"As a heart attack, Bonesy."

To which Leonard actually scoffs. "Don't you dare say that. Not when you're asking me to give you almost double the recommended dose of this crap. A cardiac event is a very real possibility."

"It's Spock, Bones," is all Jim can say. It sounds more like a plea than a statement.

McCoy sighs, pinching at the bridge of his nose. He hold his best friend's gaze for several long seconds before he exhales audibly. "I know, kid," he finally breathes out, both looking and sounding so very resigned. "Now lie still. I'm gonna administer a round of electrolytes first, and then we'll take another look at your vitals..."

Chapter Text

This time, Jim gets to skip the floating-down-the-river of it all.

One moment he's lying on a cot in Medbay. He's counting back from a hundred per Bones's instruction. His eyes flutter shut for what feels like a fraction of a second —if that— and, when he opens them again, Jim finds himself sitting cross-legged opposite none other than Mr. Spock. He audibly gasps. Spock — who is, by all appearances, deep in meditation — doesn't react in the slightest to the sound. Which is, y'know. Weird.

Kirk opens his mouth to say something but finds himself at an uncharacteristic loss for words. After a few silent seconds, he lets his lips close again. Jim may not be an expert on Vulcan biology, per se, but he knows enough to understand that a healing trance doesn't just happen. It's the body's absolute last resort.

(And even he knows better than to mess with last resorts. Most of the time, anyway.)

"You needn't worry about waking me," Spock announces, eyes still very much closed. Kirk jolts at the unexpected sound of his voice. "You are incapable of doing so."

"I'm not worried," Jim counters. He pointedly ignores just how thin the assertion sounds to his own ears. "Though you know how I feel about no-win scenarios..."

Spock hums at the reminder. "Indeed I do." Despite the total sincerity in his tone, something about his words feels... teasing, almost. The sound of those four syllables is enough make Jim's imagined cheeks heat up with something like embarrassment. That feeling only seems to multiply when Spock peeks just one eye open so he can stare his Captain down without moving a (non-ocular) muscle.

And, holy shit.

"How the hell are you doing that?" Jim demands, because who meditates with one eye open? And, for that matter, who meditates whilst actively speaking? Doesn't that sort of defeat the whole purpose of clearing one's mind?

Because Spock is Spock, what should be a straightforward question elicits a particularly pedantic (yet also adorable?) response: "I am utilizing the muscle known as levator palpebrae, which is present in both human and Vulcan biology."

And just like that, Jim is nearly knocked off his imagined feet by a rush of affection. It's strong enough to rival the unruly storms of his youth — the very ones that had him and Sammy cuddled up together in the cellar. Shaking and praying that their Mother, wherever she might be, would be spared nature's wrath. 

Before Kirk can even begin to put these thoughts into words, a shrill beep! rings all around them. It both startles him and reminds him of the task at hand.

Spock stills, clearly caught off-guard by the sudden sound. Kirk has to bite back his own amusement in order to explain, "That beep means three minutes have elapsed since Bones put me under. We only get nine, so we've gotta be strategic here..."

After that, their conversation pretty quickly devolves into a series of rapid-fire questions. 

"Did you get the car to start yet?" Jim asks.

Spock shakes his head no. He pauses for just a second before he explains, "The venom began to severely affect my fine motor skills within seconds of my reentering the vehicle. I lost consciousness soon after."

"And how are your wounds? Was it just the one bite?"

Another negative head-shake. "Two bites. Whilst both broke skin, only one seems to have been successful in spreading the venom. I believe the smaller creature injured itself in the process of attacking you."

Kirk snorts. "S'what it deserves," he insists almost dreamily. He's tempted to imagine the creature's plight for himself. Then he remembers what little time they have left and immediately straightens his posture. "Okay. This one's extra important, according to Gaila: do you happen to remember what radio station David settled on in the car? It would've been playing when we parked."

Spock pauses for several long moments to consider Jim's query. Another beep passes them by before he clears his throat and says, "The Universal Translator struggles with Xyl numbers in particular. If you will allow me, however, I can visualize the untranslated symbols to the best of my recollection, so that you may put them to paper when you regain consciousness in three minutes' time."

"Three already...? Shit. Okay. Let's do this, then. Lay it on me."

By the time the third beep comes, Jim only has about seventy percent of the image committed to memory. He feels a tickle at the back of his neck — an inexplicable pull that threatens to bring him further away from Spock — but he pulls right back. It takes enough energy to make him grunt aloud with the effort.

"Jim—" the Vulcan starts, only to be silenced by his Captain's piercing gaze.

"Keep projecting the image, Spock. We're too close to stop now."

Though Jim can physically feel the Vulcan's reluctance, he finds that Spock doesn't resist. The projection falters for a fraction of a second when that same beep rings all around them, piercingly persistent. Then it comes twice more in quick succession. Beep. Beep.

Eighty-five percent memorized.

"Jim," Spock tries again, more forceful now. "You are risking your safety unnecessarily."

But Kirk just shakes his head. He doesn't have time to explain just how necessary this is. "Focus," he orders instead. His voice is just as piercing as his determined blue gaze. 

The image seems brighter, almost, in the seconds that follow. Jim continues to stare, committing straight and curved lines alike to memory. He's vaguely aware of the beeping becoming more persistent in the distance. Still he focuses on the task at hand.

It's not until a jolt of electricity runs through Kirk's entire body — rendering him motionless and breathless for several excruciating seconds — that his mind wraps itself around the gravity of the situation at hand. Somewhere far off, what feels like thousands of miles away, a familiar voice is barking, "Dammit, Jim! Don't you dare make that boy an orphan!"

Spock's projected image seems to vibrate across Jim's field of vision. It paints itself on the back of Kirk's eyelids, following his gaze every which way.

It's then that everything starts to sort of... melt together...

"You must go, ashayam," Spock orders, tone sounding far more stern than it had before. "And you mustn't return to this place until we are reunited. Will you promise me this?"

A dizzy-headed Jim snorts, reaching out to squeeze at his first officer's cheeks. He ends up missing by a not-insignificant margin, nearly toppling over in the process, and then another shock runs through his system. "I promise," he manages to choke out, barely cognizant of what he's saying.

When Spock fades out of existence, he takes the whole damn scene with him. The river, the soil, the grass... everything disappears in time with Spock.

Which leaves Jim all alone in the pitch black dark.

Jim wakes up gasping for air.

"Easy, kid. Easy," Bones is saying, but Kirk can barely hear the man over his own heaving breaths. 

"I need—" the Captain starts, only to be cut off by his exasperated best friend.

"If you say you need me to put you back under for another suicide mission, I'll kill you myself."

Despite how helpless he feels, Jim lets out a soft chuckle. Leonard McCoy is just about unrivaled in the sphere of bedside manner. "I need a pen and paper," Kirk insists, extending two open palms towards the doctor. "Or a PADD, I don't care. Just something to write on."

"Why the hell—"

"Now, Bones! Before I lose it! You'll have all the time in the world to scold me afterwards..."

Seven minutes and several scribbled-out attempts later, Jim is holding a final product that at least somewhat resembles the image from his memory. "Computer," he says aloud, having already snapped a photo of his handiwork. "Please pass that along to Lieutenant Uhura and Lieutenant Commander Scott."

Jim's comm chirps less than thirty seconds later. He raises the device to his face, smirking as he says, "Kirk here."

"How certain are you?" Nyota asks. Completely without preamble.

"I'd say... eighty-five percent. There might be a few discrepancies with the line angles, but overall? That's it."

Jim swears he can hear the communications officer smiling through the comm. "That's great news!" she says, and he realizes he's forgotten a crucial piece of information.

"The car's not on, though, Ny. And it probably won't be anytime soon— y'know, considering Spock's in a healing trance. And has been since David and I left for the ship."

"Shit."

Kirk lets out a humorless laugh. "Yeah. I know. It's bad."

"Nothing we can't work around," is his friend's decidedly confident reply. "Just give us... hmm. Forty-five minutes, let's say. Think you can make it that long?"

Jim can't help but smile as he lets out an exaggerated sigh. "Fine, then," he concedes good-naturedly. "Go save the day. I'll just be here, twiddling my thumbs."

"Oh, I wouldn't be too sure about that," Bones counters, sending a chill up and down the supposedly fearless Captain's spine. "You and I've got quite a bit to talk about whenever you're done chitchatting, Captain."

Kirk could swear he hears the faintest hint of a giggle in Nyota's voice when she says, "Stay strong, Jimmy." She has to clear her throat twice before she can manage to add, "Talk to you in forty-ish. Uhura out."

Jim's the first one to speak after the call ends, because of course he is.

McCoy seems more than willing to sit in silence forever. To stare Jim down with dagger eyes, draped in the sort of disappointment that would no doubt strike a paternal chord deep within the Captain — if only that part of Jim hadn't been left to wither and atrophy in George's absence.

As it is, however, James T. Kirk knows even less about fathers than he does mothers. Go figure.

He does know his best friend, though, which is why it's not at all surprising that the lecture begins only once Jim has choked out a pathetic, "Bones." Once he's shown the man his soft underbelly and all but submitted to the verbal lashing he's owed.

"I thought you'd grown out of this bullshit by now," Leonard insists. Jim feels so very small under his gaze. "Was I a fool to assume you'd have a bit more sense, now that you've got a kid to think about?"

Jim's tongue feels too heavy in his mouth. He suddenly feels like he might faint again — legs wobbling despite the fact that he's still very much lying down. His voice is barely audible when he finally manages to whisper, "I've had a kid to think about for nine years, Bones."

"Not like this you haven't."

And Jim has to scoff, because seriously? Coming from the man who held him whilst he sobbed on the day the boy in question was born? "You don't think he crossed my mind every single day?" he asks, voice cracking towards the end of his question, "You don't think I've seriously considered resigning my post at least a dozen times over this past decade? Just 'cause I didn't talk about it doesn't mean I didn't feel it, Bones. I missed him before I ever even met him."

"I don't doubt that, Jimmy. But take it from someone who's lived it all in reverse: there's a whole damn ocean between what it's like imagining your kid grow up from afar, and what it's like seeing that up close and personal. Being a part of it."

Kirk opens his mouth to counter. Before he can, his friend pushes onwards.

"Truth is, you can't unring that bell. Not for yourself, and certainly not for him."

The Captain's mouth scrunches up into a pained frown. "Bones," he pleads, but to no avail.

"You two spent so long having nothing but an idea of one another. Now that you've both got the real thing within arm's reach...? Well. You know better than anyone what it's like having a ghost for a father. What it's like losing him before you ever even got to know 'im. Would you really condemn David to that same fate, after all he's been through already?"

And, shit. How can Jim argue with that?

It doesn't take long, post verbal lashing, for Dr. McCoy to confirm the Captain's physical wellbeing.

"I'm releasing you now," he says, not bothering to look up from his PADD. Before Jim can make his excitement at this announcement known, the doctor cruelly adds, "But you're confined to your quarters for the next ten hours. No exceptions."

"What?" Jim exclaims in reply. "You can't just—"

"I can and I will. Your mind needs rest, kid. Plain and simple."

Jim can't help but laugh out loud at that. "'Rest?'" he echoes, incredulous. "I've gotta be the most well-rested person on this ship by now! Seriously, Bones— I think my eyelids might seal themselves shut for good if I went in for round three."

Leonard scoffs. "M'not tellin' you to take another nap, kid. In fact, if you're up for it, you oughta stretch those noodles you call limbs. Maybe even try a little yoga. Honestly, Jim, I don't much care what you do— so long as it's not overly strenuous. And so long as you do it in your own damn quarters. Got that?"

An exaggerated pout makes its way across Jim Kirk's face once his friend's words have truly set in. "Got it," he grumbles, hardly bothering to sound even halfway convincing.

"Don't make me pull rank, Captain," the older man warns. His tone, combined with the steely expression on his face, is enough to send a chill up and down Kirk's still-reclining spine. "You know I can lock you in there."

This time, when Jim promises, "I'll stay in my quarters, geez," his tone is entirely devoid of derision. It's not until he plants his feet on the ground, using the biobed to steady himself, that another thought occurs to him: "But do you seriously expect me to just sit around while everyone else is productive? Me?"

"I expect you to do your part in getting our Captain back into working shape, yes. Is that gonna be a problem? Y'want me to assign you a babysitter or somethin'?"

"No!" Jim exclaims, because the last thing he needs is some yeoman futzing around his quarters and making him feel guilty about the less-than-pristine state in which he left his belongings. He gets enough of that from his own internal monologue, thank you very much.

McCoy sounds smug as all hell when he murmurs, "Didn't think so." He pauses. Lets his eyes scan over his patient's standing form. Then, louder than before, the doctor adds, "Take it easy, kid. I mean it."

"It's what I do best," Jim lies, just to hear the fucker laugh.

✧ ✦ ✧

Approximately three hours and twenty minutes into being confined to his quarters like a wayward child, Jim finally hears a knock on the door. "Come in," he calls out. He's too bored out of his mind to bother asking the computer who he'll find on the other side.

It's not like it matters, after all.

It's not like he's in any position to turn a visitor away.

And so the door slides open. Jim wholeheartedly expects to find Gaila on the other side. Instead of green skin and red hair, however, the Captain is met with the image of his nine-year-old son. David stands in the threshold, all sandy blond curls and bright blue eyes. He doesn't smile at his father. He doesn't exactly frown, either, though that fact feels somehow less important.

"Oh," Jim breathes, taking a few long seconds to just stare.  

David's wearing the red uniform shirt Nyota gave him for Christmas. Richard, who is presently tucked into the crook of the boy's arm, is wearing his own version of the garment — courtesy of one very talented Nurse Chapel.

It's not until the Captain is once again looking his boy in the eye that he lets himself admit just how afraid he was of this exact moment. It seemed more than likely (in his own head, at least) that he'd never get the chance to do this again. Not after the whole transporter room debacle. David's tone certainly sounded final when he said those words aloud. Every last one dripped with vitriol.

And some fraction of that derision is still present, it seems — based on the wry smirk the boy shoots in his father's direction. "Lieutenant Uhura sent me here," he offers, eyes scanning all around Jim's room in a rather transparent attempt to avoid further eye-contact.

Jim waits for more words. More explanations.

Nothing comes.

Finally, Kirk bites the bullet. He takes it upon himself to ask, "How's the radio going...?"

"Fine," the boy grumbles. He refuses to look anywhere besides his own shuffling feet in the seconds that follow.

"'Fine,' really? That's all I get?"

David shrugs. "We used your sketch to narrow it down to eight possible channels. Lieutenant Uhura wanted me to tell you 'thank you,' and that your contributions were invaluable."

"Well, you can tell her 'you're welcome' if you see her before I do. Which you probably will, considering the Doc has me stuck in here 'til tomorrow."

Only when the boy's eyes widen in surprise does Jim realize he's shown his hand unnecessarily. Shit. "Is something wrong?" David demands, suddenly frantic. He looks his father straight in the eye when he asks, "Is the bite infected?"

Jim shakes his head. "Bite's healing fine."

"Then why—" the boy starts, only to cut himself off with a belabored sigh. Jim watches in horror as that bright-eyed face goes stony and cold in an instant. "Never mind."

"Hey now. If something's bugging you, you can—"

One glare from David is enough to have the Captain's jaw clamping shut mid-sentence. "I came as a favor to Lieutenant Uhura before I head off to bed. Richard and I are meant to get a good night's rest so we can help again tomorrow."

"Oh. Of course. That's— that makes perfect sense. Have you eaten dinner?"

The boy nods. "There's a replicator in Engineering," he says. Like Jim doesn't know that.

"Right," Kirk replies. Now he's the one avoiding eye contact. "Well, if you need anything—"

Before Jim has even finished his sentence, David exits the conversation via their shared bathroom. The door makes its usual swoosh as it shuts behind him, leaving the Captain all alone once more.

"Sleep well, David," Jim tells the empty room.

The only response he gets is the faint echo of his own voice.

✧ ✦ ✧

It's late when Nyota finally taps her knuckles against Jim's door. She does so softly enough that, had he been asleep (or even just preoccupied with a particularly thought-intensive task), he might not have noticed at all.

As it is, however, the Captain is wide awake and bored out of his damn mind. He hears his friend's muffled voice asking, "Can I come in?," and orders the computer to open the door within seconds.

"You have a funny definition of 'forty minutes'," he teases once they're face-to-face. Uhura snorts.

The communications officer proceeds to step just far enough into Jim's quarters for the door to slide shut behind her. She leans back against it, eyes glistening, and insists, "I was feeling optimistic."

"Yeah? S'that mean you've figured out how to get Spock back?"

"I'm not supposed to talk with you about this," Nyota says slowly. She spends several seconds just looking at Jim before she gently adds, "Let's just say, if it weren't for your boy, I'd be working well into tonight. We all would."

"Not me," Jim grumbles. He earns a scoff for his trouble. "By the way, you very much did not answer my question."

Nyota's responding smile is soft and understanding. "I know I didn't," she admits. Kirk scoffs. His friend proceeds to furrow her brow, looking genuinely perplexed as she moves further into the room. "Look, Jim. Leonard made it very clear. Anything that might possibly spike your heart-rate is a no go."

Jim just blinks back at her, gaze expectant. Is she going for sarcastic, or...?

"I'm serious. I'm not even supposed to mention you-know-who — much less his healing trance — and I'm under strict orders to steer the conversation away from the Xyl at all costs."

"So, what? I'm expected to fall asleep tonight without knowing if my— if Spock is okay? I don't need to know the how, Ny. I don't even need to know the what. Just tell me you've got a clear route to his freedom. Please."

Jim watches a litany of emotions dance across his friend's face. Nyota contemplates her response without saying a single word. She just slides into the chair across from Jim and looks at him, eyes sparkling. Keeps on looking and looking until finally she asks, "You really think I'd be standing here right now if I thought there was more that needed doing?"

And, honestly? Jim can't help himself. "You're sitting," he grumbles. Nyota's brow furrows.

"Does annoying people usually get you what you want, or...?"

"Most of the time, yeah," Jim admits. He opens his mouth to ask the next question in a string of several dozen that are currently floating around in his mind — only to be silenced by a single raised hand from his well-manicured friend.

"Nope! That's it. I've said too much already," Uhura says. She's standing again, backing away from Jim.

It's all Kirk can do to grasp at one of the few straws he's got left. "Is it that I can't ask any questions about Spock, or just that I can't ask ones related to his present condition?"

"Let's go for neither. Just to be safe."

"But—"

"Enough, Jim. I came here to check on you, not to get the third degree. Now's my turn to ask the questions. Have you been drinking enough water? Are you able to keep your food down?"

And, sure. It's petty. Jim Kirk would be the first to admit that he's not above pettiness. Desperate times call for desperate measures, after all. And boy does Jim feel desperate. Which is why he barely thinks before he says, "Fine, fine. I'll save my pheromone questions for Gaila..."

Nyota balks for approximately five seconds. "Your— what?"

"Let's not play coy, Ny. It's unbecoming of a woman as intelligent as yourself. You, more than most, should understand that I'm not as clueless as I seem. I let it slide at the time because I honestly thought it was some sort of fluke with Gaila's biology. Now, I know better. So... spill."

Jim's not sure what he expects his friend to say. All he knows is that he's surprised when Nyota looks at him and asks point-blank, "Where do you stash your liquor these days?"

Chapter Text

"Tell me what you know."

Jim scoffs at Uhura's command. "Isn't that my line...?"

Nyota frowns, clearly unamused. "If I'm gonna betray Spock's confidence, I'd at least like to know what I'm working with. Is that not a reasonable request?"

"I'm not asking you to—" Jim starts, then cuts himself off. "Okay, fine. Maybe I am asking you to do that. But at this point, Ny, it's not just Spock's business! It's mine, too!"

Uhura sets two shot glasses on the table between them, gingerly pouring equal amounts of Cardassian tequila into each. Jim reaches out for one of the glasses, only to have his hand swatted away. "Nope. None for you."

"But—" Kirk tries. One scathing look from his friend is enough to have his jaw slamming shut once more. "Fine."

"We're already breaking Len's rules just by having this conversation," she argues. Jim sighs dramatically. "Let's be smart about it, at least. Let's avoid doing anything that'll show up on a blood test or tricorder scan."

"You just wanna keep all the fun for yourself," Jim grumbles. 

Nyota throws her head back and laughs. "Well, you know me!" she says. She proceeds to down one shot — followed quickly thereafter by the second. Jim watches, envious, as his friend winces and hisses at the taste that is no doubt burning through her throat at this very moment. "You drink this on purpose...?"

And now it's Jim's turn to laugh heartily. "It's an acquired taste, I'll admit, but it gets the job done."

"Yeah? Let's let me be the judge of that in about two minutes. In the meantime, I'll say it again: tell me what you know."

It's not worth it to obfuscate the truth, Jim realizes. Not if he truly wants answers. So he walks Nyota through their adventures on Xylos. Jim tells her all about the Xyl assuming he and Spock were 'mates' from the get-go. He explains just how unforthcoming the Vulcan had been about the whole ordeal. "It was like pulling teeth, getting him to talk about it. To admit it was even happening."

Nyota hums her understanding. "Spock wouldn't be Spock without a little caginess."

"I guess not. It's sorta part of his charm."

"Spoken like a true lovesick fool," the lieutenant muses. She pours herself yet another shot and throws it back (with less obvious distaste, this time around). Jim must show some measure of surprise in his facial expression, given how she adds, "What? I'm allowed to say that! I was in your shoes once, remember?"

"You were?" Jim counters sarcastically. As if he could just up and forget about Spock and Uhura's epic romance. "How'd that slip my mind...?"

Nyota's smile falters for just a second before she displays her resolve. "Listen. You wanna ask me questions or not? 'Cause I'm tired enough as is without you stalling for time..."

The first question escapes Jim's lips before he can fully make sense of its meaning.

"Was it my fault?" he asks. Nyota's gaze softens in an instant.

"You'll have to be more specific than that, Jimmy," the brunette teases warmly. "After all, you've made many, many mistakes over the last thirty-five years."

Kirk snorts and rolls his eyes. "You're hilarious," he deadpans.

"Wasn't joking," Nyota shoots back. And, shit. She's actually going to make Jim spell it all out, isn't she? 

"Is— or, uh... was I—" Kirk has to pause to clear his throat "—was I the reason you and Spock broke up?"

For a few long seconds, Nyota just looks at Jim. Her lips twitch, almost like she's about to smile (or, god forbid, laugh), but instead she simply says, "You flatter yourself."

All Jim can think to do is let out a soft, semi-awkward chuckle. "Oh."

"The writing was already on the wall," Uhura continues, her brown eyes twinkling thoughtfully. "It would've happened with or without the catalyst that was that whole... fiasco. I'll admit, though. For a good twenty-four hours, I truly hated your guts."

"You— what?"

Nyota's smile flickers out of existence for the faintest hint of a second. She has to visibly collect herself before she can explain: "Imagine you find out your boyfriend of nine years has been marking his closest friend like a damn dog in his free time. Now imagine you don't hear this information from said boyfriend — or even from the friend, who you're supposedly close to as well. It has to come from your Academy roommate— the same one who watched you fall in love with this guy in the first place. And, god love Gaila, truly, but I hadn't seen the woman in literal years. That, combined with the fact that she has zero bedside manner? Needless to say, it felt like shit. I felt like shit."

"Geez, Ny," Jim breathes, reaching out to grab his friend's hand on instinct. "I'm so sorry. I swear, I had no idea about any of that. And I can promise you, from the bottom of my heart, that he and I— we've never. Ever. Not then and not now."

"Oh, trust me. I know," Nyota purrs, returning the squeeze with an odd sort of smile on her face. "The first thing Spock said when I confronted him was, 'please do not tell Jim.' Not 'sorry.' Not 'I can explain.' He was more afraid of losing you than he was of losing me, his supposed partner. That's when I knew for sure it was over."

Jim finds himself at a total loss for words. What the hell are you even supposed to say after receiving a confession like that? "Ny," he tries, voice cracking, "If I'd known, I'd've..."

The communications officer lets out a faint, pitiful laugh. "I appreciate the sentiment, truly, but there's nothing you could've done. He and I were dead in the water long before the whole pheromone revelation. The worst part, honestly, was that the person I wanted to talk to about all this was you. But there was no way to tell you what was really going on without betraying his confidence. Even as pissed as I was..."

"... you're still you?" Jim supplies, finishing her sentence for her. Nyota shrugs.

"You make me sound like some sort of saint. I must've thought about calling you at least a dozen times that first week. Even dialed your comm number once or twice. Gaila actually had to take my communicator apart and hide the pieces all around the condo. It took me a week and a half to find the battery panel."

Which sure sounds like the Orion Jim knows — minus one big discrepancy. "I can't believe she didn't tell me! I thought Gaila was, like, biologically incapable of keeping secrets."

"I might have threatened her with some form of bodily harm," Nyota explains, looking equal parts sheepish and self-satisfied at the admission. "Y'know. Just a tiny bit."

Jim's smile has grown so big that his cheeks are starting to hurt. "Of course you did," he muses. "Honestly, though? I can't say I would've been as generous to Spock if I were in your shoes. Or as generous to me, for that matter. You're, like, the most evolved person I know."

Uhura's nose crinkles up the way it does when she's truly amused. "Oh, hush," she admonishes, sounding just-slightly-bashful. 

"Guess it helps that you fell right into the arms of a certain blonde, huh?"

Uhura swats playfully at her Captain's shoulder. "That's a gross oversimplification of events," she insists, though she doesn't elaborate further. She just smiles and laughs, eyes sparkling with enough mirth to drag Jim right down with her.

Jim's second question, asked only once their shared laughter has finally died down, is undoubtedly related to the first: "Why'd he do it?"

"Do what?" Nyota asks, though her tone and facial expression make it clear that she knows exactly what Jim is referring to.

"Mark me, or whatever. I mean— I wasn't his. I'm not."

And, shit. The way Uhura looks at Jim is enough to make his head hurt. "Honestly? I'm still wondering the same thing. He insisted it only started after Khan — that it was completely involuntary and impossible to control — but his 'explanation' was, frankly, convoluted as hell. The idea of him cheating on me made more sense to my brain than some sort of— I dunno. Spontaneous, one-sided mating ritual? Even saying it out loud now feels silly."

Kirk lets out a surprised snort-laugh. "You're not wrong," he grumbles. He chances a glance at his friend's face, relieved to find the familiar warmth of her red-lipped smile already aimed in his direction. "What does it mean, though? Him marking me."

Nyota's smile falters. "We're veering very quickly into 'not my story to tell' territory," she warns. Kirk sighs. "Honestly, Jimmy, I don't have all the answers. I probably wouldn't tell you even if I did know the 'why.' There are some things you really ought to hear from the source."

Sometimes, the Captain truly regrets surrounding himself with such wise and honest friends. How's a guy supposed to run from his problems in a place like this?

✧ ✦ ✧

For the first night in several, Jim Kirk sleeps alone.

In truth, Jim's not sure 'sleep' is the right word to describe what he does in his Vulcan's absence. He tosses and turns more than anything else.

Whatever it is — sleep or no — one thing's for sure. Jim does it all by himself.

(He hadn't anticipated that hurting quite so much.)

As he fades in and out of consciousness, Jim half-expects to dream himself right back into Spock's meditation space. To once again float down that river towards the man he so adores. At this point, his mind has begun to consider the concept of sleep as being near-synonymous with Spock. Same with dreaming.

This time around, however, Jim never quite makes it to dreamland.

Even when he gets close, Spock and the river are nowhere to be seen.

Things reach a breaking point sometime around 0300. Jim kicks out of bed, socked feet hitting linoleum, and stumbles towards his door with a single-minded focus. Only when he tries and fails to open the thing at least three times in a row does the Captain remember the fact that he's on Bones-induced house arrest. "Shit."

It's the sort of revelation that should have Jim crawling right back into bed. Jim should be throwing a pillow over his head. Should be forcing himself to count sheep. Instead he fumbles through his drawers and shrugs on a t-shirt. He steps into to his and David's shared bathroom. Once he gets to the door that connects to the boy's personal quarters, Jim places the gentlest of knocks against its surface. He waits several seconds for a response that never comes.

"David?" he calls out in a hushed whisper.

Still nothing.

In a moment of admittedly poor judgment, Captain Kirk whispers his authorization code to the computer. He only hesitates for a second before stepping into his son's bedroom. Once his eyes have adjusted to the change in lighting, Jim is hit with a rush of affection from deep within his chest. The shape of David's sleeping form, snuggled up under the covers, makes his heart swell with love.

The boy's got Richard tucked against his chest in the tightest of embraces. David's mouth is slightly agape so that the smallest, most adorable noises escape his lips every few breaths.

It's an invasion of privacy, Jim realizes, to be here like this. Especially at a time when David is less-than-pleased with him. Rather than simply turn back, however, Kirk goes and makes another poor choice: he creeps further into David's quarters. Keeps his gaze trained on the boy as he moves closer and closer to the door that leads to the rest of the Enterprise.

Jim spares one last glance at his son's sleeping form once he's reached the door in question. He whispers a barely-audible, "Sweet dreams, bud."

Then he exits into the hallway.

Jim pretends not to know where his legs are carrying him as he tiptoes through the Enterprise in nothing but his socks. He's grateful to have pulled on a shirt to go with the flannel pajama pants, though he really wishes he'd had the sense to step into a pair of slippers as well.

(He's also grateful that it's late enough — and that they live in a secluded enough area of the ship — that he doesn't run into a single soul. God only knows how he would've explained his current state, much less the fact that he's not meant to be outside of his own living space.)

It isn't until Kirk is standing in front of Spock's new quarters that he realizes this is where he intended to go all along. After staring at the door for a few long seconds, he whispers his access code. Steps past the threshold on shaky legs. 

Immediately upon entering Spock's space, Jim is bombarded by an ocean-deep sense of longing.

The door slides shut behind him, bathing Jim in dark. He audibly gasps as he breathes in the familiar scent of Spock mixed with stale incense. It's enough to make his knees feel weak as he grabs a nearby wall to steady himself. "Computer, lights on," he manages to croak, only to wince when his tired eyeballs are bombarded by a sudden onslaught of light. "Shit."

Jim stumbles further into the room. Slowly, his half-burned corneas manage to adjust to their surroundings. 

In a totally unsurprising turn of events, Spock's bed is still made. Jim smirks as he approaches it, hand tracing along the red-orange fabric of the comforter. His body moves as if on autopilot as it retrieves one of two actual pillows, tucked neatly behind those meant for decoration rather than comfort, and raises the fabric to his face.

It's like a hit of Spock, straight to the vein. Jim's knees once again threaten to buckle beneath him.

"Please be safe," he begs, voice muffled by the fabric of the pillowcase, "Please, Spock. Stay with me."

Once Jim's done whispering his sorrows into a goddamn pillow, he elects to take a quick lap of the room. He ends up pausing in front of Spock's clean-almost-to-a-fault workspace. It's there that he finds a pile of David's artwork held together in a neat stack by a 'fleet issue paperclip. "Oh," Jim breathes, reaching for the bundle instinctually. 

It's his second privacy-invasion of the night. Maybe even the third — if you're counting entering Spock's room uninvited as its own invasion, that is. Whether it's the second or third strike, one thing's for certain: Jim can't stop himself from tugging at that paperclip with curious fingers. Can't stop himself from bringing the artwork closer to his not-so-perfect eyes.

At the very top of the pile are stick figure versions of Jim and Mr. Spock — complete with their respective yellow and blue tunics, plus Spock's pointed ears and slanted brows. Their drawn selves are holding hands, Jim realizes, and suddenly his cheeks are heating up. David's in the drawing, too — with Richard standing beside him like a person would (rather than, y'know, a stuffed animal). The rabbit, impressively enough, stands at just under half of the nine-year-old's height. Both boy and bunny are wearing red.

Gently, Jim moves the mini masterpiece aside. Beneath it is another stick figure drawing — this time of just David, Richard and Spock. They're all wearing blue and, by the looks of the test tubes in their hands, conducting some sort of science experiment. Presumably in the labs.

Jim's smile grows. His soul feels heavy with affection for both David and Spock.

There are more drawings. An impressively accurate depiction of the Enterprise (no doubt created using the 'maths' David loves so much). Another drawing of David, Richard, and Spock in the labs. Finally, at the very bottom of the pile, there's an artwork with a note attached to it in Nyota's handwriting. 

Fannie's Frames, Yorktown location. Ask for Angela. If she's not on shift, ask when she will be. Make sure you give her this note.

Ang- he needs a walnut frame with a dark gray or navy matte. Don't overcharge him and don't make him wait too long. You owe me one, remember? - Nyota

Something in Jim's gut tells him not to peel back the note to reveal the contents of the drawing beneath. Hasn't he invaded enough peoples' privacy for one night?

Instead he returns the stack to its original position, paperclip and all. Then he turns right around, stomps across the room, and straightens the already-straight comforter on Spock's bed. Kirk can't quite bear to part with the pillow he pulled out of place so he takes it with him — though not before doing his best to make the pillows that are still left look at least somewhat purposeful in their placement. 

That's how the supposedly professional Captain Kirk ends up once again tiptoeing down the hallway in his pajamas, now carrying a pillow that isn't his. That's how he ends up whispering his security code to David's door and sneaking through the quarters of the still-sleeping boy. He can't help but stop to watch his son sleep for just a second, chest swelling with a familiar cocktail of affection and regret. He just barely manages to convince himself to leave.

Once he's safely in his own space once again, Jim all but sinks into bed. He keeps Spock's pillow clutched tight to his chest. Breathes the Vulcan's scent in and out, over and over. Forever seeking a warmth that quite simply isn't there. 

Only by continuously inhaling and exhaling Spock's scent —thinking of nothing other than the Vulcan and his nebulous safety— is the Captain is able to finally, finally fall asleep.

For the first time in a while, Jim's dreams are entirely his own.

The solitude is its own sort of nightmare.

✧ ✦ ✧

By the grace of the oh-so-benevolent Doctor Leonard McCoy, Jim is allowed to attend the next morning's debrief without issue. He's even allowed to do so in-uniform. The Doc hardly seems surprised when Kirk sits at the head of table in his command yellows. Even less so when the Captain proceeds to clap his hands together twice, loud enough to capture the room's attention.

"All right, people!" Captain Kirk exclaims once he's sure everyone is listening, "What're we working with today?"

Scotty is the first to respond. "We cannae know for sure if the Commander has started the vehicle yet, Sir, but we're still broadcastin' clear as day on the eight stations that most closely resemble your sketch. We're also in communication with Li-Xyl—"

Kirk can't help but interrupt. "You are...?"

"Yessir. With the tide sitting where she is, we've got no way of crossing the land-bridge for the next few hours."

"And," Uhura jumps in, capturing the attention of the whole room with nothing more than the sheer confidence in her tone of voice, "Knowing what we know about how comms work down there, we can't even pass along a message. Not until the continent reunites with the peninsula, anyway. So we've had to get strategic."

Jim pinches at the bridge of his nose. His sigh is louder than is strictly necessary. "And what, pray tell, did good old Li-Xyl have to say about our little... predicament?"

Nyota shifts uncomfortably in her seat. "They said they'd help," she starts, suddenly unwilling to meet Jim's gaze. "They even offered to lend us a boat in exchange for a signed treaty promising the Federation will stop 'meddling' with private planetary affairs once and for all."

Jim's not sure what makes him angrier: the idea that the Xyl have had boats this entire time, or the implication that anyone in the Federation (or even just Starfleet, for that matter) would turn a blind eye to the plight of the Western Xyl now that they know what's happening. "I trust you told them where to shove it," he says. Uhura laughs humorlessly.

"Not in so many words, no."

(Which, all things considered, is probably for the best.)

Chapter Text

Jim is allowed to speak with Li-Xyl on exactly two conditions.

The first? Their call can't last any longer than thirty minutes. No exceptions. It's nearly-maybe-almost as bad as the second condition, which stipulates that Jim must let Bones stick around and monitor his heart-rate all the while.

"Is this really necessary?" Kirk asks, fidgeting in his seat. The doctor's frown deepens.

"Unfortunately, yes. It is. You saw to that when you made me bring out the goddamn defibrillator on your ass."

Jim scoffs. "I didn't mean to—" he starts, then immediately thinks better of it. This is no time for arguing. "Whatever. Doesn't matter. Let's just get this over with so I can make a fool of myself already."

"Don't sound too confident, now," McCoy teases. Jim snorts.

The first thing Jim realizes when Li-Xyl appears on his viewscreen is that the alien isn't alone. Their son-daughter, Ud-Xyl, sits dutifully at their side. "Greetings, Sir James," Li says, gaze widening when the Enterprise's CMO comes into view. "And Sir Leonard as well. How exciting!"

Jim's always been the sort of guy to prefer relying on his own gut. Given that his internal bullshit detector is essentially useless as of now, however, he can't seem to get a read on members of this particularly un-humanlike race. Even if he and Li-Xyl were breathing the same air, Jim would likely be at just as much of a loss for words as he is now.

(Maybe even more so, if the pheromones started to fuck with is judgment.)

At some point during his best friend's prolonged silence, McCoy steps in. "Great to see you again, Li-Xyl," he says. He sounds far more convincing than Jim would have. And, really. Since when is Bones the voice of reason when it comes to Alien cultural differences? Or, y'know— anything other than medical jargon?

But the man just keeps on going.

"And you as well, Ud-Xyl. You both appear well-rested. You'll have to excuse the Captain here, who is running on far too little sleep."

Kirk tries his best not to scowl in the direction of his best friend or the viewscreen. "Greetings, Ud and Li," he manages, sounding at least somewhat polite (despite wanting nothing more than to wipe the too-sweet smiles off of those lying, slime-ridden faces — especially Li's). "Am I correct to assume you've been briefed on our current predicament...?"

Li-Xyl nods. The movement causes a sort of squelching noise that makes Jim's skin crawl. "We are aware of your mate's capture, yes," they respond, which. What?

At first, all Jim can manage is a confused, "I'm sorry...?"

"Commander Spock wasn't captured, Li-Xyl," McCoy interjects, mercifully taking the reins from his dumbfounded Captain. "He is, however, very much stuck. Can't move from where he's at."

Ud makes an odd sort of chirping noise in the back of their throat. "Is this not what my mother-father said, Sirs?" they wonder, tugging at Jim's heartstrings just a bit. Li-Xyl's intentions are up for debate, he'll gladly admit, but something about Ud strikes Jim as... genuine. Maybe a bit naive.

In truth? It makes him want to give the younger Xyl a chance at redemption. Yes, really.

And so — entirely for Ud-Xyl's benefit — Kirk patiently explains, "In Federation Standard, there's a certain nuance between the concepts of being 'captured' and being 'trapped.' Mr. Spock is trapped, meaning he cannot escape his current situation, but no one is holding him captive. He just so happens to be alone and unconscious in a parked vehicle, which means he's sort of... stuck."

Both Xyl on Jim's viewscreen continue to blink. The pace of their eyelids grows increasingly rapid. "What has caused his loss of consciousness?" Ud finally asks, and Jim could almost laugh.

"Oh, I believe you're both very familiar with this particular substance."

Bones clears his throat. "Jim—" he starts, but Kirk pays him no mind.

"I'm told many Xyl are partial to its sweet taste," the Captain continues. "So much so that it's a staple in the majority of your wines. It's tasty, I'm told, up until the point when we humans start to lose our lunch."

And just like that the blinking stops. Ud-Xyl and Li-Xyl stare at Jim through the viewscreen, their eyes wide with clear shock. Unmoving to the point where Kirk almost thinks the video feed has frozen. Finally, Li-Xyl asks, "The Westerners offered you wine?," and the spell breaks.

This time, Jim laughs for real. It's the sort of laugh that bubbles up from somewhere deep within. The kind he couldn't swallow back even if he wanted to. Eventually he gathers enough self-control to breathily explain, "We got our venom straight from the source, actually. I've found that the whole process is much more efficient when you go from fang to vein."

Ud-Xyl both looks and sounds genuinely shocked when they ask, "You were bitten, Sir James?!"

Their mother-father's expression, however, is... guarded. Jim can't quite decipher it. He thinks, not for the first time, that this would all be so much easier if Spock were here. Jim hadn't realized just how much he'd come to rely on that silent understanding between himself and his first officer. Now, with Spock so far away, he feels the Vulcan's absence like some sort of phantom limb.

Jim bites back an instinctual sigh. He wants so badly to admonish Li-Xyl for all that's come to light in the past few days. He's also terrifyingly cognizant of the fact that the unSwallowing has already been set into motion. Their best bet on getting to where they need to go — whether that be via boat, or another strange 'car' — is by playing nice. Unfortunately.

And so, in lieu of literal telepathy, Jim's forced to settle for the next best thing: best friend brain osmosis. It's not half as sophisticated as what the Vulcans have going on, he'll admit, but it's a tried and true method. One that can only be perfected by those who are willing to dedicate literal years to the craft.

Kirk purposefully bumps his left knee against Leonard's right. Once those stormy eyes are fixed on him, Jim focuses nearly all of the energy left in his body into furrowing his brow as if to request, Don't let me fuck this up.

Bones's responding frown either means I won't let you fuck this up, or I have no idea what the hell you're saying.

(And, okay. It's not an exact science —not by any means— but it's still more than they had ten minutes ago. It's something.)

"Sirs?" Ud-Xyl prompts, sounding... worried, maybe? Or at the very least confused.

Kirk shakes himself out of his own thoughts, turning to face the viewscreen once more. This time, fake-smiling feels just a bit easier. "We were bitten, yes. I was able to get the care I needed pretty quickly. Mr. Spock, however... wasn't so lucky."

That's when Li-Xyl reenters the conversation to ask, "What of our vehicle? When can we expect its return?"

"Well, Li, seeing as Mr. Spock is currently unconscious inside of it—"

"What the Captain means to say," McCoy interjects, sounding just-slightly-frantic, "is that we fully intend to return the vehicle at the earliest opportunity. We just have to get Commander Spock to safety first. Which brings us back around to the topic of transportation..."

It's all going well, Jim thinks — until it's not.

"Our request is quite simple, Sirs," Li-Xyl insists. Their voice drips with annoyance (which, mind you, has to be strong enough to surpass the limitations of the Universal Translator and a 'fleet communicator in order for it to make it into Jim's ears). "You will allow us to continue our planetary affairs, just as we have for moons upon moons prior to your Federation's arrival. In turn we will lend you yet another vehicle, this time equipped with a skilled driver."

Jim ignores the obvious slight against his driving abilities in favor of flashing a not-so-genuine smile. He's glad that whatever sort of angry pheromones he's got spewing from his pores can't be detected through a screen. Otherwise, his farce would be a whole lot less believable. "I'm afraid we can't accept those terms," he explains, speaking about as non-combatively as he can manage. The device monitoring his heart-rate lets out a singular beep in warning.

"Easy, kid," McCoy murmurs. Jim cringes at the uncharacteristic softness in his best friend's tone. Bones clears his throat twice before he adds (louder this time — though no less gentle for it), "We might be members of the Federation, Li, but we're by no means in charge of its rules. Accepting your terms simply isn't within our jurisdiction."

At which point Jim regains his footing enough to say, "How 'bout I promise to put in a good word for you with Admiral Arora? Maybe get you an audience...?"

But Li-Xyl, who seems wholly committed to being as slimy and annoying as possible at all times, isn't satisfied with that. "A 'maybe' is... insufficient."

"But—"

"We cannot risk the wrath of the Westerners to save one man, Sir James. Surely this you understand."

Beside Li, Ud-Xyl stirs awkwardly. "But Sir Spock is not merely—" they start, only to be cut off by one singular raised appendage from their mother-father beside them. Jim swears he can almost hear Ud's mouth slam shut on the other end.

"I take no pleasure in denying you, Sir James," Li insists, breaking the awkward silence between them all. "You were warned, however, of the Westerners' barbarity. Their violence knows no bounds. I am certain your mate would attest to that if he were here now."

This time, Jim almost doesn't bite back his anger. The machine in Bones's hand starts to beep louder and more excessively. Kirk has to physically force himself to breathe in and out once, then twice, just to get his heart-rate somewhat close to normal. "So, what? You're just... not gonna help us at all?"

"I will lend one of my guards to escort you to the land-bridge, Sirs, but no further. I am afraid there is nothing more I can do without endangering every Xyl in the city proper."

Which sounds like a load of horse shit, if you ask Jim. It takes the majority of his resolve just to force out a shaky, "That's, uh— that's understandable."

Once that's settled, it doesn't take long for the meeting to end. Neither Kirk nor McCoy has to speed along the process, either — if anything, it's Li-Xyl who leads the charge. Soon enough the two of them are alone, staring blankly at the black screen in front of them. At least two minutes pass in complete silence. Neither man seems to know what to say or do.

"That was... unexpected," Jim announces finally, and the Doctor actually laughs.

"That's one way of putting it. Guess it makes sense that you're the diplomat and I'm the doctor, huh?"

Kirk gasps and clutches at his chest with fake dismay. "You wound me, Bonesy," he coos, causing his best friend to scoff. "Occasional diplomacy does not a diplomat make. Sort of like how you giving that dog an appendectomy on Elia III didn't make you a veterinarian."

"Your logic's off, kid," McCoy counters easily. "I did crude surgery on a vaguely dog-like creature one singular time. You, however, practice diplomacy like it's going out of style. Admit it, kid. It's in your blood."

"I will do no such thing!" Kirk insists. He can't quite manage to bite back the bemused smile that accompanies such a weak attempt at protest.

The tricorder scanning Jim's forehead beeps loud enough to startle him.

"Sit still for a minute, will ya?" McCoy grumbles.

Kirk tries not to go cross-eyed as the device moves closer and closer toward the bridge of his nose. Ultimately, his lids slide shut on their own accord — instinct taking over once the tool is close enough to make his skin prickle. "Hold still, Jimmy," the doc repeats. 

(As if Kirk hasn't been trying his darnedest to do just that. Pfft.)

In an effort to avoid affecting the results of the scan by retorting verbally, Jim channels all of his frustration into the far more benign act of clenching both fists at his side. He's fairly certain that his fingernails will leave half-moon indentations in the skin of both palms if he keeps it up much longer. He's also fairly certain that outcome would be preferable to the alternative: that is, having to restart this particular test from the beginning.

Which would inevitably mean more beeping. On that basis alone, Jim is staunchly against the idea.

Finally, approximately three thousand years after his 'testing' began, Bones steps away from Jim. The device in his hand beeps several times in a row. Kirk can't help but smirk when he asks, "Does that sound mean my condition is terminal? I can never remember if 'you're fucked' is four beeps or five."

"You really do crack yourself up, don't ya?"

Jim tries his best not to giggle when he concedes, "Just a little bit."

McCoy opens his mouth — likely equipped with a particularly scathing comment at his captain's expense — only to be interrupted by the ping of Kirk's communicator. "Were you expecting someone?" he prods.

"Me? No," Jim replies, raising the device close enough that he can actually decipher the text on the screen. "Oh. It's Li-Xyl again. Maybe they changed their mind about the whole boat thing...?"

"Maybe," Bones grumbles. He hardly sounds convinced.

Jim once again docks his comm, connecting it to the nearest viewscreen. He affords the both of them a few seconds to enjoy the Xyl-free silence before leaning forward and hitting 'ACCEPT.'

Jim fully expects to be met with the same exact image from nearly thirty minutes before — Li-Xyl and Ud-Xyl, sat side-by-side. Each wearing an expression that is, in truth, quite difficult to parse. Instead they find only Ud, looking more than a little bit frantic. Blinking their eyes over and over again to the point where Kirk starts to wonder if it's some sort of involuntary nervous tic.

"Hi again, Ud-Xyl," Jim manages. He wonders if their mother-father is simply out of frame. Should he be addressing Li, too? "Did you guys forget something, or...?"

Rather than respond to the actual question, Ud pushes forward. "There is very little time, Sirs. My mother-father will notice my absence soon enough."

"Wait a second," Jim responds, uncertain. The cogs in his head seem entirely content to keep moving at a glacial pace despite the Xyl's clear desire for haste. "Are you saying Li doesn't know you're talking to us?"

Ud confirms that fact with a nod.

"Why, then?" the captain prods. When Ud-Xyl says nothing, he adds, "Why have you come to speak with us now, Ud? Is something wrong?"

The Xyl on the viewscreen in front of them blinks several times, cocking their head to one side. Jim wonders if that particular action is universal when it comes to conveying confusion. "I wish to assist in reuniting two as one," they explain, sounding almost... hopeful. "Such a union is sacred here on Xylos, you see."

At which point it becomes abundantly that Ud is sticking one very slimy neck out for them. For Spock. It's sweet, really. 

However, because James T. Kirk is nothing if not an imperfect man, he can't quite manage to bite his tongue quickly enough. Before he can think better of it, the younger of the two humans is asking, "Does Li know that?"

"Jimmy—" Bones starts, sounding exasperated. Ud-Xyl beats him to the punch.

"There is much to discuss once you have returned to the surface, Sirs. I urge you to arrive during the time of afternoon rest. Even with so few appendages, you should be able to walk to the city's southernmost gate. I will await you there."

The grateful smile Jim flashes in response is surprisingly genuine. "Should we—" he starts, intending to clarify the plan further, but Ud-Xyl's eyes grow frantic.

"I must go, Sirs," they announce.

An instant later the screen goes black. For several long seconds after the call has ended, neither Jim nor Leonard says anything at all. It isn't until the pair finally lock eyes — both still decidedly on-edge from the day's Xyl-related antics — that they break the tense silence by bursting into a fit of genuine, simultaneous belly laughter. The kind they don't share half as much as they ought to.

Finally, once Kirk has managed to regain his composure (somewhat, anyway), he wonders aloud, "What're the odds you're planning to ground me on the Enterprise while you try and handle this all by your lonesome, Cowboy...?"

McCoy snorts. "Probably 'round the same as the odds that you're already planning your escape. Might even have it all mapped out in that pretty little head of yours. Am I getting warmer?"

Rather than admit to the accusation, Jim simply says, "Let's meet in the middle."

"And how d'you figure that'll work?"

"Well," Kirk starts, drawing out the word a bit longer than necessary just to tease his friend, "I was thinking, for starters, that you should be the one calling the shots..."

✧ ✦ ✧

Jim's in the middle of deliberating his beam-down outfit when he hears a soft knock on the door connecting his quarters to the bathroom. He knows without having to ask who he'll find on the other side. For some reason, that fact fills him with dread.

"Computer, allow entry," Kirk says after a second of hesitation. He can't help but wonder: is this about to be a sequel to what happened back in the transporter room? Has David come up with more to say about everything his father has done wrong over the last decade?

But when the boy appears, Richard in hand, there's none of that vitriol left in his expression. Even less so in his voice. "You're leaving again?" David asks, taking a step forward so that the door slides shut behind him. He sound so... small. So defeated.

"How'd you—" Jim starts, then realizes who he's speaking to. He looks down at the pile of clothes laid before him. Then he looks back at David. He says, "Bones and I are gonna save Mr. Spock," assuming this is what the boy wants to hear. It isn't until David's face falls that Jim realizes he's messed up. Again.

"Were you even planning to say 'goodbye'?"

At that, Jim straightens up. He takes a few seconds to just look at the boy —at his mirror of a son— before he says, "Of course I was gonna say 'goodbye,' David. I just thought— you seemed like you wanted space, is all. I didn't want to bother you before it was time to leave."

"When's it time to leave, then?" David counters, crossing both arms over his chest. Jim bites back the urge to chuckle at the sight. It helps to remember that he had a similar reaction to Carol, once upon a time — and that he barely made it out with his life. Moral of the story? Never underestimate a Marcus's ability to get even.

"We're beaming down after lunchtime. D'you wanna stick around? Maybe help me choose an outfit to sacrifice to the slime gods?"

David shrugs. "I guess," he mumbles, ignoring his father's joking tone entirely. Too bad his bright blue eyes betray a glint of amusement that Jim can't help but notice. It's there for only a moment before David steels himself enough to ask, "Can't you just replicate something new?"

"That's not a bad idea," Jim allows, because it's really not. "What would I replicate, though? My first thought is something silk, for obvious reasons, but I can't forget how unsettled the Xyl seemed when they couldn't adequately mark us in our togas. Maybe we ought to think of something that allows us to meet in the middle. Something like, I dunno..."

Jim trails off. "Something like a sash?" David tries, which is... Huh.

"Hey now, smarty pants! You're full of good ideas today. A sash might just work. Ideally it'd be detachable, 'cause then you could wash the base garment without disturbing a precious slime ecosystem in the process."

"Or disturbing Yeoman Rand!" David adds bemusedly.

"Ha! Good one. And all the more reason to praise your genius sash idea. Now, tell me: did Scotty's replicator-hacking lessons cover garment creation, or is your expertise restricted to the realm of food and drink...?"

They're sitting in a semi-comfortable silence, listening to the hum of the replicator. The machine is hard at work creating three adult-sized garments — each fit to a particular away team member's exact specifications. They'll be cutting it close time-wise. It'll be fine, Jim tells himself. Everything will be ready by the end of lunch.

Maybe even earlier, if David's jailbreaking skills are truly up to snuff.

Jim both does and doesn't hope that his boy's knowledge has progressed to that point. It's risky business, speeding up replicators — messes with all sorts of ship mechanisms. He really shouldn't be encouraging the practice.

(But it's Spock, Kirk's brain oh-so-helpfully reminds him. Somehow, that one little fact changes everything.)

Jim's busy looking at Richard when David finally breaks the silence. The rabbit, who is currently propped up against the table that Jim keeps beside the replicator, isn't wearing a hand-knit uniform (because he's not on duty, Jim's mind supplies, though it does so using David's voice rather than his own). Richard is propped in such a way that his one good ear is positioned closer to the human pair than its tattered counterpart. Much easier to listen that way, the Captain reasons silently.

It's David who breaks the silence. Jim would be lying if he said he wasn't surprised by that fact.

"I didn't mean it," the boy whispers, voice shaky. "On the transporter."

"You're allowed to be angry with me, David," Jim says, still staring at the rabbit. His son says nothing in response, so of course Kirk's chatterbox mouth continues on its own accord: "And it's okay even if you did mean what you said about me not always, uh— not always choosing you. It's all okay. Whatever you feel about this is okay, David."

The next words the nine-year-old says are so quiet —so hesitant— that Kirk nearly misses them: "It is...?"

Finally, Jim tears his attention away from the tattered stuffed animal. He returns his gaze to the nine-year-old's watery expression. He has to clear his throat twice before he can add, "I think we both know you and I have some stuff left to work through. I just— I want to be honest with you, David. And I want to foster an environment where you can feel comfortable being honest with me, too. I want you and I to be a team. To work together. Does that make sense?"

David pauses for several seconds, carefully considering his father's words. "Can Mr. Spock be on the team, too?" he asks eventually. Jim's throat tightens at the mention of the Vulcan he so adores. 

"The Commander will expect a formal invite once he returns, I'd imagine, but something tells me he'll say 'yes' — especially if you're the one asking..."

Chapter Text

"For the record, I still think this is a horrible idea," McCoy announces to the room.

Jim, who is standing in-between the Doctor and Nyota on the transporter pad, rolls his eyes. "You've made that abundantly clear, yes."

"Let's play nice now, boys," Uhura teases, though her voice is laced with the faintest hint of genuine anxiety. Jim thinks back to the gutted expression Chapel wore when they said their goodbyes just a few minutes earlier. It was almost as heartbreaking as David's hoarse voice and wet eyes.

Kirk places a gentle hand on his friend's forearm. "The Westerners are nothing like they say," he promises. Surprisingly, however, Nyota's brow doesn't automatically un-furrow. Her frown doesn't disappear. Jim hates how childish he sounds when he asks, "Don't you believe me...?"

"It's not that," Uhura admits, finally meeting Kirk's gaze. "Of course I believe you. It's just— honestly? I hate leaving her behind. It feels... wrong."

And Jim can't help it. Truly, he can't. He has to laugh. Because the fact of the matter is this: James T. Kirk is the king of leaving people behind. For a long, long time, he might as well have been allergic to sticking around. He rode his bike from city to city for over a decade — constantly trying and failing to outrun a sense of unrest that had settled deep within his bones. Maybe it'd always been there, ever since the disastrous day of his birth. Maybe Jim was doomed to feel this way from his very first breath.

He's always privately believed himself to be the unwilling beneficiary of the Kirk family curse. The perpetuator of an unspoken code of conduct, passed down through countless generations. Jim learned it from Sam, who learned it from George, and so and on so forth going back to the dawn of time:

When the going gets tough, Kirk men bolt.

It's practically a universal constant. Something Jim's been trying to escape all his life. Something that, despite that fact, always feels like it's creeping just around the corner. Looming ominously out of sight. Planning its attack like a predator in the wild.

"I get that," Kirk manages, devastatingly honest, once he's stopped laughing. Uhura's confused smile falters.

"Shit, Jimmy. Of course you do."

Because, just as surely as Kirk witnessed Chapel and Uhura's teary goodbye, the communications officer witnessed his and David's more awkward (and slightly less tear-filled) alternative. Kirk wonders if she —with that uncannily keen ear of hers— managed to hear the words they exchanged.

Then he wonders if she saw him hesitate for a few long seconds before accepting the boy's offered hug.

"But I might be helpful!" David had insisted, eyes wet with unshed tears.

Jim just barely managed to curb his frustration long enough to refrain from snapping at the boy. Didn't David realize that making requests he knew Jim couldn't reasonably say 'yes' to was a fool's errand? Didn't he realize that, if anything, doing so just left them both feeling disappointed and unheard? Wasn't that a waste of everybody's energy?

Rather than raise his voice (like Winona might, and like Frank definitely would), Kirk had forced himself to remain calm. To breathe in... then out... then in and out again...

Finally, once he'd reached something resembling a sense of calm, Jim managed a gentle yet firm, "No, David. I mean it."

"But why—" 

"Because I said so!" Kirk had exclaimed, fully anticipating his boy's question before it had even left his mouth. Merely saying the words aloud had him feeling like a caricature of a human being. A parody of fatherhood. He ignored his own discomfort and David's shocked expression in favor of softening his voice: "Here's the thing, David. I can't focus on saving Mr. Spock if I'm busy worrying about you and your safety. And before you say I don't have to worry about you, consider the fact that it's out of my control. Completely biological. You might as well be giving me permission not to breathe, or think. Like, thanks, but it's not really up to me."

That had gotten a soft laugh out of the boy. David seemed to consider his thoughts for several long seconds before he asked, "Doesn't that mean you'll be worried either way, though?"

Jim was (admittedly) caught off-guard by the boy's quick thinking. He really should've expected as much after spending so much time with his son. Somehow, though, he hadn't. Instead of arguing against David's correct assertion, he'd said, "Technically, yes. I'll worry about you no matter where you go. If you were still here on the Enterprise, though, that worry would feel a whole lot more manageable. Then I could focus more of my limited energy on bringing Mr. Spock home sooner and safer. How's that sound?"

"I guess that makes sense..." David had murmured without meeting his father's eye. He tightened his grip around Richard and squeezed his mouth into a tiny frown. Jim had to bite back an amused smile at the sight.

"I'm also the Captain of this ship, not to mention your father. That means you have to listen to me when I tell you to do something. It's the rules."

In truth? David seemed utterly unconvinced by those particular words. Jim had nearly laughed out loud at the boy's obviously discontented frown. It was a sight he'd seen in the mirror at least a thousand times — only, in this iteration, his 'reflection' was a few decades younger, with a lot more curls on his head and a sweet disposition to boot.

They sat in awkward silence whilst the boy's frown slowly morphed into a more neutral expression. Faintly, Jim could hear Nyota softly assuring her girlfriend that she'd be careful. That she'd reign in their loose cannon of a Captain and keep the group safe.

Kirk was brought back to his own conversation when David quietly asked, "Can I have a hug?" 

(Which, as you can imagine, had Jim's heart near ready to explode.)

Charmed as he was in that moment, however, Kirk couldn't help but remember what happened the last time David made that particular request. Fool me once, shame on you, his brain had supplied with something like amusement. Maybe even pride. Fool me twice, well...

And so Jim made a big show of securing the communicator onto his belt the exact way he'd been taught at the Academy. He shot his boy a look as if to say 'don't even think about it,' then opened his arms in invitation. David only hesitated a few seconds before all but melting into his father's embrace. Almost immediately the boy began to shake and sniffle. "It's all right, bud," Jim had insisted, rubbing soothingly at David's trembling back. "I'll be back before you know it, and guess what? Mr. Spock will be right there with me, ready to tell us about everything we missed."

"You promise?"

"Yeah, David. I promise."

It was all Jim could do to hope, as he watched his son leave the transporter room some five minutes later, that he hadn't just made himself into a liar. He knew without having to ask that Nyota, with her red-rimmed eyes and generally gutted demeanor, was experiencing a similar train of thought.

"Chris'll watch over David like a hawk," Uhura insists, breaking Jim out of his self-loathing spiral through the sheer force of her kindness. "Seriously. She's not letting him out of her sight."

Kirk reluctantly meets her gaze and forces a half-assed smile. He wants so badly to feel that same level of confidence in the nurse's ability —or anybody's, for that matter— when it comes to wrangling his son.

"They'll both watch out for each other," McCoy interjects matter-of-factly. It's clear that he believes what he's saying — and, on a practical level, so does Jim — but Kirk can't quite shake the thought that somehow David's gonna find his way onto the surface without the crew ever noticing he left. That the boy is going to climb into the metaphorical trunk of whatever vehicle (car or otherwise) takes them from where they start to where they're needed.

Because, if anyone could manage such a feat, it'd be Jim and Carol's genius of a kid. That much the Captain knows for an absolute fact. 

"I should've told her to invite backup," Kirk realizes, eyes wide. "Not Gaila, obviously, but— Rand, maybe? She'd be able to keep everyone in line. She's also been dying to talk to David about his hospital corners, so, y'know. It's a win-win."

"You might be overthinking this just a tiny bit, Captain," Uhura muses.

Jim lets out a noise of fake outrage, pointing at his own chest with one finger. "Me? Overthinking?" 

"There's a first time for everything," McCoy interjects, his tone completely flat. He waits until Jim opens his mouth to counter with an insult of his own, then adds, "Now: are we ready to go, or should I grab a seat so the two of you can waste everyone's time gossiping about bedsheets 'til god-knows-when...?"

Jim doesn't spare his best friend a singular glance when he says, "This is precisely why you never get invited to girls night." He simply bites back a smirk at the doctor's confused sputtering, completely ignoring Bones's clarifying questions in favor of telling the ensign on duty to "Energize."

Both Kirk and Uhura are stifling laughter into newly-replicated silk when the machine begins to hum all around them.

The beam-down spot is... nondescript. Unassuming. 

Jim's not sure what he expected, exactly, but it wasn't an empty alleyway. It wasn't a narrow passage in-between two impossibly tall buildings, where Jim can only see the smallest sliver of sky when he tilts his head to look up above. Nothing about this particular venue screams 'meeting place.' Not really. But maybe that's the point?

"This is... interesting," Uhura manages after a too-long silence. McCoy snorts.

"I'd've gone with 'unnerving,' but all right. It's interesting too. You sure we got the right coordinates, Jimmy?"

Kirk shrugs. "You never know with the UT, but I put it in just as I heard it. Maybe—"

A ruckus towards the end of the alleyway captures the trio's attention. Jim reaches for his phaser on instinct, ready to pull it out at a moment's notice. Then he hears an unfamiliar voice saying, "Greetings, Sirs," and he just about freezes on the spot.

"Greetings," Jim croaks after a few long seconds. His tone is just loud enough to travel across the alley, yet not so loud that the sound might echo beyond their tiny sliver of safety. He steps closer to the stranger, hoping increased proximity will help him remember this particular Xyl, but it doesn't. Not in the slightest. When the stranger steps further into the light, Jim sees that they've got the same pale-green coloring as the majority of those living in the city proper. Nothing about their physical features, nor the way they carry themself, gives him any sort of hint as to who this might be. "Sorry, I— I mean no offense, truly, but... should I recognize you?"

The Xyl makes a sound almost like a laugh. "I had thought Ud-Xyl was exaggerating your inability to sense our marks."

All Jim can manage is a confused, "Oh?"

"How does your kind communicate trust to strangers if not through bearing one another's mark?" the stranger continues. Their expression betrays no malice — though, if Jim's honest, the Xyl rarely conform to human standards of body language.

"Well," the Captain starts, his gaze flicking over to Nyota, then to Bones, and then back to the Xyl stranger once more. "Mostly, we talk. Sometimes, when we don't have the time or the ability to discuss something in real time, we have to rely on our gut instinct. I'm not sure if that concept translates, exactly, but— long story short? We use our other senses."

In his peripheral vision, Jim can see Uhura nodding in agreement. She's got that gentle sort of rhythm to her voice that comes out whenever she's speaking about a subject in which she's an expert. "It's my understanding that it's not easy, if even possible at all, for your people to disguise their true intentions. We humans don't have that sort of tangible evidence to call upon when deciding whether to trust one another. Instead, we learn to pay attention to things like body language. Tone of voice."

"Is this the 'gut instinct' you speak of, Sir?" the Xyl asks, their eyes now trained on Jim once more.

"Sort of. I mean, that's—" Kirk pauses, considering his words. "You could say instinct is sort of like the opposite of fact. It's what we rely on when we've got nothing else to go off. For example: my instinct says I should trust you. The facts, however, are still unclear."

"Then I shall provide more facts, Sirs. My name is El-Xyl. Many in the city proper know my mate by face and by name. Even those who are unknowing would surely scent Li-Xyl's adoration upon Ud's membrane and recognize the truth within seconds. As such, I have been sent to escort you to the gate in their place."

Jim frowns. "Ud's not coming?" he prods, feeling suddenly uneasy.

The stranger —'El-Xyl', so it would seem— blinks solemnly in the Captain's direction. It's so quiet in the alley that Kirk swears he can hear the squelch of their upper and lower eyelids making contact. "Ud-Xyl embarked very soon after your call ended, Sirs, and yet we may still arrive before them. Their path is far more treacherous than our own. Taking it will ensure that they are not followed, however, which is something we cannot risk."

"Huh," Kirk responds, because... huh. "How come you're not worried about someone following you, El-Xyl?

El pauses for a few infinitely-long seconds. When they finally respond, it's almost like they have to choke out the words. "I am of no consequence to my fellow Xyl."

It's McCoy who speaks up this time, his tone laced with the same sort of fury that reared its head in direct response to the 'but they're blue!' debacle. "'Of no consequence,' really? Even though you're supposedly Ud-Xyl's mate?"

(Jim's not entirely sure whether his friend is angry because he suspects they're being lied to, or if Bones is simply horrified by the notion itself. Maybe a bit of both?)

"Yes, Sir Doctor. Though Ud and I are indeed devoted to one another, many in the city proper would not describe our relationship as 'mates,' precisely."

"What?" Uhura breathes. Her voice sounds about as soft as Jim's ever heard it. "You're saying they wouldn't accept you guys as a couple? Why not...?"

But El-Xyl simply bows their head, expression unreadable. "There is no time now to explain, Sirs. Please follow me. My mate will no doubt tell you more on your journey." They turn on several slimy heels and head in the opposite direction of the human trio without looking back to check that they're being followed. 

Which they are, of course, because what other choice do Kirk, Uhura, and McCoy have? The Xyl won't be napping forever. 

✧ ✦ ✧

It takes just under an hour for the four of them to slink through the shadows of the city. They move in a single-file line, bodies ebbing and flowing in a way not unlike the movements of Xylos's vast sea. They curl into the shadows whenever they hear an odd sound. They stretch out into the light once said sound has faded into the distance once more.

Always moving. Never speaking.

Jim's not sure what the others are thinking about during that time, but for him it's all Spock.

✧ ✦ ✧

When the four of them arrive at the city's southernmost gate, Ud-Xyl is in fact waiting for them on the other side.

A small part of Jim wasn't entirely sure if he should believe El-Xyl's assertion of their status as Ud's mate. How is it, he wondered, that they'd never come up in conversation with either Ud or Li? That Jim had never crossed paths with such an important figure in their lives?

It's clear from the moment the pair is reunited, however, that they're absolutely gone for one another. Every question leaves Jim's mind in an instant when Ud coos, "El-Xyl!," slimy arms reaching for their love through the bars that still separate them. 

"Ud-Xyl! Are you injured? Do you require assistance?"

"I am in good health, my One," Ud insists, purring audibly once two of El's tentacle-arms make contact with their own. The human trio watches, equal parts fascinated and disgusted, as Ud and El make a point to mark one another's membrane to high heaven and back. They chirp and squelch and purr their affection in a manner that is undeniably Xyl.

It must be half an eternity later that Ud finally pulls their upper appendages back onto the correct side of the gate, wet eyes capturing Jim's with a terrifying sort of reverence. "You too shall have reunion with your beloved, Sir James."

"Thanks, Ud," Jim manages, well past denying what is clearly no longer a secret. 

Ud and El exchange a long glance from both sides of the gate. Eventually, El tells their companions to, "Step back, please." Then they approach the gate and lay one slimy appendage against its sensor. There's a beep, followed by a click, and then the gate is opening. "You must go now, Sirs. I shall handle the guards."

"Wait," Kirk starts, because no one said anything about guards — much less leaving El behind to 'handle' them. 

It's McCoy who grabs the Captain by the arm, dragging him and Uhura both onto the correct side of the gate. "C'mon, you two," he grumbles, and Jim has half a mind to knee the guy in the groin. Doesn't he care what happens to El-Xyl?

"It is too late, Sir James," Ud-Xyl insists, laying one appendage upon the Captain's sash (which, it just so happens, was created from the remnants of the 'fleet shirts that Rand couldn't save). "I have just marked El-Xyl as infected. The guards will escort them to one of three facilities upon the mainland for immediate decontamination."

"That's your mate, Ud!" Jim finds himself exclaiming, chest tight with an emotion he can't quite put a name to. "How can you just leave them like that?"

"No harm will come to my One. It is time for us to focus on your mate, Sir James."

And, as much as Kirk might hate it, he knows Ud is right. He spares one last glance at El-Xyl, who now has their slimy back turned to the four of them. Thank you, he thinks, wondering if the Xyl can sense gratitude via pheromones.

It's not until they've put a good amount of distance between themselves and the gate that Jim gets the courage to speak again. He clears his throat once, then twice. "I believe you've met both Lieutenant Uhura and Doctor McCoy already," he announces conversationally.

"Ah, yes," Ud-Xyl muses, pausing their steps to pointedly make eye-contact with each human in turn. "Greetings, Sirs. Or— apologies, Lieutenant. You are... female, is it called? Does one then call you 'Ma'am'?"

"Not if one wants to keep their appendages, no," Nyota insists with a bemused sort of smile on her lips. Before Ud-Xyl can go into full-blown panic mode at the suggestion, she gently adds, "I'm only joking, Ud. 'Sir' is just fine. You can also call me by my given name, Nyota, or by my Starfleet title of Lieutenant. I'm really not picky as long as it's not the dreaded 'Ma'am.'"

"Then I shall call you Sir Nyota," Ud decides.

"Perfect," Uhura muses, sounding genuinely thrilled.

Jim bites back a quip about how it took him literal years to get permission to call the communications officer by her first name. Ud-Xyl has no idea just how lucky they are. Instead of doing so, however, he forces himself to ask, "Are we taking another vehicle across the land-bridge?"

Ud-Xyl shakes their head 'no.' When they speak again, it's clearly an attempt at Federation Standard — only, they seem not to have improved even a lick since the last time Jim heard them try. If anything, Ud might've gotten more incomprehensible. Kirk is just barely able to make sense of the noises escaping their slimy lips in the seconds that follow. "No car, Sirs," he's pretty sure Ud says, though they draw out the end of the word 'car' for far too long and 'Sirs' for barely any time at all. McCoy makes a confused sort of grunt just as Nyota lets out an odd, questioning hum.

And, though Jim sincerely hopes he's mistaken about what they're about to say next, something deep in his gut tells him that he's not.

"We will be traveling by boat."

Chapter Text

If there's one thing Leonard McCoy hates more than stepping inside of a dreaded shuttlecraft, it's traveling via boat. Jim's known this for about as long as he's known the man himself. That said, it's not until his best friend gulps audibly at the sight of the shoreline that he puts two and two together. "You worried, Bones?" Kirk half-teases, hoping the genuine concern will come across in his tone.

McCoy shrugs. Says nothing. Neither of which are a good sign.

Jim turns towards Uhura and Ud-Xyl, who are excitedly discussing the intricacies of Xyl grammar several steps ahead. "Hey, you two!" he calls out. Both of them pause and turn their attention towards his voice. "Sorry to interrupt. I was just wondering, Ud. How fast does this boat of yours go?"

Ud-Xyl blinks in obvious confusion. "How... fast?"

"As in, what's the maximum speed?" McCoy prods, his voice slightly shaky. "And, y'know. How long'll it take us to get there once we leave?"

"That will depend on our collective stamina, Sirs. I must admit I have never traveled on such a vessel. It is my understanding that doing so requires the use of many appendages at once."

And all Jim can think in response to that is Well, shit.

"That's a lot of oars," Uhura murmurs, her brown eyes trained on the tethered boat in shallow water.

Beside her, McCoy scoffs. "We really couldn't find a model with a motor...?"

"Bones," Jim warns. If Ud senses any disrespect, though, they certainly don't say as much. They just blink kindly at all three of their human guests. Kirk clears his throat pointedly, then says, "We're working on his manners, Ud. My apologies."

"I'll show you manners," Leonard grumbles under his breath.

It's really not so far a distance from the mainland to the peninsula. In fact, if it weren't for the strong current that he knows runs just under the water's surface, Jim might've suggested they swim their way across instead of bothering with the oars. Not that Bones would've been too fond of that suggestion (though, now that Kirk thinks of it, the doctor might still have preferred it to their present predicament; Bones really, really hates boats).

The boat is slimy. The oars are slimy. Hell, their damned seats are slimy — and honestly? Even with replicated silk separating his skin from all that yuck, Jim nearly gags at the mere idea of it seeping into his clothes. At the reminder of the ruined garments he's been hiding from Rand in a futile attempt to avoid her wrath.

Ud-Xyl, naturally, does the bulk of the rowing. They were initially confused by the humans' inability to utilize their lower appendages to the same extent that they do their upper ones. "You cannot row with all four?" Ud had asked, sounding and looking so damn innocent. So sincere.

"Unfortunately, no," Jim had responded. "Our lower appendages — 'legs', we call them — are mostly there for balance and mobility. We do the grabbing and the rowing with our arms and our hands."

Now here they are, collectively struggling against the current. Moving slowly but surely towards the place where Jim was forced to leave his injured Vulcan behind. It's insensitive, he knows, but Kirk can't quite keep himself from asking, "Why wouldn't your pairing with El-Xyl be recognized by others, Ud?"

What else is there to do besides get to know one another, after all?

Uhura cranes her head just far enough back to give her captain a pointed look. "I'm sorry, Ud—" she starts, but the alien seems entirely unfazed. Maybe even a bit... detached.

"When my One was born, Sirs, they were not called 'El-Xyl.' Their mother-father chose the name 'Xyl-El'."

"Wait," Kirk can't help but interject, eyes wide and focused on the alien's back. "Sorry to interrupt, Ud. It's just— are you saying El's a Westerner?"

Their alien guide chirps at that. "By birth, yes. My One originates from the peninsula. Simply looking upon El, however, would not alert the average Xyl to that fact." Which is fair enough, Jim thinks, considering he didn't realize El-Xyl was from the West. In fact, he'd assumed quite the opposite — and with confidence.

It's McCoy who speaks up next. "S'that why the others don't approve of your union?"

"Perhaps it would be," Ud allows, voice soft. Their head twitches like they're thinking about turning around to face the human deadweight directly. Instead they let out a purr — still rowing like a damn machine, mind you — and Jim swears he can feel the vibration of it through the boat. "Perhaps, if the others knew of my love's birthplace, they would judge us due to El's unfortunate origin. Instead they judge us because my mother-father has not laid their approving mark upon El's membrane."

"Seriously!?" Uhura exclaims. She seems to get self-conscious almost immediately, stuttering some sort of explanation for her outburst. Jim bites back an amused smirk.

"It's getting harder and harder to have respect for your mother-father, Ud," McCoy admits between grunts. He's clearly trying his darnedest to row like a man with approximately five times as many arms as the average human — though, to the doc's credit, he's doing a damn good job of it. "Why wouldn't they approve of your union with someone you clearly love?"

For a few strokes of the oar, Ud says nothing. "Li-Xyl means well, Sirs," they finally respond. Their voice is just barely audible over the lapping of the water. "My mother-father wishes only to protect me."

"From what? Happiness?" Uhura asks softly. "Ud, you and El-Xyl are clearly crazy for one another. Who cares where they were born? I mean, would it really be such a big deal if the other city-dwellers found out the truth?"

"If the others knew, Sirs, El-Xyl would be removed from their current position immediately. One from the peninsula cannot be trusted with the education of our young, you see. For many in my mother-father's generation, it does not matter that El was raised on our continent. It does not matter that they appear Western to the unknowing eye. It matters only that my mate's ancestors hail from the incorrect side of the land-bridge."

"That's—" Kirk starts, but he has no words.

"Incredibly reductive?" Uhura suggests.

McCoy snorts, "I was thinking plain old racist."

"Ha! That works too."

Just when it seems like Ud might have some sort of response to the human trio's words, a familiar bell tolls. The sound echoes across the water. After a few seconds' hesitation, Kirk murmurs, "That was the 'wake up' bell, correct?"

"Indeed. The ringing signifies an end to our time of rest, Sirs. It is likely my mother-father has already been informed of my absence—"

As if on cue, familiar voice booms across the water. "Ud-Xyl!" Li shouts, sounding absolutely furious (and also... afraid, maybe?). "I order you to turn that vessel around, son-daughter! Return to the mainland where you are safe!"

Ha! Kirk thinks, because 'safe' is a lie parents tell their children. He'd know better than most.

When Li calls out again, they sound even angrier. More terrified. "Do you hear my words, Ud-Xyl? Son-daughter of mine, you cannot ignore me!"

Ud's response is so soft — so barely-fucking-audible — that Jim can't be entirely sure he didn't somehow imagine it. "Yet I will do just that," they breathe, and Kirk has half a mind to leap across the boat and plant a kiss on that slimy mouth of Ud's. A job well done is a job well done, after all, and knowing Li's son-daughter is officially taken makes the whole touchy-feely nature of their relationship feel far less... concerning.

Li's still screaming different variants of the same command when McCoy asks, "Should we be worried about them coming after us?"

"No, Sirs. They cannot follow us through the water, you see. We have taken their only boat."

Jim lets out a quick, surprised laugh. "Ud, you're an evil genius," he insists. The Xyl purrs.

They try their best to steer in the general direction of the bluff where Jim last saw Spock. The combination of a not-insignificant current beneath the water and three passengers' distinct lack of extra limbs makes this difficult, however, and they end up washing ashore a bit further up the peninsula.

The four of them are dragging the boat out of the water and onto dry land when a familiar voice squeaks, "Sir James!" 

Kirk whirls around just in time to see a flash of blue skin speeding towards him. Within seconds Jim finds himself wrapped up in the tight, slimy embrace of Xyl-Naer. He can only tell the Xyl child apart from their maybe-twin, Xyl-Maie, because Maie wouldn't have enough upper appendages to hug him so tightly whilst maintaining their balance. "Oof!" Jim exclaims, barely managing to steady himself from the unexpected impact. "Hey there, Naer! Where's your—"

As if on cue, Xyl-Maie appears. They let out an even higher-pitched squeal than their sibling had. "You have returned!" they announce, voice muffled slightly by their own aggressive purring. "Is David here, too?"

Jim shakes his head. "Not this time, no."

Both Xyl children let out twin sounds of anguish. Jim smirks, turning around to catch his friends' gazes, only to be met with the sight of a grief-stricken Ud-Xyl instead. "They are only children," Li's son-daughter breathes, clearly struggling to wrap their brain around that fact. Jim's chest tightens.

Uhura places a gentle hand on Ud's slimy arm. Jim can't hear what she whispers to the Xyl, but it seems to calm them. The communications officer proceeds to step past Ud, carefully crouching in front of the squealing duo. "Hi there," she murmurs, and just like that the whining stops.

Xyl-Maie and Xyl-Naer freeze in place. They grab at one another's appendages tightly. Jim almost wonders if the two are communicating telepathically, somehow. They just seem so damn... in tune. "It is so," Maie breathes, and Naer simply nods — both of them unknowingly proving the captain's point. Do the Xyl have a concept of 'twin telepathy' like humans do, or is this yet another biological fact they're learning about the slimy species?

"My name is Nyota," Uhura tries. That's about as far as she gets before the children start speaking again.

"You are the voice from the radio," Maie states matter-of-factly. 

Beside them, Naer softly wonders, "Have you come to find your Captain's mate, Sir Nyota?"

The smile is audible in Uhura voice when she says, "Why, yes! That's exactly why we're here. You wouldn't happen to know where Mr. Spock is, would you?"

The maybe-possibly-twins share a long, meaningful glance. They then proceed to dart out in unison, one grabbing at Jim's silky sleeve and the other at Uhura's. The adults are then not-so-gracefully dragged in the direction of Xyl-Hix's compound. Their fellow travelers hesitate for just a second before scrambling to follow.

A flood of slimy children greet the three humans with unadulterated glee. Ud stays several steps behind the group. They're visibly uncomfortable (and probably also exhausted, considering the poor Xyl missed their daily nap). If the children notice anything different about the Xyl stranger, however, they don't make that fact known.

It's Xyl-Hix's eldest child, Xyl-Niwe, who first reacts to the mainlander's presence. They're just about to wrap Kirk in a welcoming embrace when their posture stiffens ever-so-slightly. Jim doesn't need to turn around to know what it is that caught their eye. "Ud's a friend," he insists softly. Niwe blinks.

"I am Ud-Xyl," Ud announces somewhat confidently. It doesn't escape Jim's notice that the poor, nap-deprived Xyl is just about dead on their not-feet.

Niwe blinks again. "This one requires rest," they state matter-of-factly, eyes trained on Ud.

Jim is pleasantly surprised when the exhausted Xyl in question doesn't bother putting up a fight.

They lose four or five of the children to Ud-related chores. The maybe-twins are in charge of procuring clean bedding, whilst another pair of (slightly older) children are meant to find a suitable place for said bedding to go. More still gain inspiration from David's memory and decide it is the perfect time to fly their one and only kite in the courtyard.

Soon enough Jim finds himself standing with his two fellow humans, Xyl-Niwe, and one particularly slimy Xyl child. "You do not wish to join your brother-sisters, Miil?" the teenaged Xyl wonders gently.

"I thought you might need help," the child insists. Jim's reminded instantly of his own son.

"I shall fetch you if the need arises, Miil-Xyl. Join your brother-sisters in the courtyard."

It doesn't escape Jim's notice that the teen has very purposefully steered the Xyl children away from whatever the hell it is that awaits him and the others. His gut tells him he should worry, but his brain tells him it probably wouldn't be very 'Xyl' — and certainly not very Western — for any member of the planet's native species to ambush unarmed guests. Especially when said guests delivered a trunk full of vaccines to them and their fellow Xyl not too long ago. Alien or not, courtesy is courtesy. That's one thing Jim really admires about the slimy fuckers.

Despite being relatively certain that he's not about to find himself under attack, Jim can't shake the looming sense of anxiety floating over him. It's not like Niwe did it for no reason, his brain supplies. Did they send the kids off because Hix is about to deliver particularly awful news — as in, the sort of news no child ought to overhear?

Jim thinks he might be sick to his stomach.

Because Xyl-Hix is a gracious host, they take the time to introduce themself to both unfamiliar humans before getting down to business. Jim must be pretty obvious in his restlessness because Nyota leans over to him, expression soft, and whispers, "You're catastrophizing."

"That'd be because this is a damn catastrophe," Jim whispers back.

As if to prove Kirk's point, Hix tells the entire room: "Sir Spock has been transported to the hospital. I know not the details of his condition, Sirs, but I fear he is not well."

It's hardly a surprise. Still, Jim freezes up. He feels Bones's reassuring grip on his shoulder. "How quickly can we get to him?" the doctor asks. Jim's head is swirling far too much for him to decipher Hix's response.

Kirk finds himself in the backseat of yet another Xyl car not too long after his internal meltdown. Uhura, who is sitting to his left, gently explains, "My radio message got through to just about everyone but Spock, it seems. They've only got two stations that work on the peninsula, and from what I can tell, one is more-or-less useless during high tide. The other one's been broadcasting my voice for... I don't even know how long."

One of Hix's adult companions, Xyl-Phin, shifts awkwardly in the drivers seat. They seem to hesitate for a few long seconds before they murmur, "It has been more than one day, Sirs. My son-daughter has been quite vocal about that fact."

"Sorry about that," Uhura says honestly. "I'm sure you're all missing your music."

It's a blessing for all of them that Jim's too worked-up to snort bemusedly at the mere idea of anyone actually enjoying the absolute trainwreck that is Xyl 'music' enough to miss it. Instead, he forces himself to relax bodily. Closes his eyes, willing himself to float back into that strange in-between space where he and Spock last met.

We're on our way, he thinks, feeling helpless. He tries to concentrate on returning to that place. Tries, at the very least, to recapture the way it felt to be there. To be nestled safely within the Vulcan's mind, safe and protected. Just hold on a little longer, Spock. Please.

✧ ✦ ✧

Jim wakes alone in the back seat of a parked vehicle. At first he thinks he's been abandoned entirely, but then he sees his friends' huddled figures through the window. They're standing close to Phin, as well as a teal-skinned Xyl whose face Kirk can't quite see from this angle.

He only just barely hears the muffled suggestion of several voices through the glass.

Uhura sounds serious, Jim thinks. McCoy joins her with not a speck of levity in his tone. Jim's relatively certain he makes out the words 'condition' and 'deteriorating,' both of which are enough to have him fumbling for the nearest door handle on mere instinct. Jim struggles once, then twice —halfway convinced that he's been purposefully locked inside this hellish excuse for a car— but then finally there's a click. The door swings open.

"You're awake," Bones says when he sees Jim. He sounds... concerned, maybe? Not a good sign.

Jim pushes right past the obvious attempt at distraction without acknowledging it in the slightest. "How is he?" he asks— no, demands.

For a second, no one says anything. It's Uhura who asks, "Are you feeling okay, Captain?"

"Spock. How is he?"

"Your mate was severely wounded, Sir James," says the mysterious teal-skinned Xyl, who Jim now recognizes as the hospital's head doctor, Xyl-Veer. Something about their expression (or maybe their tone of voice?) makes the Captain's blood run cold. He almost wishes he hadn't asked. But Veer continues, "He required much attention, you see, and I am unfamiliar with the biology of your species. We had no blood to transfuse. Your One's skin did not respond to our membrane mending techniques. I know not what vital signs your kind searches for, Sir, but by my estimation... he is gone."

Jim lets out a quick, surprised laugh. "Gone? What, like he got up and walked away? He's hurt, Xyl-Veer. He couldn't have gone far. Didn't anybody go after him?"

"Jim," McCoy breathes. His hand ghosts over Jim's shoulder. Kirk shrugs it away in an instant.

Veer shifts awkwardly in place. "The loss of a mate is a pain which can feel most insurmountable, Sir James. I would not wish it on any being. Please know that I did all I could to keep Sir Spock alive. During his brief moments of lucidity, he said only two words: Jim and David."

(And ain't that a kick in the teeth?)

"I want to see him," Jim decides aloud. He can barely hear his own voice over the sound of his mind caving in on itself. The roaring of his blood in his ears. "Now."

Uhura lets out a strangled noise. Bones swears under his breath.

"As do your companions, Sir James. I was just explaining to sirs Nyota and Leonard the extensive cleansing protocol for entering our severe injuries unit, as I'm sure you recall..."

Walking down the hallway of the crumbling hospital has Jim feeling like a ghost. He floats above his own body, each footstep taking him further and further away from the pull of the planet's gravity. He watches Bones and Uhura walking on either side of him, both seemingly at the ready in case their captain loses his balance (or his mind, Kirk's unhelpful brain supplies; that's a real possibility, too).

"He's not dead," Jim says for the fourth or fifth time since Veer's news made it past the shoddily-erected walls in his mind. One or both of his friends murmurs assurances that are meant to be soothing but only make his stomach turn even further. "I would've felt it, Bones, if he went. I would've known."

"It's like Xyl-Veer said, Jimmy. They don't know how to check Vulcan vitals," McCoy tries, but he's using his Worried Doctor voice. That's never a good sign. Jim tunes out whatever bullshit is coming next in favor of pretending he's still floating on his back down Spock's river of song. It works so well that he doesn't even realize they've reached their destination until the good doctor asks, "Y'ready, kid?"

"No," Kirk replies honestly. Despite his words, he takes a definitive step forward.

Chapter Text

Jim's only ever gotten the smallest glimpses into what happened in the immediate aftermath of his own death. It's always been easier, if he's honest, to leave that stone unturned. The closest he and Spock have gotten to talking about it was after Jim's binge-drinking fiasco — and that was half a decade ago now.

'I have already watched you die once,' Spock had told him, more a plea than anything else. A last-ditch attempt to save the human Captain from his own damn self. 'I do not wish to relive the experience.' Up until this very moment, Kirk truly thought he understood what Spock meant by that. He's looked death in the face more times than he can count in his thirty-five years. It's hideous and terrible and inevitable all at once. He couldn't blame Spock for wanting to spare himself that discomfort, and yet—

The sight of Spock lying sickly-pale and motionless atop an unfamiliar hospital bed is like a knife in Jim's side.

No, it's like ten knives. Ten knives that are twisted oh-so-sadistically after entering Jim's body. Knives that gut him like a damn fish. Was this how it felt for you? he wonders, staring helplessly at the man he loves. Knowing there's absolutely nothing he can do to improve the Vulcan's condition. I'm so sorry, Spock. I'm so fucking sorry.

Jim is vaguely cognizant of the fact that there are voices everywhere. Numerous figures fumbling around the Commander's sickly form. He moves through them all like water. Someone drags over an oddly-shaped chair, coaxing Jim into its slimy embrace. Kirk is far too focused on reaching for the Vulcan's hand to offer a single 'thank you.' He interlaces his and Spock's fingers, squeezing as tight as he dares, and offers a silent promise.

Come back to me, Spock. Come back to me and I'll never leave your side again.

It's a promise he can't possibly keep. Still, Jim means every word. Even as the chaos reaches a crescendo, he keeps every last bit of his focus on Spock. On repeating that damn promise over and over again like a sacred prayer.

"I've got a pulse!" echoes a voice far off in the distance. Jim might almost think it belonged to an actual deity — if not for the speaker's obvious and oh-so-familiar Southern drawl, that is. "It's weak as all hell, but it's there..."

Xyl-Veer becomes much more helpful once they've received a crash course on Vulcan anatomy. Jim is vaguely aware of McCoy —and, on occasion, Uhura— walking them through the reality of Spock's healing trance. The human doctor sounds detached, almost, when he softly explains, "He's doing his best to slow down the spread of the venom. If you look at the discolored skin around the lesions, however, you'll get a better idea of just how fiercely the venom is fighting back."

Jim refuses to look at the wounds in question. He focuses instead on envisioning the river located within his Vulcan's mind. Focuses on projecting that image through the connection of his and Spock's entwined fingers.

Hold on just a bit longer, Spock. Just a little bit longer.

Jim is vaguely cognizant of his shifting surroundings. First they're moving through the hospital quickly on foot. Jim's struggling to keep up with the pace of Spock's slimy gurney. Next they're being ushered into the back of what appears to be a Xyl ambulance. One of Jim's friends — Bones? Nyota? — assures him, "We'll be right behind you."

Then it's just Jim, Xyl-Veer, and an unconscious Mr. Spock. 

"Sir Leonard is quite competent," Veer says conversationally. All Jim can offer is a noncommittal shrug in reply. "These 'organs' of yours are... fascinating, Sir, though I know not the purpose of their separation from your membrane. Is this not dangerous?"

Another shrug from Jim. He wouldn't call humanoid organs 'separate' from one another, so much as they are 'distinct.' He can't live without his lungs or his heart. Can't live without his Vulcan, either. Spock might as well be another organ in Jim's body for how damn essential he feels. 

Outside of the vehicle, the wind howls like a dying animal. It's this, of all things, that makes Jim process the fact that they're on the move. That they've left the hospital for... something. Somewhere? His voice shakes slightly when he asks Xyl-Veer, "Where are we going?"

"Sir Leonard called it a 'beam-up spot,' Sir James. I know not what this means."

"And the weather...?"

Veer blinks. Their tone is perfectly polite when they explain, "Ion storms are a common occurrence on Xylos."

If Jim's hands weren't occupied, he'd slap his own forehead with an open palm. "Of course they are! Sorry, Veer. Guess my mind's a bit scrambled at the moment."

"Is is understandable, Sir James. You are worried for the health and safety of your One. I may not know Sir Leonard as well as you do, but I have known enough healers to be certain that one of his caliber would not leave the side of a patient in critical condition. Your Doctor's absence serves as proof that your mate has stabilized."

"That's very logical, Veer," Jim says, instinctually squeezing his Vulcan's hands a bit tighter. The lump in his throat seems to grow larger by the second. Still he pushes onward. "I think, if he was awake for this conversation, Mr. Spock would comment on your sound reasoning. He loves a nice, clean argument."

Jim doesn't bother pointing out the inherent illogic of his own statement. After all, if Spock were awake, this entire conversation wouldn't be happening. There would be no logic for the Vulcan to remark upon. The whole damn point is moot.

Spock's body twitches and he inhales audibly. For one glorious second, he's returning Jim's squeeze with both hands. Then he falls limp again. Just like that, Kirk's priorities snap back into focus. He turns away from Xyl-Veer completely. "Spock, hey," he breathes, reluctantly detaching one of his hands from one of Spock's so that he can smooth out the Vulcan's uncharacteristically messy bangs. He's not sure if any of his words are coming through to the man he loves. Despite this fact, Jim keeps on talking: "You're in an ambulance. Xyl-Veer's here, too — remember the lead doctor from the hospital on the peninsula...?"

Even after they've parked, they have to wait several minutes for the ion storm to fully pass. Jim spends that entire time murmuring soft nonsense to a still-unconscious Spock. "I'm gonna get Scotty and David to hack the replicator again," he insists. "We're gonna add every known Vulcan dish to the main menu, Spock, I swear. The whole ship'll be ordering plomeek soup daily in no time."

That last part's a lie, obviously. No self-respecting member of a non-Vulcan species would willingly request that bland-as-all-hell dish if they actually knew what they were asking for. But that's just it — they don't know. Which means Jim will get to watch peoples' reactions in real time. If he's lucky, he'll also get to witness Spock watching said reactions. The Vulcan might not crack a smile the way his Captain would, but his amusement will be obvious enough to Jim.

"David's pretty worried, you know. He begged to beam back down with us. Only way I got him to relent was by using my stern voice, which— honestly? That sucked. I don't like being the bad guy. It worked, though. He's safe on the Enterprise, and we're on our way up there too. Just gotta wait out this stupid ion storm."

Xyl-Veer shifts awkwardly in their place opposite Jim. Their wet gaze flickers from Jim, then to Spock's supine form, and back to Jim again. "The storm will soon cease, Sir James," they finally manage, and Jim bites back a grimace at the knowledge that the doctor likely heard everything he said, "It has already begun to calm down. I knew not if interruption would be appropriate."

"Oh, we're way past that," is Jim's instant, lighthearted response. He uses his chin to gesture vaguely at his and Spock's still-entwined hands. "Where he's from, this amount of hand-on-hand contact would be interpreted as obscene. I've technically been inappropriate for this entire ambulance ride so, y'know. Interrupt away."

Something like amusement flashes across the Xyl doctor's face. They reach out, resting an appendage atop Jim's slimy sash. "It is understandable, Sir, that so many of my people have marked your pelt with their fondness. You are quite... enigmatic. And so very dedicated to the wellbeing of your One."

Jim manages to choke out something like a 'thank you.' The specific words disappear from his mental record almost as soon as they've crossed the threshold of his lips and stumbled into reality. Veer can believe what they want, but Jim knows the truth: he's the reason Spock's in this mess. Which means he's sure as hell going to be the reason Spock gets out of it, too.

It's a miracle, truly, that they manage to beam back aboard the Enterprise without issue. They were all a bit wary of the wildlife, given the cause of Spock's present wounds, but Veer assured them that the nearest pack of snake-creatures was resting in a cave nearly a mile away.

"How do you know that?" Kirk had asked, because what the hell?

Veer had simply gestured down at their lower appendages, all of which were pressed deep into the dirt below. "The land speaks to those who listen." And just like that, Jim understood.

Now he's sitting at Spock's bedside in Medbay. Trying not to be lulled to sleep by the repetitive beeping of life-saving machinery. He speaks, partly to keep himself awake — but mostly for the barest chance that Spock can hear him. That Jim's words are providing some measure of comfort. "Ud's doing fine, apparently. Last I heard Gee-Xyl was on their way from the other end of the peninsula. They'll be the one escorting Ud back home."

A quiet sound alerts Jim to the fact that Bones has reentered the room. He doesn't bother looking away from Spock's still-sleeping face. Doesn't bother returning the doctor's 'hello,' either. He can't spare even a fraction of his energy for anything that doesn't directly involve Spock and his wellbeing. He just can't.

"We'll have to replicate as many kites as we can before leaving orbit. Y'think David would wanna help me with that? He's still pretty pissed, I think, that I left you there. Guess I can't fully blame him. But maybe, since it's for the kids, he'll make an exception...?"

McCoy clears his throat. "I need to change his bandages," he breathes. Jim moves out of the way as much as he can without detaching his and Spock's still-entwined hands. "You've gotta be hungry, kid. Why don't you—"

"No, Bones," Kirk interrupts, addressing his best friend directly for the first time in what feels like hours. He tries to feel bad about the harshness in his tone, but he can't. "I won't leave him again. Not like this."

"Dammit, Jim! The man's pulse is increasing at a snail's pace. Even my most generous estimate would have him waking up in no less than twelve hours. You're really gonna sit vigil at his bedside that whole time...?"

Rather than respond to the doctor's words, Jim turns his attention back to Spock's too-still form. He doesn't dare speak his thoughts aloud. He doesn't understand, Jim thinks, almost pitying the man. He might've loved Jocelyn once, but it was never like this. 

"Fine, kid. Suit yourself," Bones spits out, and then he's gone.

Twenty minutes later, Jim is presented with a mildly appetizing plate of pasta salad, a bottle of water, and a steaming cup of coffee. He tries to lock eyes with McCoy to gauge how much he's fucked this one up. The doctor avoids his gaze expertly.

"Thanks, Bones," he eventually murmurs, earning a soft grunt in reply.

"It's my job to make sure you don't drop dead, kid. Didn't do so great the first time, I'll admit, but I got a second chance, so. Eat. Don't make me come back with a feeding tube. You know I will."

Kirk shivers. He knows his best friend is joking, of course, but there's a subtle hint of sincerity in his tone. It's... unnerving. The man might not use a feeding tube, per se, but he'll get Jim to eat one way or another. That much is clear. "Bones—" Kirk starts, but McCoy's already halfway out the door.

"Eat, Jim. That's an order from your CMO."

Jim's never been one to believe in a higher power, but he thanks his lucky stars for the fact that they're still technically on shore leave. He doesn't exactly feel equipped to do his captainly duties at the moment. Not when Spock is lying in a Vulcan coma as a direct result of his poor decisions.

Sulu and the rest can hold the fort in his absence. It's not like they haven't done it before.

"Hey, kid," McCoy grumbles, alerting Jim to his presence. The Captain whirls around to find the smirking doctor leaning against a nearby wall. Looking far too amused, might Jim add. Which is never a good sign.

"Geez, Bones! How long have you been standing there?"

Rather than respond to his best friend's query, Leonard McCoy poses a question of his own: "Remember when I said you've got a kid to worry about now?"

Jim rolls his eyes. "Yes, Bones. I remember our conversation from, like, a day ago."

McCoy's smirk turns into something more like a grimace. "Good. 'Cause he's waiting outside."

"What?" Kirk sputters, suddenly sitting up straight. "He's— should he really see Spock like this? Won't it be, I dunno. Scary?"

"You don't think the kid's already scared?" McCoy counters. "He's worried sick, Jimmy. Probably thinks Spock's half-dead with the way you've been acting. You of all people should understand his desire to see for himself that the man's okay."

Jim uses the hand that's not resting on Spock's forearm to pinch at the bridge of his nose. "I'm fucking all of this up," he realizes. "I'm fucking it up again, Bones."

Rather than refute his captain's words, Leonard McCoy sternly says, "Get it together, kid. Sit up straight. Wipe that sad look off your face. And- oh dammit, let me—" Then he's reaching out to smooth Jim's mop of a hairdo. "You look a mess. I'm going to your quarters to get your toothbrush and a clean change of clothes. Let's not make the boy any more terrified before I get back, all right?"

And then he's gone.

Jim expects David to hover in the doorway. He expects to see Richard dangling from one tiny, shaking hand. He expects the boy to be... hesitant. Nervous. What he gets instead, however, is the wind being knocked out of him by one speeding bullet of a nine-year-old.

"Hey, Davi— whoa!"

David latches onto his father with a surprising amount of strength for his size. "Jim! You're okay!"

"I am, yeah," is the Captain's soft response. "And I'm sorry. I should've come by to see you earlier. I just—

"No," David interrupts. His face and his tone are suddenly very, very stern. "You should have sent for me. We agreed to be a team, and I— I could've helped, maybe. If you'd let me. Isn't that what teams do?"

Only then does Jim Kirk realize his son is wearing his science blues. Richard, whose upper half is poking out from the top of David's backpack, is wearing his knitted version of the same garment. "David," he starts, then realizes he has no words. "I..."

Rather than wait for an explanation that may never come, David continues, "I'm here because Doctor McCoy said the best thing we can do for Mr. Spock now is to keep him company. He said 'the more, the merrier.'"

Because of course he did. Jim both loves and hates his best friend's signature 'tough love' approach. Somehow, without saying a single word, Leonard McCoy has sent him a message: You wanna stay in here all day? Fine. But I'm not letting you hurt all alone, kid. Not again.

He's a genius, that one. An evil, wonderful, pain-in-Jim's-ass genius.

"Can he hear what we're saying?" David wonders, pulling away from their prolonged hug. His gaze is fixed on Spock in the biobed. Kirk feels an odd pang in his chest. He's been wondering that very same thing.

"Honestly? I'm not sure. I've never seen this Spock— I mean, uh. I've never seen Spock... like this."

David makes a face at that. Before Jim can even consider doing damage control for his almost slip-up, his son pushes forward: "Richard and I would like a few minutes alone with Mr. Spock if you don't mind. We've got something private to chat about, just the three of us."

Huh, Jim thinks. Something private...?

"Yeah, I— that's fine, David," he manages, blinking away latent exhaustion. "I'll just, um. I'll grab something to eat."

A few seconds of silence pass as David eyes his father bemusedly. "Might wanna refill that, too," he finally suggests, nodding towards Jim's now-empty coffee mug with a far-too-knowing smirk. "Mum says a little caffeine can cure just about anything."

Wise words from a wise woman.

✧ ✦ ✧

"Hey there, stranger."

The familiar face on Jim's viewscreen twitches with something like joy. "Greetings, Jim," the elder Spock says, his voice impossibly warm and honey-sweet. "Are you well?"

Jim smiles. It's hard not to, speaking with this particular Vulcan. "I've been better," he admits. When Spock doesn't question that, Kirk adds, "I'm guessing you heard...?"

"Of my counterpart's injury? Yes. Doctor McCoy and I spoke at great length regarding the Commander's healing trance. I would assume, given the timeframe and the extent of his injuries, that he is not yet conscious."

Jim hums to show Spock's assumption is correct. "Nope. Not even a little bit. Bones says it's normal, but.. honestly? It's unnerving. I don't like seeing him so still."

"You are far from the first human to say so. I must admit my surprise, however, that you stepped away from his side in order to make this call. I had not expected as much for at least two more days."

"Yeah, well. David sort of made me vacate the premises."

The elder Spock hums as if intrigued. "Did he now?"

Rather than respond to the light teasing, Kirk pushes forward: "Frankly, I couldn't think of anyone else who I could stand to talk to at the moment. Not without bursting into tears. I- I hope that's okay, me calling. This is all a bit... unorthodox. I'm never sure of the boundaries."

Spock's elder counterpart nods. His mouth twitches up into an almost-smile. "It is certainly 'okay', Jim. You needn't worry about imposing. The timing of your call is in fact most fortuitous. I had hoped to speak with you before mine and David's lessons begin in the new year..."

The call lasts no longer than fifteen minutes. By the end of it, Jim's got a pretty good idea of Spock's vision for his and David's tutor-mentee relationship. He's also almost certain that this Spock, when combined with his nine-year-old son, could be an even more lethal combination than the already-established Spock-and-David duo. In other words? Jim's fucked.

"I'll be surprised if the kid's ears aren't pointy by the end of all this," Kirk jokes, though his heart isn't exactly in it. Not when the man he's come to adore so deeply is lying, still as ever, in goddamn Medbay. Not when he knows it's his own damn fault. "Vulcan through osmosis. Ever heard of it?"

"I can assure you, Jim," the elder Vulcan starts, raising one singular brow. His tone is... bemused, almost. Teasing. "If it were possible for one to become Vulcan through sheer proximity, your counterpart in my universe would have undergone such a transformation several times over. I recall stretches of days in which our bodies rarely parted."

Holy shit. Jim's cheeks immediately flood with heat. He tries and fails to sputter out something resembling a response — at which point the Vulcan's amusement becomes that much more apparent. What the hell?

And then, because Spock is Spock in every universe, the motherfucker moves right along like he didn't just paint an extremely vivid picture. "It will take time for Commander Spock to awaken, Jim. He has likely burrowed deep within his consciousness in order to preserve his katra. I implore you to practice patience. In the absence of such, however, I implore you instead to be careful. And with that I must go. Live long and prosper, Jim."

Kirk barely manages a bewildered, "Peace and long life, Spock," before his screen goes black.

Chapter Text

By the time Jim meanders back into Medbay, coffee in hand, he finds David asleep at Spock's side. The boy's bent over himself, head resting atop his arms. Just looking at him is enough to make Kirk's back ache. "Hey, bud," he murmurs, gently touching his son's hunched shoulder.

The boy stirs, but doesn't rouse.

"Time to get up, David," Jim says a bit louder. This time, David jolts awake with a quiet, terrified gasp. Kirk instantly feels like he's the most horrible person in the entire universe. "Sorry, sorry. Didn't mean to startle you."

"S'fine," the boy murmurs, staring up at his father with bleary eyes. He opens his mouth as if to say something else. Halfway through, though, the word turns into a yawn. Jim feels a rush of affection so strong it nearly knocks him over. "How was your meal...?"

Jim smirks. "Not bad," he says, and it's not a complete lie. He didn't have a meal, per se —still quite full from the pasta salad Bones so kindly delivered who-knows-how-long ago— but he did replicate two cups of coffee for himself. That's a meal in its own sort of way, right?

As an added bonus, Kirk managed to avoid running into his best friend and doctor throughout the entire ordeal. It was clear from the moment he entered his quarters that Bones had already been there — which was a blessing and a curse, as it turns out, because the asshole went and straightened everything. Up to and including the pillows on Jim's bed.

One of which belongs to Spock.

Though Jim would love to pretend that fact might've gone over Leonard's head, he can't deny that the Vulcan's pillowcase is a completely different color and fabric from the rest of Jim's very-clearly-matching bedding. There might've been some measure of plausible deniability if Bones hadn't straightened the thing out so obviously. Even then, though? It's Bones. Nothing gets by the man. Nothing at all.

Jim decides it was worth it, in the end, to have inadvertently exposed himself via pillow. McCoy having already visited his quarters meant he got to change into clean clothes, brush his teeth, and then return to Medbay to find a whole other set of supplies waiting for him. Which means he can now spend even more time sitting vigil at Spock's side before having to make yet another exit. Jim will take that win.

Before David can do something smart like ask his father what exactly he had to eat, Kirk says, "I spoke with Ambassador Selek, actually. About your studies. Which reminds me: are you prepared for your upcoming lesson? He mentioned something about assigned reading..."

It's a low blow, if Kirk's honest. In truth, Ambassador 'Selek' specifically mentioned in their recent call that David wouldn't need to do said reading — not for at least a week after their initial meeting. "At first we will focus on introductions," he'd said, and Jim had nodded and hummed because it made perfect sense. One may even say it was logical.

Low blow or not, Jim can't help but feel just a bit smug when his words send the kid shooting out of his seat. "Don't forget your backpack," he calls out (though the odds of his boy leaving behind that bag in particular, even if it weren't currently holding Richard, are near-zero; that much Jim knows for sure). Kirk bites his tongue to avoid full-on smirking.

A tiny, far-too-optimistic part of the Captain wonders if maybe parenting isn't quite as daunting as he's made it up to be in his own mind. The last thing David says before he hightails it out of Medbay is, "Bye, Jim! Comm me if Mr. Spock wakes before I'm back!"

✧ ✦ ✧

Uhura's the first to visit. She takes one look at her Captain, her red lips pursed. Then she orders him to disable his Universal Translator.

"My UT?" Jim echoes, because why the hell would Nyota, of all people, want him to do that? "Seriously...?"

"Well, I'd ask you to leave, but rumor has it you've turned yourself into a particularly clingy human barnacle as of late. This felt like a more plausible way to get some much-needed privacy with the man, so. Do it."

In the end, Jim listens for several minutes as Nyota Uhura speaks to the Commander in what he can only assume is flawless Vulcan. Unfortunately for him, however, it sounds like fancy gibberish to his untrained ears. "I knew I should've taken Xenolinguistics," he grumbles. Then he notices that the sheet on Spock's biobed is coming untucked at one corner. In an instant he's up, rectifying the issue (though not as skillfully as his son, the apparent Sheets Sorcerer, would've done).

Eventually Uhura re-captures the Captain's attention, gesturing vaguely at her own ear so Jim knows it's safe to reconnect the device. He ends up catching the very tail end of the communications officer's sentence as she says, "... just don't make us wait too long, because he's even more insufferable than usual when you're out of commission."

"Hey!" Kirk exclaims, (mostly) feigning insult. "I'm not—"

"Who said I was talking about you?" his friend interrupts with a knowing smirk. 

That's when a certain blonde nurse appears, smile kind as ever. "You ready, hon?" Chapel asks Nyota, who takes one last look at Spock's still form before standing up and floating to her fair-haired lover's side. "Gaila's getting impatient."

"Well, we wouldn't want to keep Gaila waiting," Uhura teases. "She might start fight-flirting with Rand again. It's getting harder and harder to tell the difference these days..."

Next to visit are Chekov and Sulu. The former spends the majority of the time fiddling with his own shirtsleeves whilst the latter details his most recent scientific findings to a non-responsive Mr. Spock. "We had to evacuate the whole lab because of one silly miscalculation," Sulu explains calmly. As expected, the Vulcan remains silent. "Ensign Devers hasn't stopped apologizing since it happened. I keep telling him he should focus on the positive — you weren't there to witness that shit-show, which means it could've been even worse. He wasn't a fan of that particular hypothetical."

Later, when Sulu is done monologuing, Chekov softly says, "David and I have been getting breakfast together since you left for Xylos, Captain. I hope you don't mind if we continue that tradition until the Commander is back on his feet...?"

The warm feeling in Jim's chest takes him by surprise. "Yeah, Pav. That's- thank you. I appreciate the help. And I'm sure David appreciates having someone whose ear he can talk off about, uh— what is it this week?"

"Pre-contact alphabets, Sir."

"Naturally," Jim deadpans. Each of the still-conscious men in the room chuckles.

There are other visitors. Scotty and Keenser. Three of Spock's science protégés. Jim's barely holding on by the time Gaila makes her appearance, looking almost sheepish. "Should I even be here?" she whispers whilst actively tiptoeing further into the room.

Jim can't help it. He laughs. The sound startles even himself, head cloudy as it is with exhaustion. "He's not napping, Gail," he chuckles, "There's no need to whisper."

"Well I'm sorry for not knowing the ins and outs of Vulcan healing comas—"

"Trances," Jim interrupts, mostly for his own benefit. "It's a Vulcan healing trance. 'Healing coma' makes it sound..."

Gaila's face softens. "Scarier?" she offers, and all Jim can do is nod. "Well. Fuck whoever said an insensitive thing like that. I mean- don't actually fuck them, but. Y'know. Screw them. Or- shit. Is there a way for me to disparage myself in Standard that isn't inherently sexual? And your kind has the gall to call mine sex-obsessed—"

"Gaila," Jim interrupts, oscillating between bemusement and horror as he digests his friend's words. "Did you seriously come all this way just to disparage humanity and re-hash something we put to rest years ago?"

"No!" the Orion yelps. She looks about as horrified as she sounds. "Not at all, Jimmy. I- I'd just heard that you weren't sleeping, y'know, and I thought... well. If you want the Doc to stop scrambling for visitors just to make sure you aren't, like, humping the Commander in his sleep—"

This time Jim all but tears his hand away from Spock's, eyes wide. He really hopes the Vulcan didn't hear that last part. "You better get to the point, Lieutenant," Kirk warns. He's in no mood for Gaila's particular brand of 'humor.' Not today.

Gaila scuttles across the room, the back of her neck bright green with what Jim would assume was embarrassment — if she weren't, y'know. Gaila. The Orion scrambles with her belongings for a few moments before procuring what appears to be a travel mug. "For you," she says once she's returned to the Captain's side, arm extended in a clear sign of giving. "It's my grandmother's recipe."

Jim grabs the mug, unscrewing the top so he can get a whiff of its earthy contents. "Tea?" he guesses. Gaila smiles like she's won a prize.

"Granny couldn't do much to stop my night terrors, try as she might, but she could sure as hell stop the insomnia. One cup of this stuff and I was out like a light. The replicator doesn't get the taste quite right, in my opinion, but the effects are more-or-less the same. Try it."

(Jim wonders, silently, what Gaila actually called her grandmother; it certainly wasn't 'Granny,' but the Orion almost never wants to speak her native tongue. He's long since learned that it's better to leave it.)

"Just a sip," Kirk concedes, raising the still-steaming liquid to his face. Immediately he's overcome by the aroma of whatever the hell Gaila handed him, barely noticing the scalding temperature as he takes a large gulp. Then another. He sighs in utter bliss at the sheer amount offlavor on his tongue. It's the sort of sweetness that lingers long after you've finished. It's barely a decision, in the end, to down the entire travel mug. Jim doesn't consider the dosage until after he's inhaled the stuff — because of course he doesn't. He's practically the face of impulsivity. "Shit."

Gaila laughs. "You'd better grab a pillow, Jim. This stuff works fast."

Though the process isn't quite as instantaneous as the Orion's words might imply, Jim's glad to be seated all the same. His eyelids are growing heavier by the second. He watches blearily as Gaila makes her exit. It must take a hundred years for him to turn his head far enough to see Spock's unconscious figure. His limbs fill with lead, weighing him further and further down into the fabric of the chair...

"Sweet dreams, Jimmy," somebody says, but their voice sounds... far away...

It's the scent of home cooking that rouses Jim.

At first, he thinks he's in Iowa. He stares at a ceiling full of glow-in-the-dark stars, assuming Sammy must've just put them up while he was sleeping. There's clear intentionality in how the tiny stars are placed. They're constellations, almost definitely — just not ones Jim's encountered before. It's almost as if, rather than being on Earth...

The revelation has Kirk sitting up straight, eyes wide. His eyes dart all around an unfamiliar room as he searches for something, anything, that might possibly pass for familiar. It's not until a faraway voice calls out, "Spock! Food's almost ready!," that he realizes he's in the middle of a memory.

A memory which quite clearly doesn't belong to him.

Jim's about to stand —assuming the role of Spock, presumably, in this odd recollection— when a sudden movement catches his attention. A teenager with a familiar pair of pointy ears and slanted brows pushes away from his desk, stands up straight, and looks Jim right in the eye. Several tense seconds pass before those brown eyes blink, then look away. Spock calls out, "On my way, Mother," and moves past Jim as if nothing happened. 

And so Kirk trails behind a younger version of the man he loves, feeling equal parts intrigued and out-of-place. He follows Spock through the halls of an undeniably Earth-like home. As they move, Jim sneaks a glance out the window and spots a similarly Terran landscape. From there, the questions just keep on coming. Is this a memory from Spock's time with Amanda's side of the family? Or is this from Vulcan, and Spock's memories are somehow bleeding together as a result of this prolonged healing trance? From there, even more questions begin to bloom: Is it a gross intrusion of the Vulcan's privacy that he's here to begin with? And, if so, how the hell is Jim meant to leave? Is that even something he has control over?

Jim's barely aware of his actions as he follows the teenaged Spock into a standard Terran kitchen. This, in turn, has the Captain wondering once more if what he's seeing is an amalgamation of memories. Is this how it all really happened...? His spiraling is eventually interrupted by the sound of Amanda Grayson insisting, "The 'Mother' thing was cute when you were five, sweetheart. Now it just feels... impersonal."

That's when Spock, who is eternally himself, cocks his head to one side. Jim doesn't even need to see the Vulcan's face to know the curious expression he's undoubtedly wearing. "Would you prefer I call you 'Amanda' instead?" teenaged Spock suggests, sounding far too sincere for his own good. Some things never change.

After a few seconds of stunned silence, the human woman bursts into a fit of giggles. She fumbles for a nearby countertop to steady herself seconds before her knees seemingly go weak. All the while her genius of a boy watches, head still cocked, and says nothing at all. When Amanda finally speaks again, it's to proudly announce, "I made matzo ball soup." 

Which gives Jim pause, just for a moment, because he could've sworn he recognized this particular scent from when he was a kid. But how would that even be possible, considering Winona Kirk's zero-tolerance policy for anything related to the traditions of her own upbringing...?

"I smelled as much, yes," the pointy-eared teenager says — causing Amanda Grayson to let out a quick, surprised laugh. He looks around the room as if searching for something, then asks, "How many did you cook to serve...?"

"Cole's not joining us, sweetheart," Amanda says, answering her son's unspoken question with impressive ease. "Aaron and Myra took him to Fenway. Now, go set the table. After supper, we'll comm your father and tell him what your Hebrew teacher said..."

One word in particular gives Jim pause. He never much cared for travel when he was still living planetside, but he remembers enough of Sam's baseball-related gushing to know there is a famous ballpark called 'Fenway.' And coincidentally —if Kirk's grasp on Terran geography is to be trusted, which is a mighty large 'if'— said park is within a reasonable distance of the place where one Amanda Grayson was raised. And it would stand to reason, Jim thinks, that any Grayson family gatherings would take place at or around the area known as Boston. Right?

So maybe this is an intact memory after all. Maybe this all did happen, just like this, during Spock's youth. That'd be good. Wouldn't it...?

Jim ends up tuning out the pair's conversation, focused instead on getting a more in-depth whiff of the familiar-smelling food. He's just raised a spoonful to his face when teen Spock abruptly stops mid-sentence, turning to face Kirk directly for the first time since this dream-slash-memory began. "You should not be here," he insists. His expression is stern as all hell. His tone is somehow even more intense. 

The human woman shifts in her seat. "What was that, hon?" she asks, sounding almost hesitant to be going off-script. Jim wonders how often Spock replays this particular scenario in his mind. He wonders if the Vulcan finds it more happy or bittersweet, seeing Amanda how she once was.

Rather than acknowledge his mother's words, Spock continues staring at Jim. "Why have you come here?"

Kirk can't help it. He has to ask. "You- you can see me?" he stutters. The teen Vulcan's lips twitch into an almost-smirk. "How long have you known I was here...?"

"You are a particularly conspicuous individual," the teenager says, and that's only half an answer. Maybe not even that.

Dream-Amanda makes a quiet, confused sound. The memory is unraveling all around them, it seems. The once-immaculate walls have crumbled into near-nothingness. Spock's mother's face takes on the oddest expression as she stares at her son, asking over and over, "What was that, hon?"

The young Spock makes a strange, strangled sort of sound as he waves the scene away. Jim doesn't miss the way the Vulcan's face crumbles, just slightly, when Amanda fades right along with her surroundings. "I'm sorry," he finds himself whispering. The teen Vulcan cocks his head to the side in question.

"I do not know you," Spock says matter-of-factly. If he hears Jim's heart shatter at that revelation, he certainly doesn't say as much. Instead he just continues, "And yet our katras sing the very same song. How can this be?"

Which, hell. Jim's only human. If that particular sentence makes him smile like an overexcited toddler, it's hardly his fault. "They do?" he asks, though if he thinks about it for even a second the words make perfect sense. Hadn't he been drawn to the sweet music emanating from the river in Spock's mind? Hadn't it felt like coming home to be engulfed by said river? Jim's never felt quite as right as he did when he was cradled in its arms like a precious child.

"Vulcans cannot lie, Sir."

"Jeez, Spock. Were you really this serious at thirteen? Also, for what it's worth: the mantra itself is a falsehood. Vulcans can and do lie — usually when logic dictates that it's the right course of action. Sometimes even when it doesn't. You're the one who taught me that."

From the way this younger version of Spock stares at Jim, it's clear he's taking time to decipher the human's words one by one. After what feels like forever, he softly murmurs, "I am fifteen." It's arguably the most teenaged response the boy could've come up with (other than storming off in a huff, maybe — though that doesn't seem like a particularly Vulcan move). The kid stops, staring at Jim for a second longer, then adds, "You are not the mate I expected for myself."

"No...?" Kirk manages to choke out. "Well, uh. Sorry about that."

That's when the teenager's mouth twitches into something almost like a smile. It's a familiar expression, to be certain, though not the same not-smile Jim's used to seeing on his own Spock's lips. "You needn't apologize, Sir. I find you quite... fascinating."

Jim laughs. "Not the first time you've said those words to me."

As if on cue, the scene around them shifts.

Spock's older now. He's still a good decade younger than Jim's Spock, mind you, but he's close enough to the real thing that the Captain's knees feel weak at the very sight of him. His throat itches to call out to the man. Before Jim can do so, however, another figure enters the scene.

It takes a second for his brain to compute that said figure is, in fact, himself. It's a younger, cockier version of Jim to be sure — but he's still Jim. That much is certain. The whole scenario feels horribly uncanny. Kirk wonders if Spock ever felt this way whilst interacting with his own counterpart. Maybe that's why the two of them never spend much time in the same room...

It's the sound of Jim's own voice that takes him out of his thoughts. "You're quite fond of that word, aren't you?" his past self muses. From the way the Vulcan's posture straightens, Jim can only assume he takes it as an attack.

"Your verbiage implies affection on my part. Need I remind you that I am Vulcan, and as such—"

"Save it for someone who catch see you making out with your girlfriend in the turbolift, like, two days ago. You seemed to have plenty capacity for affection then."

Jim's surprised, in truth, by his own blatant jealousy. He only vaguely remembers this moment —it being one of many, many squabbles between their younger selves— but he could've sworn he didn't realize his feelings for Spock until years after this point. Couldn't his past self see what was surely obvious to everyone around them? Hell— couldn't Spock see it? Not to mention Nyota...

"I owe that woman flowers," he murmurs. Dream-Spock's head whirls around as if he only just realized they weren't alone. "Sorry, I— it's just so obvious, isn't it? How jealous I was? And the whole time you were taken. It's... obnoxious, on my part."

Jim's younger self fades away along with the memory of the rec room where they'd had that initial conversation. Once again Kirk is left alone in a void with a version of his Vulcan who is familiar, yet not. This is the Spock from before Jim died. The Spock who was still getting to know his supposedly fascinating Captain. And it's this Spock who looks and sounds so damn genuine when he asks, "'Jealous,' Sir?"

"It sucks, being into someone who's not single. Still doesn't give you the right to take your feelings out on them, though. Or anyone."

Before this version of Spock can even begin to respond, the scene shifts again.

Now they're on the Enterprise, and it's sometime during their current five-year mission. Jim knows this for certain because the memory in question includes Gaila, who only just joined the crew this time around.

More specifically, the memory includes Gaila exiting Jim's quarters in the early morning, clad in Academy pajamas with a huge smile plastered across her face and a PADD held affectionately against her chest. So engrossed in her own thoughts that she doesn't notice the Vulcan hovering some five steps away with two steaming mugs in hand.

"Oh," Jim breathes, realizing with sudden certainty that Spock's brief silent treatment prior to Carol's memorial service was a result of this. Of jealousy. And all of his questions about the nature of Jim and Gaila's relationship, too. Damn. For whatever reason, the revelation makes Kirk laugh out loud.

Spock whirls around at the sound, eyes wide. "Captain? I thought—"

And, though he knows it's just a memory — though he knows he can't go back and change the past — Jim finds himself taking the time to explain, "Gaila and I are just friends, Spock. Seriously. She came by as a favor after David got locked out of his PADD. Did you really spend all that time thinking she and I were... together, like that?"

"The assumption wasn't unfounded. There was precedent." If Jim didn't know better, he'd think the Vulcan's cheeks were turning green. 

"Precedent, huh? Of me sleeping with my inferiors?"

"Not as such. However—"

In an act of mercy (for both of their sakes), Jim interrupts his Vulcan: "You've got nothing to worry about, handsome. I'm all yours. All you gotta do to come get me is wake up."

"You speak as if I'm currently asleep, Captain."

"That's because you are asleep."

The scene fades yet again. They're standing in front of one another in the nothingness, so close yet so far. Jim's half-tempted to take that last step and close the space between them. To kiss the man he loves like he's wanted to for ages now. As he stares into those chocolate brown eyes, however, he knows that this isn't his Spock. It's close, to be certain —a version just a few weeks out-of-date— but so much has changed in such little time. Jim wants more than anything to be standing in front of the living, breathing man. He wants to feel the heat of his skin and his mouth. Wants to get his hands on and whatever damn parts of Spock he's allowed, and then—

Jim shakes away the thoughts. He settles for reaching out to cup the Vulcan's face with one hand. "We're a team, aren't we? You, me, and David. It- it just works. Doesn't it?"

They shift again.

Spock's lying motionless in that damn biobed. Just the sight of it is enough to make Jim want to crawl out of whatever memory he's just entered. But then he notices David sitting at the Vulcan's bedside. He notices the boy holding onto Spock's forearm with a singular, sure hand. The other arm is too busy being hooked around Richard to join in.

Jim forces himself into a nearby chair. He has to strain just to hear what his son is saying.

"...Mum says that being on a team is about lifting each other up and helping out whenever you can. She says that's what makes me an ideal teammate, 'cause I like to help others. And I'm good at knowing what they need help with. I like helping you especially, Mr. Spock, because it reminds me of- of helping her."

A lump has started to form in Jim's throat. He knows he should interrupt this personal moment — should make his presence known so that the scene will change once again — but he can't bring himself to ignore what he's witnessing. Not now.

"Jim says he'll ask you, once you wake up, if you wanna be part of our team. I hope you say yes. But I also hope it's not just because you like my Dad. 'Cause no offense, Mr. Spock, but it's really obvious that you two have a crush on each other. I just wanna make sure you're joining for the right reasons."

Jim didn't think it was possible to love his son more than he already did, but somehow David keeps on proving him wrong.

Jim's awoken rather abruptly to the sensation of being pried off of Spock's still-unconscious body. He just barely manages a groggy, "The hell...?," mind swirling like a damn tornado after being inundated by Spock's memories since who-knows-when. So naturally, he asks, "How long was I out?"

Leonard McCoy continues surveying his patient with increasing urgency. He doesn't spare a glance back at his friend and captain when he says, "Sorry, kid. Can't talk now. Chapel, where the hell are you?" 

It's the urgency in his best friend's tone that Jim sitting up a bit straighter. He forces himself to spare a glance at Spock, regretting that decision immediately when he realizes the man on the biobed has started seizing. He can't decide if it's better to keep staring or to look away. He both feels and sounds like a scared child when he hoarsely asks, "Is he gonna be okay, Bones?"

"Chris, help me get him on his side. No, not— the other side. Like this..."

In the end Jim's forced to keep watching, too afraid that if he looks away —even for just a second— he'll miss what might be Spock's final moments. McCoy and Chapel begin spouting medical terms back and forth at a pace far too quick for Jim's anxious mind to comprehend. Eventually, they get Spock to stop seizing. Then they get him onto his back again.

Jim allows himself to be ushered back to Spock's side once they're done working him over. He doesn't bother checking to see if the others are still around before he laces their fingers together, pressing his lips to Spock's knuckles, and softly asserts, "You can't die on me now, ashayam. Not when you still owe me that kiss."

Spock's hand twitches ever-so-slightly in the human's grip.

Chapter Text

The first time Spock stirs, Jim assumes he's imagined the movement. Wishful thinking from a lovestruck idiot, he tells himself. Then his Vulcan's hand twitches yet again (which, if the Captain is honest, is just a bit too reminiscent of his recent seizures for his liking; the only reason he doesn't call Bones in right then and there is because he's still foolish enough to have some semblance of hope). Jim tightens his grip, praying to whatever deity may or may not be out there to please bring him back to me. Please let him be safe. 

Jim...? a voice questions, and it takes far too long for Kirk to recognize its owner as Spock. Even longer for him to realize the sound was never spoken aloud.

"Spock?" he questions in turn.

The machines monitoring the Vulcan's vitals begin to beep louder and faster. The grip on his hands tightens. Jim. Where have you gone? 

"I'm here, Spock," Jim insists. His thumb caresses the back of his Vulcan's hand. "I'm right here. Just open those big, beautiful eyes and you'll see for yourself. Can you do that for me, Spock? Can you open your eyes? Can you wake up and come back to me? ...Please?"

And then, however impossibly, Spock does.

"You're alive," Jim breathes, awestruck. Spock winces in obvious discomfort at the sudden onslaught of light. Despite this fact, he doesn't tear his gaze away from Jim's face for even a second. Doesn't say a damn word, either. He just... stares. Blinks. For a few horrible moments, Kirk thinks this may be a case of memory loss. What if Spock has forgotten he ever met Jim in the first place?

Hell, what if Spock has forgotten David? That might just tear the kid to shreds.

Just as Kirk is about to make another (undoubtedly futile) attempt at intelligent speech, Spock saves him the trouble. "My memory is intact, ashayam," he insists. Jim realizes it's the first time he's heard his Vulcan speak since the ordeal with the snakes. It's that fact —out of everything— that breaks him. Has his eyes flooding with hot, unwelcome tears. Spock notices this almost immediately. His voice is colored with subtle concern when he prods, "Jim...?"

"I thought you were dead," Kirk chokes out. His hands are actively shaking around the precious cargo that is Spock's outstretched palm. "I thought I'd never- that we'd never—"

"Jim," Spock interrupts. He uses his free hand to grab the human's chin, gently coaxing Jim into meeting his heated gaze. Though Kirk is (predictably) flustered by that action, his Vulcan doesn't falter. Not for even a heartbeat. Instead Spock stares at Jim with those gorgeous brown eyes of his and says, "We have wasted far too much time already."

Like it's that simple. And, hell. Maybe it is. "No more wasting time," Jim breathes, still lost in Spock's gaze. He wonders if this is his cue to lean in and claim that kiss he's owed.

"We are already kissing," Spock insists, and for a moment Jim's genuinely perplexed. Their faces are close, to be certain, but not close enough to be considered kissing. Not yet. Then the fingers interlocked with his own give him a squeeze, quick yet firm, and a jolt of electricity goes through Jim's entire body. Holy shit.

"Guess that means I've been inadvertently kissing you for a while now, huh?"

Spock's gaze darkens. His voice is smooth like velvet when he says, "Indeed, Jim. You have."

Kirk can't help but smile at the very sound of his name coming from Spock's mouth. How is it that, when this particular man says that particular word, it registers in his mind as something entirely different from the name he grew up hearing? How can one simple syllable send such shivers up and down his spine? He clears his throat, only slightly embarrassed by his own affectedness. "Indulge me," he breathes, and he can feel Spock's confusion through their touch. It's impossible to keep the amusement out of his voice when he continues, "The rules of the mistletoe curse might be specific to the human way of kissing. I just think it'd be logical—"

Spock's hand, which is still on Jim's chin, tilts the human's face forward just so. For an instant, time stops.

Then their lips meet and it's like flying. Like being drunk and high and riding a rollercoaster all at once. Jim gasps aloud at the sensation. Spock, genius that he is, takes that as his cue to add tongue into the equation, which— damn. Vulcans may not kiss with their mouths, generally, but this one sure does.

Jim's barely cognizant of his actions as he raises one knee onto the biobed. He's far too focused on getting closerclosercloser to consider much else. He's wanted this for so damn long. He can feel through their connection that Spock has, too. Jim feels like a man who has been searching for water in a desert all his life, and now— now? Hell. He's half-convinced this is an imagined oasis rather than the true paradise it appears to be. He sort of expects the desert heat to return at any second. Expects to feel Spock fade from beneath his fingertips. And so he wonders: will the 'goodbye' be easier, the second time around? 

Jim supposes he'll find out soon enough.

I will not disappear, a familiar voice echoes in the human's head. Kirk has both knees on the biobed now (and when the hell did that happen?). He manages to straddle Spock without once breaking their kiss. All at once their hands and hips are moving just as frantically as their mouths. Jim instinctually grinds down, causing Spock to groan low and rough. He's relatively certain it's the most enticing noise he's ever heard. And so, naturally, Jim repeats that same grinding action again. And again. And again. It's only when two impossibly strong hands detach from his own to grab him by the waist that Jim is forced to slow his movements. Forced to grind in time with Spock's torturously slow pace rather than following his own instinctual fervor. Kirk could almost swear Spock sounds bemused when he thinks, Impatience is unbecoming of a Starfleet captain, Jim.

Impatience? the human responds, more than a little bit incredulous. He can feel how hard Spock is, and— shit. Is the Vulcan even wearing anything under that flimsy excuse for a sheet? He can barely keep track of his own words when he pointedly thinks, I'll have you know that I've been waiting more than a decade for this moment. I'm basically the picture of patience.

That's when Spock stops kissing Jim. The action —or inaction, rather— pulls a needy whine right from the captain's slack lips. Next Spock stops the motion of their hips (which may very well be a crime, from where Jim's standing; it's a good thing he doesn't intend to prosecute). "Jim—" the Vulcan starts. By this point, however, James Kirk is a man on a mission. He kisses all the way down Spock's chin and neck. Grinds down once, then twice— noting how Spock's dick twitches excitedly in response. How his hands squeeze Jim's waist that much tighter.

You want me, Kirk thinks, too busy latching onto his Vulcan's neck to speak his thoughts aloud. He sucks and nibbles at the skin there, intent upon leaving a sizable mark. His mind is a never-ending chorus of SpockSpockneedyouSpock.

"Whilst my desire for you is evident, ashay-ahh!"

Jim smirks against Spock's skin. Whatever his Vulcan intended to say is lost in a jumble of nonsense and an absolutely delectable whine. Jim sort of gets the gist, however, because a few moments later he hears the telltale hiss of the door opening behind him. "I've got some grea— oh dear god, Jimmy. I haven't even checked his vitals yet!"

"Hey there, Bonesy," Kirk croaks, having stilled his gyrations in favor of something resembling decency. He can only manage to feel a smidgen of sheepishness at this particular moment, if he's honest, but he's got enough respect for his best friend to avoid giving the man an unsolicited show. It's for that reason (and not because he's still undeniably turned on, fuck you) that he doesn't climb off of Spock immediately. Even if Jim's theory is wrong and the Vulcan is wearing underwear, that biobed sheet is far too sheer to conceal much of anything.

"What's going on in there?" a female voice wonders. Jim's stomach drops to the damn floor when he realizes Chapel's here, too. Which means the word will spread to Uhura, then Gaila, and then everybody else in no time. All Jim can hope is that no one spills the beans to David before he and Spock are able to tell the boy themselves. And then it gets worse, because Chapel continues, "Wait a second. Are they—"

"I'll handle this one, Chris," Bones insists. Jim could almost swear he hears a huff of disappointment from the blonde, followed by the rhythmic clacking of her boots on the ground as she retreats. McCoy's got one hand covering both eyes when he turns back towards the compromised command team, body language screaming discomfort above anything else. "You've got two minutes to make yourselves decent, boys."

Jim's got half a mind to argue for five, but the look on his best friend's face tells him he really shouldn't push it.

"I'm happy for you two," McCoy insists moments after reentering the room. It's a bit of a mixed message, though, because he sounds about as delighted as a lion with a thorn in its paw. And he's still got one hand raised like he might need to cover his eyes at any second.

"... Yeah, Bones? You sure about that?"

"Hush, you," the doctor orders. His gaze flickers between Spock on the biobed and Jim at his bedside. When he finally speaks again, his mouth is twisted into something that almost resembles a smile. Almost. "Do I appreciate the choice of venue? No, Jimmy. I don't. And your timing's not exactly ideal either. God knows if I discourage this, though, we might spend another dozen years watching the two of you bumble your way around one another like fools. I can't in good conscience condemn this crew to that sort of torture. It'd be inhumane."

Jim rolls his eyes. "So dramatic," he chides, but the skin on the back of his neck feels hot. 

"Seems to me like we're in need of a few ground rules going forward, boys. How's the ol' 'three feet on the ground at all times' sound?"

Archaic, Jim thinks, though he knows better than to say so outright. It's the sort of rule he'd hear from friends with strict parents, back in his day. The sort of rule created for the express purpose of thwarting any and all sexual activity between horny teenagers. "You can't expect Spock to have one foot on the ground. He's still recovering."

"Says the man who was all over him less than five minutes ago!"

"Aww, Bonesy. You jealous?"

The sound that escapes Spock in the next moment is scarily close to a growl. Jim whirls around, eyes wide, and finds his Vulcan staring at the doctor with nostrils flared and eyes narrowed. McCoy notices this at the very same time, it seems, because his voice goes eerily calm. "No need to get feisty, Mr. Spock. We're all friends here."

It's not until Jim reaches out, laying a gentle hand on Spock's tense forearm, that the Vulcan finally snaps out of whatever possessive trance had him looking at a years-long friend and colleague with murder in his eyes. A flash of images crosses Jim's line of vision —Vulcans clad in loincloths bloodying one another; Jim himself being held by the neck and pressed against an Enterprise console as he struggled for breath— and it's all he can do to try and interrupt the flurry with as much calm as he can project. "Spock, hey. Hey. You gotta get out of your head."

Jim?

"Yes, sweetheart. It's me. I'm right here."

McCoy's barely-audible "'Sweetheart'...?" has Kirk tossing a middle finger behind his back in a wordless Fuck off. The doctor doesn't leave the room, but he does go silent. Jim will give him credit for that much.

"You're in Medbay, Spock. The doc's just here to check your vitals. Do you think you can sit up for me?"

Yes, Jim. I can do that.

The Captain can't help but beam at how self-assured Spock's mental voice sounds. He's pretty certain that he could've asked Spock to do just about anything —to rearrange the whole damn universe, even— and he would've gotten the same exact response. Yes, Jim. I can do that. And if anyone could, it'd be Spock. That much Jim knows for certain.

Here's the thing: from a physical standpoint, Spock's in near-perfect condition. The healing trance did its job and then some. There's no on-paper reason why he shouldn't be discharged right here and now. It's the things Bones's tests can't pick up that have both he and the Captain worried enough to warrant keeping Spock overnight. "Just promise me one thing, kid," Leonard insists, and Jim finds himself nodding in agreement before he's even heard the doc's terms. "Say you'll wait 'til you're out of my Medbay to jump his bones."

"C'mon, man. You really think so little of me?"

McCoy shoots him a look. "What I think is that you and I both know exactly what would've gone down if I hadn't come in when I did. Look, Jimmy— I don't fault you for missin' him. I don't fault you for wanting to make up for lost time, either. Thing is, though, I've got a particularly persistent nine-year-old demanding updates every hour on the hour. I can't in good conscience send him in unless I've got your word that the poor kid won't be getting an eyeful when I do. I reckon he's suffered enough already."

Jim feels his cheeks heating up against his wishes. Leonard is right, is the thing. There's really only one place he and Spock could've been headed when he climbed into that biobed. At the very least there would've been a fervent over-the-clothes sort of situation, which— actually, Jim shouldn't think about that. Not right now. "I promise, Bones," he says, making sure to hold eye-contact so the doctor knows he means it. "I'll keep my kisses to myself."

(The human kind, anyway.)

David is more animated than Jim's ever seen him when he enters the room, eyes wide, and makes a beeline for the biobed. "You're awake!" he exclaims, blue gaze trained intently on one Mr. Spock. "How did your bites heal? Do they still hurt at all? Did they leave any marks?"

"Slow down, kid," McCoy coaxes good-naturedly. "The Commander's not going anywhere anytime soon."

That's when David turns those big, blue eyes on the doctor with obvious surprise and asks, "Not even for New Year's Eve?"

And, shit. Jim can't help it. He's genuinely gobsmacked by this news. "It's New Year's already?"

"Yes," David confirms, nodding enthusiastically. "Gaila said I can come to her party tonight if I want. She also said, as long as you're on board with it, that I can stay up for the countdown and everything."

"Yeah, bud? That's great."

"I guess so. If Mr. Spock's not gonna be there, though..."

The Vulcan's voice is hoarse from lack of use when he finally speaks up. "You should celebrate regardless of my presence, David," he insists. Predictably, the boy isn't having any of it.

"I can celebrate here, though! I can stay in Medbay with you guys. We can bring some of the extra decorations Gaila didn't use to make it feel more special, and- and—"

"David, hey," Jim interrupts, reaching out to place a steadying hand on the boy's shoulder. "It's okay, kiddo. You're okay. You gotta breathe, though. Like this: breathe in for four seconds... hold it, count to seven... and then breathe out for eight. Then you do that again and again 'til your heart stops feeling like it's bursting from your chest. Can you do that for me, David? Can you take a few deep breaths?"

"But why—" the boy tries.

Before he gets far enough to complete that question, however, Spock surprises them all by speaking up yet again: "I implore you to follow your father's instruction, David. We will revisit our evening schedule once you have reached a state of calm."

"Okay," David manages to croak, and that's that.

At least three minutes pass with very little improvement on David's end. The boy tries his best to follow Jim's lead in the breathing exercises, though his breath keeps on hitching mid-inhale. It's only when McCoy softly suggests, "Maybe Richard could help," that they reach something resembling a conclusion.

David's head shoots up at the mention of his furry companion. "Richard!" he gasps, swinging his backpack around to his front. All three adults watch with bated breath as the boy rummages through his belongings. David's movements become increasingly hasty. Jim knows what's happened before the boy even looks up at him with those big, teary eyes and says, "He's not in there."

"Where do you remember seeing him last?" Jim prods. "Did you grab him before you left your quarters?"

"His head was poking out of the top of my bag when I left," the boy insists, leaving no room for uncertainty. David's eyes look even wetter than they did before when he once again meets Kirk's worried gaze. "But I realized my shoe was untied on the way, and then I had to stop, and— oh no, Jim! What if he fell out when I bent over to re-tie it?"

Jim smiles. He's kneeling in front of David now —the two of them more-or-less at eye-level— and he's intent upon seeing his own joy reflected in those baby blues when he says, "That'll make it real easy for you and I to find him, then! All we've gotta do is retrace our steps. Think you can hold down the fort while we're gone, Bonesy?"

The doctor's response is a quick, less-than-amused snort. He lets that sound hang in the air for several seconds before he says, "That works out well, actually, since the Commander and I have a few more tests left to run. I'll get a more accurate read on his reflexes if he isn't making goo-goo eyes at a certain somebody."

Kirk's body decides that such a comment warrants a full-on blush — because of course it does. He's quick to usher David out of Spock's private room and through the now-uncrowded Medbay. Once they're in the hallway, Jim opens his mouth to ask which way David came from. The boy beats him to the punch, naturally, by asking a question of his own: "Jim, what are 'goo-goo eyes'?"

They retrace David's steps all down the hallway and into the general area where the boy re-tied his shoe. At first Jim thinks they've hit a dead end. Then David exclaims, "Richard!" bounding further down the hall. Jim sees the rabbit lying face-down on the floor and smiles wide. Thank god.

"There you are," Jim tells the stuffed animal once he's caught up with his boy. David, who is currently kneeling on the floor, has his arms wrapped around his rabbit friend. He's whispering his apologies over and over into Richard's one good ear. Kirk places a gentle hand on the kid's shoulder, then adds, "You had us all worried sick, Rich!"

"It's not his fault," David insists, standing back up and turning his teary-eyed gaze towards his father. "Since Richard can't walk on his own, it's my job to carry him. I never should've put him in the backpack."

Jim isn't sure what he's meant to say. He gnaws at the inside of his cheek worriedly for several seconds before settling on, "It doesn't really matter who is or isn't at fault, David. We can't change what happened in the past. The important thing is that you're together again, and that everyone's safe. Wouldn't you agree?"

"I guess so," the nine-year-old allows, face still pressed into his friend's pilly fur. For a few seconds it's as if he's lost in thought. Jim almost considers coaxing the boy out of his sudden daydream, but then David blinks back into reality and once again meets his father's waiting gaze. "Can we go back to Medbay now? Richard has something he'd like to say to Mr. Spock..."

Chapter Text

It takes some convincing, but eventually David agrees to go on a quick detour to their respective quarters before returning to Medbay. Jim's mostly biding for time (having deduced from McCoy's demeanor before they left that the Doc might need more than a few minutes to check in on his patient). It isn't until David enters the Captain's quarters through their shared bathroom, however, that Kirk realizes he's left some damning evidence in full view.

"Is that Mr. Spock's pillow?" David wonders instantly. Jim feels his cheeks heating up at damn near the speed of light. 

"I'm never gonna get a single thing by you, am I?"

"Probably not," the boy allows with a small, bemused smile.

Jim smiles, too, because David's joy is pretty damn infectious. So much so, in fact, that he truly forgets for a moment that he's meant to be the grown-up in this equation. So naturally, he bursts into a fit of giggles. This, in turn, causes David to start giggling too. For a few precious moments the universe consists of nothing but him and his boy, smiling and laughing together. "You're funny, kid," Kirk insists once he's caught his breath. David's smile grows even wider.

"A natural-born comedian?" he tries, modifying his mother's phrase.

"Now you're pushing it," Jim jokes. He relishes in the easiness of this moment for a few more breaths, then clears his throat. "So, uh. I actually wanted to talk to you about something."

In the blink of an eye, the nine-year-old's face falls. His brows furrow in a way that makes Jim's chest hurt. Then, to make matters worse, he hoarsely wonders, "Did I do something wrong?"

"What? No— no, David, not at all! Nobody did anything wrong. It's a good thing. I promise. Do you need to do the breathing exercises again...?"

David shakes his head 'no.' Despite that fact, he pauses to take a series of steadying breaths. He makes a soft, pathetic sort of noise that Jim can only assume is meant to encourage his father to continue. So Jim does.

"It's about Mr. Spock, actually. About my relationship with him. Do you remember a few weeks back, when you asked if I had a crush on him?" —Kirk waits for David to nod before he continues— "Well, the thing is.... your instincts were right. I do have feelings for him. And now I know for certain that those feelings are mutual."

By this point, David's worried frown has morphed into a full-blown grin. The boy can barely contain his excitement when he exclaims, "I told you! Remember, Jim? I said Mr. Spock has a crush on you, too!"

"You did," Jim allows. Like he said: he's never gonna get anything by this kid. Why waste energy trying? "I guess my point here, David, is that I'd like to get a temperature check from you. It's clear you're fond of Mr. Spock. I have it on good authority that he's pretty fond of you, too. I don't want to make the mistake of assuming, however, that said fondness translates into you being comfortable with the idea of him and I starting a romantic relationship."

(If Jim is really honest, this whole conversation is happening about an hour too late. It's not like he can un-kiss Spock or un-confess his affection. Still, though — he feels an obligation to run the change by his son. Doesn't Jim owe David that much, at least?)

"I'm confused," the nine-year-old admits after a beat. Jim smiles kindly. Just as the Captain's about to clarify his meaning, his son continues, "Are you asking how I feel about you and Mr. Spock finally becoming boyfriends?"

Jim cringes at the tone of that 'finally' whilst he nods. Has he really been so transparent about his feelings for the Vulcan?

"Well..." David starts, then takes a few seconds to contemplate his words. He even goes so far as to stroke his chin and hum inquisitively to really drive the whole 'thinking' point home. The boy's got the ghost of a smirk on his lips when he finally adds, "I think we're gonna need a bigger bathroom."

(And, okay. Fine. Maybe the kid is a natural-born comedian. At the very least, he's got an undeniable talent for making Jim in particular laugh his ass off.) 

They're discussing the merits of commissioning Chapel for more Richard-sized clothing when the communicator vibrates in Kirk's pocket. He tries not to appear too excited when he grabs the thing and raises it towards his (less-than-adequate) eyes.

Dr. Leonard McCoy | 16:02: All good here.

Capt. James Kirk | 16:03: so we can come back now?

Dr. Leonard McCoy | 16:03: That's what "all good" means, last I checked.

Jim rolls his eyes, biting back a scoff. Does Bones always have to be so... Bones?

"Who's that?" David wonders. His father raises a finger as if to say 'one second.'

Capt. James Kirk | 16:04: well excuse me for wanting to avoid walking in on my naked first officer

Dr. Leonard McCoy | 16:04: Oh, please. Like you wouldn't love that.

It's true, of course. In the correct context —namely, with his nine-year-old nowhere near the vicinity of the encounter— Jim would love to get Spock out of that damn hospital gown and into his bed. Hell, he'd settle for any old horizontal surface at this point. He'd fuck Spock on the damn floor if that was their only viable option.

In other words? Jim doesn't need a reminder of how much he wants his first officer. It's one of the only things he's completely certain of in this life. 

Dr. Leonard McCoy | 16:05: Your silence speaks volumes, kid.

Dr. Leonard McCoy | 16:06: Now hurry up before your boyfriend tries to detach himself from the machines. Again.

Boyfriend, Jim thinks wistfully. It's the second time today someone's used that word to describe the relationship between himself and Mr. Spock. Is that what they are to one another? Boyfriends? Are they 'mates,' as the Xyl might say? Partners? Lovers? There's gotta be a Vulcan word to describe this bone-deep connection. Something gorgeously poetic and devastatingly logical all at once. It takes a few seconds for Jim to recall the word he's heard Spock use a handful of times — ashayam. Are they one another's ashayam?

"Are they ready for us?" David asks, tugging his father back into reality.

"Wha...? Oh. Yeah, sorry."

The nine-year-old's smile is kind. "Wait here," he insists, holding Richard out with one hand and adjusting his backpack strap with the other. When Jim doesn't immediately comply with those commands, David lightly shakes the rabbit in front of his face and says, "Jiiiiim."

Kirk brushes off his latent thoughts. Forces something like a smile onto his lips. He tries his best to hide how his hands tremble around Richard. He thinks back to the day he purchased the thing. It'd been more-or-less on a whim, at the time. Jim got the toy just so he could say he did something for his newborn son. He picked the rabbit over the bear for purely aesthetic purposes, having liked Richard's blue coat more than the alternative lemon yellow hue.

Even now, with the blue faded as it is, Jim thinks he made the right choice. Sure, the bear's pelt might've been a bit less pilly nine years on. Its smaller ears might've even stayed better intact than Richard's floppy ones did. But would the bear have fit so perfectly into his boy's loving embrace the way this rabbit does? Would the bear have made as loyal a friend to David as Richard? Jim's not so certain. Silly as it is, he finds himself sincerely telling the creature, "Thank you for taking care of him, Rich. Can I call you Rich?"

The rabbit says nothing, though the way his head is cocked to the side feels... judgmental, somehow.

"I get it. I'd probably be skeptical of me too. Like, where's this guy been for the past decade? Who the hell does he think he is?"

Richard's good ear loses its fight with gravity, flopping over to cover one eye in a way that reminds Jim, bizarrely enough, of his brother's haircut from high school. The long, floppy one, from before Frank pressured him into cutting it all off to look more like a 'real man.' A strange wave of nostalgia rushes over the captain, causing him to let out a quick, surprised laugh.

It's just Jim's luck, naturally, that David chooses that moment to reenter. He stares at his father in ill-disguised shock, gaze flicking between man and rabbit. "Jim?" he prods, sounding genuinely concerned, "Did I hear you laughing?"

Rather than respond, Kirk presents a question of his own: "Why Richard?"

David makes a confused sort of sound. He blinks up at Jim with wide, questioning eyes. "What d'you mean...?"

Jim stares down at the ratty creature in his hands for several long seconds. "His name. How'd you come up with Richard?"

"Oh," is David's immediate response. He sways a bit on his feet, not-so-subtly avoiding his father's gaze, then softly admits, "I didn't name him."

"No?" Jim prods, wondering if it was Carol who did the honors.

Only once Richard has safely changed hands from Jim to David does the boy explain further. "It was Nan," he says, voice muffled slightly by the rabbit he's got smushed against his face. "That's what Mum tells me, anyway. She says it's a funny story, but it's not for kids. She'll explain it when I'm older."

Jim aches to think that such a story is now lost to time. Is it possible Carol wrote it down somewhere? Did she tell it to someone who is still alive — a colleague, maybe? A friend? Will David ever get to learn how his best furry friend earned his name, or did that die with Carol too?

The nine-year-old must be going down a similar line of thought, because when Jim meets his eyes again he finds them welled up with tears. "David—" he starts, but his son doesn't let him finish.

"Let's go see Mr. Spock," David insists. His voice cracks on the last syllable. Jim's heart feels like it cracks, too. It's made worse when his son hoarsely adds, "Please?"

"...Okay, bud. We can do that."

By the time they're back at the entrance to Medbay, David's tear-free and smiling like nothing even happened. Jim's not sure if he should be relieved or worried at the boy's uncanny ability to compartmentalize. He follows David into the private room Bones has Spock holed up in. Jim locks eyes with the Vulcan as soon as he enters. For a few charged moments, he forgets how to breathe.

It's Bones who ultimately pulls the captain back out of his thoughts. He places a hand on Jim's shoulder, grip gentle yet firm, and softly murmurs, "Walk with me, kid." Jim reluctantly pulls his gaze away from Spock's to lock eyes with his best friend. The expression he finds waiting for him is one he hasn't seen in a long, long while. Maybe not since the Academy.

"You all right if we step out for a minute, David?"

The boy is already seated at Spock's bedside, wearing that infectious smile that has Jim's own lips quirking upwards. David barely chances a glance back at his father when he says, "Mhm."

It's out of pure self-preservation that Jim doesn't allow himself another glance in Spock's direction before saying 'goodbye'. He can't afford to be so openly gone for the man. Not when he's got a best friend who will never let him hear the end of it. Oh, and a kid who is perceptive far beyond his years. Can't forget that part of the equation.

"C'mon now," McCoy grumbles, tugging at Jim's arm. "Sooner we leave, the sooner you can get back to mooning over your hobgoblin."

They don't actually go on a walk. Not one that lasts very long, anyway. They traipse on over to Bones's private office, collapsing together on the very same couch where Jim passed out drunk half a dozen times, probably, in his tenure as captain.

(Not the best numbers. He could've done a lot worse, though.)

Jim almost thinks the doc's going to pull out a bottle of liquor right here and now for old time's sake. Pour them both a shot to take the edge off. Instead, Leonard softly insists, "I'm gonna ask you a question, kid, and odds are it'll tick you off somethin' awful. I need you to promise you'll try and keep a level head. Think about what I'm saying. Don't just react on instinct. Can you do that for me?"

"...I guess so, yeah."

Bones clears his throat once. Then, after a few seconds' pause, he does it again. He straightens his posture, orienting his whole torso towards Jim, and then finally bites the bullet: "How far have you thought this thing through?"

For a moment Kirk is genuinely flabbergasted by his best friend's words. He simply can't process them. "How far have I—" he starts, pausing belatedly to collect himself. To replay the question in his own head. "You mean about me and Spock? How far have I thought through his and my relationship? 'Cause I can assure you, Bones, I've spent years thinking about this. Years. I'm almost certain I've never thought through a single thing as thoroughly as I've considered being with Spock." 

"Believe me when I say I don't doubt that for a minute. I also don't doubt that, up until recently, David wasn't included in any of these hypotheticals. I'm just askin' you to consider if that changes things. I'm not saying it will, I just— don't you owe it to the kid to give him some semblance of control over his own life? Change, even the good kind, can be scary. It's less scary when you know what you're in for."

"I'm way ahead of you, Bonesy. David and I talked about this while you were doing whatever-the-hell—"

McCoy scoffs. "Clearing your man for release, you mean."

"Yeah. You— wait. He's cleared for release?"

"Yes, Jim. Don't get distracted. You and David talked about your relationship with Spock?"

Jim nods, making sure to look his best friend in the eye when he says, "I got the green light. He was pretty excited, honestly, though I'm relatively certain that had more to do with him being right than anything else. He called our mutual crush weeks ago."

"Well, it doesn't take a rocket scientist," Bones teases. Jim resists the urge to elbow him in the gut. A short, comfortable silence passes between them before the doctor speaks up again to say, "Listen. I'm happy for you both. And, hell. Who knows? Maybe you two will go the distance. If you don't, though, you've gotta be prepared to be cordial with the man. Doesn't matter what he's done, or what you've done. David shouldn't have to lose his favorite Vulcan just because two grown adults couldn't keep it in their pants."

"Bones. This isn't— we care about each other. Neither one of us is looking for a casual hookup."

It's at this point that McCoy crosses both arms over his chest. He cocks his head to one side, assessing his best friend and captain for a few long seconds. "You two discussed this?"

"Well, no. But I've seen it in his mind, Bones. I've felt it. He—"

"You've seen it in his mind?" the doctor interrupts. Jim flinches. Shit. "You two melded?"

"No!" Jim exclaims, then realizes he's got no real idea what he's talking about. It only feels right to add, "At least... I don't think so? He never touched my meld points directly. When the other Spock melded with me, it was much more... intense. All-encompassing. This was sort of like a conversation. One that never left our heads."

"Well, I'll give you one thing: I just spent half an hour touching the man every which way and he never once sent a single thought in my direction. Guess that makes you special."

Jim can't help the sly smile that spreads across his lips. Especially not when it has his best friend gawking like a fish. It never gets old, watching the cranky doctor short-circuit. "What can I say? This mind of mine is mighty irresistible. Some might even go so far as to call it fascinating, under the right circumstances. If you catch my drift."

McCoy's whole face scrunches like he tasted something sour. He pinches at the bridge of his nose, utterly incapable of maintaining eye-contact with the younger man when he despairingly asks, "Is this going to be my life now?"

"God, I hope so."

David and Spock are in the middle of a seemingly riveting game of chess when Kirk and McCoy reenter the room. They turn to face their visitors with twin thoughtful expressions. Jim almost feels bad distracting them further when he asks his Vulcan, "You tell him the good news yet?"

Spock doesn't need any more details than that. He sounds entirely confident in his answer when he says, "I did not wish to have such a discussion without you present."

"What good news? What discussion?" David exclaims, turning bodily towards the duo in the doorway. 

"Spock's getting discharged!" Jim replies. He watches, bemused, as his son's expression morphs from thoughtful to surprised, and then to ecstatic. "Which means—"

"—he'll be at the New Year's party!" the nine-year-old supplies. His eyes are wide. His smile is somehow even wider. He turns his attention to McCoy then, visibly hesitant when he asks, "Does that mean we've got to leave?"

It's then that Bones —who, bless him, has no idea about the boy's irrational fear of leaving games unfinished— enthusiastically insists, "You can leave right this minute if you like!"

Jim intends to step in. To make up an excuse as to why they've got to stay for who-knows-how-long. Before he has a chance to do that, however, Spock beats him to the punch. "David is still becoming accustomed with the intricacies of the game. A prolonged interruption would be confusing."

The boy's posture visibly settles. Jim locks eyes with his best friend, tilting his head as if to say, See what I mean?

Leonard nods, his smile kind, and tells the room, "Well, we're not busy at the moment. Barring any sudden emergencies, I think we can spare the room for the duration of one measly game of chess."

David's responding smile is blinding in the best possible way.

The game is anything but short. Jim could've expected as much, given the general thoroughness of David's questions whenever he's in learning mode. The nine-year-old's mind is like an encyclopedia that he's been filling, page by page, for as long as he's been capable of asking others, 'Why?'

(It's worth noting, of course, that both of David's teachers in this instance are certifiable chess nerds in their own right. In other words: the long-windedness of this particular endeavor cannot be blamed on one singular party. All three of them play their part in raising Dr. McCoy's blood pressure. It's a true team effort.)

Spock wins in the end — though not by as large of a margin as Jim would've expected, given David's lack of practice. "You're a natural, kid," he insists, watching fondly as his son gathers up the pieces into two piles separated by color. "And I'm glad you finally got to use the set Mr. Spock got you."

David takes that as his cue to once again thank the Vulcan for the Christmas gift he unwrapped some six days prior. And then, because he's David, the boy takes it a step further: "I read some more of Alice last night."

"Indeed?" Spock prods, sounding genuinely intrigued. "At which part of the story did you pause your reading...?"

Jim's two favorite people are still deep in their discussion of talking mice and magical shrinking potions by the time they cross the threshold into David's quarters. He listens, smiling softly to himself, and begins plugging their usual orders into the boy's replicator. "Tea for you, Spock?" 

The Vulcan brushes past Jim, placing a hand on the small of his captain's back as he does so. Jim shivers involuntarily at the feeling, wishing there weren't several layers of fabric between Spock's hand and his skin. He cranes his neck to look into those brown eyes. Finds a familiar sparkle in them that fills his whole body with a sense of warmth. "I am told caffeine will react quite poorly with what medication remains in my system," Spock murmurs, his breath hot on Jim's ear. He moves away before the human even has time to react.

For a few agonizing, glorious moments, Jim forgets how to breathe entirely. It's like he can still feel Spock's touch on his body. Like somehow, even after pulling away, the Vulcan left something behind. Jim's grateful that his voice sounds mostly-normal when he says, "Decaf, then. I'm also gonna get you some plomeek soup. As for you—" the Captain turns his attention to his son, smiling menacingly and wiggling his fingers "—onion milk and frog legs, right?"

David's nose scrunches up in obvious disgust. "There's no such thing as onion milk, Jim."

"That's what they want you to think, Davie boy. It's a whole conspiracy."

It's Spock who speaks up next, helpfully informing his maybe-mate that 1) David prefers ginger ale to any sort of milk, and 2) the boy is a vegetarian. Not that Jim —who was quite obviously employing sarcasm, mind you— needed either reminder. Still, though. It's nice. "Perhaps something sweet as well?" the Vulcan prods. Jim nearly kisses the man all over again, right then and there — refraining only because they've got an audience of one eagerly watching their every move. And also because he's hungry. Mostly the first thing, though.

"Pancakes, please!" David requests, because of course he does. If the nine-year-old recognizes the tension brewing between the two adults in the room, he sure doesn't say as much. Instead he asks, "Do you know Mr. Scott's workaround to get extra chocolate chips and maple syrup?," in a way that makes it clear he'd like to explain the process in great detail. Maybe even demonstrate it with his own two hands.

"I don't believe I do," Jim lies. He'll gladly endure a repeat lecture if it means giving his boy an opportunity to show what he's learned, after all. Especially if said lecture involves the possibility of a certain strong, Vulcan hand returning to his lower back.

Chapter Text

The New Year's party is nearly as fabulous as the woman hosting it. Jim can't help but gawk from the moment he steps into Gaila's quarters and notices there's a literal disco ball suspended from the ceiling. "You've outdone yourself tonight, Gail," he tells the Orion honestly once he's able to pick his jaw up from the floor. "Seriously. Do you do birthdays?"

"Jimmy, you flatterer! Come in, come in. Find somewhere to park that cute butt of yours."

"I was just gonna—" Kirk starts, intending to explain that Spock and David are no more than a minute behind. That's when Gaila catches sight of Rand over his shoulder. She doesn't shove the captain out of the way, per se, but Jim does end up having to apologize to a pink-haired lieutenant when he accidentally bumps into her as a result of his Orion friend's haste.

Kirk whirls around to admonish Gaila for her carelessness, only to find her whispering something undoubtedly salacious into Yeoman Rand's ear. The blonde's eyelids flutter shut, mouth twisting into a satisfied smirk, and all at once Jim feels like he's intruding on something he wasn't meant to see. He turns back towards the rest of the party. Scans the well-decorated room in search of its friendliest face. It's Uhura, naturally, who catches his eye — nudging her girlfriend to attention so that they can wave to their captain in unison. "Jim, over here!"

"Hey there, ladies," Jim muses as he slides into the seat across from Nyota. "What're we drinking?"

"Wine, obviously," Christine says with a slight slur to her words. She raises her glass to show Jim its purple-red contents and nearly spills the stuff all over her and Nyota both in the process. Jim exchanges a fond look with his communications officer as she retrieves the blonde's glass and places it on the empty coaster beside her own occupied one.

Just as Chapel is turning her gaze to follow the path of her confiscated beverage, Uhura swoops in with a kiss on the cheek to distract her. Jim can't help but smile when the blonde's face turns bright red. Nyota is smirking when she regains eye-contact with her captain and asks, "Where the hell are your boys, Jim?"

"My boys?" Jim prods, though he knows exactly who Nyota is referring to. He just wants to hear it said out loud. Once the communications officer confirms that she is indeed talking about Spock and David, Jim graciously explains, "They went to drop something off in the labs real quick. Hey, Chris. While we're on the topic of David— you think I could commission you to crochet some civvies for our dear friend Richard?"

"Of course you can," Chapel replies instantly. Her kind smile morphs into something more menacing in the seconds that follow. The nurse sounds oh so very pleased with herself when she adds, "... For the small price of one can of spilled beans, that is."

Uhura bursts out laughing. "That was horrible, babe," she admonishes, but she can't quite manage to keep the smile off her lips. Once she's calmed down, the brunette returns her attention to Jim and softly adds, "We do need details, though. Did you two finally make it official or what?"

"...Not in so many words."

"Aw, come on! Chris here made it sound like the Doc walked in on you two mid-coitus. Was she exaggerating?"

Jim sighs in defeat. "We— okay. Fine. We might've been getting a little hot and heavy" —he pauses to allow both women a few seconds of excited squealing— "but everybody's clothes stayed on. As for us being 'official'? We haven't had the whole feelings talk, per se, but I'm pretty sure he got the gist from my thoughts. And I saw enough of his thoughts to be relatively certain we're on the same page about, uh. Us."

"Wait a second," Nyota starts, eyes narrowing as she assesses her captain. She waits several beats before adding, "You're being serious? About the sharing thoughts, I mean. You and Spock have been mind-melding...?"

"He's a touch telepath, Ny. Don't tell me you've somehow forgotten that fact."

Uhura's confused frown morphs into a huge, excited smile. "Spock and I were together for years and only ever managed to share the vaguest of feelings through surface touch. Never thoughts. We tried fully melding once, and all it did was give me a killer headache. So if the two of you are sharing thoughts without even having to meld..."

"... It seems like you can skip the conversation," Chapel finishes for her. She somehow managed to grab her glass whilst Kirk and Uhura were occupied with their conversation. The nurse downs the rest of her wine before Nyota can take it away again, smacking her lips exaggeratedly to signify that she's done. "Damn. Stuff's good."

Jim's just opening his mouth to ask Uhura for clarification on her bombshell of a revelation when the room erupts into a chorus of cheers. He turns to face the door, elated to find Spock and David standing there with Richard dangling from David's arm between them. Someone shouts, "Welcome back, Mr. Spock!," and the cheering increases tenfold. The captain turns back around, locking eyes with Nyota, and finds her wearing what is perhaps the softest expression he's ever seen on her face (other than the one she wears every time she's looking at Christine, that is).

"Go get your man, Jim. I've gotta get some water in this one before she loses her dinner on Gaila's gorgeous rug."

When Jim turns back around, he finds Spock already staring at him. His breath hitches at the intensity he finds in those brown orbs. Spock, he thinks, wishing the Vulcan could hear his thoughts without them being in physical contact. It's silly —pathetic, even— to miss someone you just saw no less than five minutes ago. To feel downright gleeful upon being reunited with said person. And, well. It's a good thing Jim doesn't care about appearing pathetic. Not when it means he gets to have this.

The Captain stands on slightly-wobbly legs. He moves as if pulled by some sort of magnet, closer and closer, until—

"Jim!" David exclaims, running towards his father at full force. Jim can see that the kid is on a collision course but he doesn't move. Just stands still, smiling wide, and lets David bombard him with an unexpected (though decidedly not unwelcome) hug.

"Hey, bud. You all right...?"

"Mr. Spock got a comm on our way here, Jim, and guess what? Our shipment of kites just arrived at Xyl-Hix's compound!"

Jim and Spock lock eyes over the boy's head. He's staring his Vulcan right in the eye when he says, "That's amazing, David. You're amazing. Both of you."

"Don't forget Richard," the boy admonishes, pulling back so he can see his father's face. Jim (somewhat reluctantly) tears his gaze away from Spock's. Smiles down at the nine-year-old with an expression that he can only hope conveys the depths of his pride and affection.

"Richard too, obviously. He's only the most amazing bunny there ever was. I thought that went without saying."

"It does, but he still likes to hear it. Just make sure you tell him in his good ear."

It's a wonderful evening, to say the least. At one point Chapel, who is in the middle of a conversation with David, sprints out of the room without explanation. Uhura follows her, and they're all pretty sure the nurse must've gotten sick — up until the point when Christine returns, measuring tape in hand, and exclaims, "We found it!"

"Oh, great!" David replies, and then promptly spends the next seven-or-so minutes assisting Chapel as she takes a stuffed animal's measurements. Uhura watches on fondly, wearing the sort of expression that makes Jim wonder if she's imagining she and her girlfriend having children of their own one day.

Jim's so engrossed in his son's activities that he doesn't realize he, too, is being watched. Not until he finally looks away from David and finds himself captive beneath Spock's heated stare. Oh. Were the two of them always standing this close...?

"You haven't consumed any alcohol," Spock murmurs — more statement than question.

"Yeah," the human breathes weakly. He can't seem to tear his gaze away from Spock's. 

"May I inquire as to why?"

Jim couldn't stop the sly smile from crossing his lips if he tried. "I'd like to be one hundred percent present for what I've got planned tonight," he purrs. After a beat of silence, Spock's cheeks turn the most gorgeous shade of green. I could get used to this, Jim thinks, and for once in his life that sort of realization doesn't terrify him to his very core.

David is allowed stay up past midnight — on the condition that he be in his own bed no later than 0030. This curfew serves the dual purpose of giving Jim and Spock a strict out for the night. A reason to exit without being labeled 'party poopers' in the process. What it doesn't take into account, however, is just how many human traditions involve kissing.

(Maybe they should've gone with 2330 instead.)

Jim's no stranger to the concept of a midnight kiss. He can't remember a New Year's Eve in the last fifteen years that he hasn't —at the very least— landed a big, sloppy smooch on Bones's cheek. He's got no excuse for the fact that David of all people has to remind him of the tradition by not-so-innocently asking, "Will you and Mr. Spock be kissing at midnight?"

The captain makes the mistake of assuming that Spock's not paying attention. The Vulcan is seated directly to his left on Gaila's loveseat, engaged in an undoubtedly riveting conversation about botany with one Hikaru Sulu. That said, Spock barely misses a beat before he cranes his neck to face Jim and David, expression emotionless as ever, and replies, "Yes."

Which would be fine, probably, if Jim hadn't said "No" at the exact same time. Kirk balks for a moment before uttering a confused, breathy, "Oh."

"My apologies, Captain. I assumed—"

"No, no. I assumed—"

Jim's interrupted by the tickle of something foreign brushing against his forehead. He cranes his neck to look up, though he sort of already knows what he'll find waiting for him there: Gaila's green hand dangling that damned mistletoe above his and Spock's heads. Because of course she kept the thing for just this purpose.

Jim hesitates at first. Is this really the venue for he and Spock to have their first public kiss? Then he locks eyes with the Vulcan. Sees the undeniable heat in Spock's eyes. Just like that, all reason goes out the window. Jim barely gets out a strangled, "Aw, fuck it," before he's leaning in to capture Spock's mouth with his own. He's barely cognizant of their friends' uproarious cheering — too caught up in the taste of Spock's lips and the way those fingers feel against his own.

Jim, the Vulcan thinks heatedly. Ashayam. The words resonate through the human's head with such devotion and reverence that Jim nearly mounts the man all over again. Then he remembers where they are —who they're with— and reluctantly pulls back. Forces himself to look away from Spock's green-flushed face and breathe evenly. 

Soon, Jim thinks. He doesn't realize it's a promise until Spock echoes the word back at him through their still-connected hands. It's enough to send chills up and down the human's spine.

"Holy shit," Gaila says, bringing Jim out of his mind and back into the present with startling clarity.

"Language," the captain admonishes (as if he himself didn't drop an f-bomb less than a minute earlier). 

The Orion snorts. She drops the mistletoe in Jim's lap, sounding smug as all hell when she leans in to his left ear and murmurs, "The pheromones never lie, Jimmy. Never." Gaila waits a moment, then says louder, "Who's got the betting sheets? Did anybody put money on a pre-midnight kiss...?"

When the actual countdown to midnight happens, Jim tries his best to keep things chaste. Even the gentlest of pecks feels like a strike of goddamned lightning deep within his core. It doesn't help at all that his Vulcan keeps on looking at him like he's something to eat (which Jim may very well be, but not here. not yet).

0030 can't come soon enough.

They leave fifteen minutes after midnight. David, who is essentially dead on his feet, ends up needing to be carried all the way there. The sight of Spock holding his sleepy, happy son fills Jim's chest with a fluttery sort of warmth. It's a feeling that's becoming more and more common in the captain's life. A feeling he could get used to.

David's a bit more awake by the time they enter his quarters. He manages to stand up on his own — albeit not without a bit of swaying back and forth. Jim smirks when he notices Spock readying himself to catch the boy if need be. Always so thoughtful.

"What's first, David?" Jim prods gently, capturing the sleepy child's attention. "Teeth or PJs?"

"Jammies," David grumbles, gesturing weakly towards his dresser. "Want the red ones."

Jim chuckles. Since when did his son get so bossy? Before he can think to wonder if he should admonish the boy for essentially ordering others around, Spock is there at the dresser. He gestures to the top drawer. Gets a shake of the head from David. Then he points at the next drawer down. This time, David nods. 

"The red ones," the boy repeats, and Jim could swear he sees the ghost of a smile on Spock's lips.

Jim, Spock, and David are standing together in front of the sink. The boy's in the middle —mostly because neither adult is entirely certain he won't fall asleep standing up— and he's wearing a smile so big Jim wonders if his cheeks hurt. 

Naturally, the nine-year-old takes one look at Spock's newly-replicated Vulcan toothpaste and asks, "Can I try some?"

"You really don't want to," Jim insists immediately. "Trust me, kid. I learned the hard way."

"It is an unfavorable experience for humans," Spock admits, his serious tone causing both Jim and David to let out twin giggles. Spock raises his eyebrow. That only eggs the duo on further, and Jim ends up having to clutch onto the sink to avoid melting into a puddle on the ground.

Eventually, they get their shit together enough to all brush their teeth in unison in front of the mirror — the very same mirror where Captain and First Officer spent many a night doing just this. Gazes locked via their reflections (in a totally-completely-platonic way, of course).

The whole scene is, frankly, disgustingly domestic. It's also possibly the greatest night of Jim's entire life.

David is asleep pretty much as soon as his head hits the pillow. He's got a tight, protective grip around Richard's worn-out form. Jim's convinced that even Vulcan strength couldn't break the two of them apart when they're like this.

"Sweet dreams, David," Kirk whispers, reaching out to brush a stray curl from the boy's forehead. He hesitates for just a second before leaning forward and pressing a gentle kiss to the newly-bared skin. Jim pulls back, sparing one last glance at the child before he softly adds, "Happy New Year."

Then he turns to face Spock. Gestures towards the bathroom door by way of invitation.

✧ ✦ ✧

It's a frenzy of kissing and touching from the instant they enter Jim's quarters. Kirk gasps when he's shoved against the nearest wall. A hot tongue takes advantage of the action, sliding past his lips and making Jim feel impossibly breathless in the best sort of way. Strong hands come up under his thighs and lift him off the ground. Instinct has Jim wrapping both legs around a lithe Vulcan waist, and then. Goddamn.

The press of their bodies is downright electric. 

"Spock," Jim manages between kisses. He's got one hand tangled in Spock's hair whilst the other fumbles uselessly at the buttons running all down the front of the Vulcan's shirt. "I want— you gotta-"

In a devastatingly attractive display of physical strength, Spock transfers all of Jim's weight to one arm and uses the other to undo his own shirt buttons one by one. Jim's got just enough wherewithal to assist (if you can even call it that) by untucking the garment from the other man's pants. He moves to undo Spock's belt, too, but Spock stops him with his one free hand. "In time, ashayam. I wish to enjoy you without haste."

The human opens his mouth to argue, only to be shut up by what is perhaps the filthiest kiss he's ever experienced. Fuck, he thinks, and through their connection Spock seems almost smug.

In time, yes. You will require thorough preparation first.

Jim sputters in response to the unexpected quip. "You—" he starts, then cuts himself off in favor of kissing Spock all over again. You're insufferable, he thinks. The words lack any real bite. He pushes at the fabric still clinging to Spock's shoulders. Tries and fails to remove the garment. He's caught off-guard by his own desperation when he mentally insists: Off, now. Need to see you.

There's a flicker of something like amusement in Spock's gaze. He carries his lover towards a bed that's been half-empty for far too long. Deposits Jim gingerly at its edge, pressing a too-quick kiss to the human's lips before he steps back and shrugs off the unbuttoned garment.

The sight just about takes Jim's breath away.

Spock so rarely shows skin beyond his face and hands. Jim's seen the guy in various states of undress, of course, but only ever out of necessity. Spock stripped down to his underwear when they were sharing a bed down on Xylos. He'll gladly change clothes in a locker room setting (and has, much to Jim's secret delight, after their occasional sparring matches). Nine times out of ten, however, the man's covered from the neck down.

Hell, he was wearing a damn wetsuit the one and only time Jim saw him swimming recreationally. Who even does that?

So. Yeah. Jim takes a good, long gander at the bare-chested man before him. Takes in the sight of that impossibly soft chest hair. At muscles so often hidden beneath layers of fabric. Jim leans back on his forearms, eyelids heavy with arousal, and whistles. Goddamn.

Then Spock goes and surprises him by asking, "Am I satisfactory?," and Jim's brain just about short-circuits. 

"C'mere," the human demands. He scoots up a bit further on the bed to make room for the Vulcan. Leans back on one elbow, so he can use his free hand to pat at the open space between his legs. He utilizes his most sultry voice to add, "Gotta gather a bit more data before I can come to a conclusion on that." 

The mattress dips slightly under the Vulcan's weight. Spock begins crawling towards Jim. His movements are slow and methodical, like he's got all the time in the world. Like Jim isn't mere seconds away from losing it at the mere sight and sound of him. At the lingering taste of Spock echoing on his tongue.

"C'mere," Jim repeats, voice thick with arousal. 

Spock comes to kneel between Jim's spread legs. His hands, both gentle and lethal in equal parts, ghost over the fastening on the human's belt buckle. "May I?" he breathes. Jim nods enthusiastically. All at once he's caught in the gravity of those wide, brown eyes. In the feeling of Vulcan hands skirting over his waistline. There's a soft click, followed by the unmistakable sound of a zipper.

Then a pathetic, high-pitched whimper that could've only come from Jim's own treacherous lips.

Is Jim really this affected by another person removing his damn pants? They haven't even gotten to the good part yet. "Spock," he manages through gritted teeth, because he'd really rather this didn't end before it even has time to begin. "You're killing me here."

"I am doing no such thing."

The words are punctuated by a gentle tug on the waist of Jim's slacks. The human dutifully lifts off the bed so the garment can be pulled over the curve of his ass. He smirks when Spock's hands linger on the fabric of his briefs for a few seconds longer than is strictly necessary. Jim's tempted to suggest the Vulcan go ahead and remove those, too, but he's nearly certain that every display of impatience is being meticulously catalogued for some unseen, potentially nefarious (yet undoubtedly sexy) purpose.

Only once Jim adjusts his position —moving further back so he can actually get some use out of his mountain of pillows— does Spock's expression morph from arousal, to confusion, and then into something more like satisfaction. "I believe that belongs to me," he says. Raises one brow in that teasing, questioning way of his.

Shit. Jim forgot about the pillow he stole when Spock was still trapped on Xylos.

"It... might," Kirk allows shakily. He can't seem to stop staring into those perfect brown eyes.

"For what reason did you remove the item from my quarters?"

Jim snorts. "Thought you were supposed to be some sort of genius, Commander. Why do you think I stole your pillow...?"

Spock crawls further up the bed. Closer and closer to Jim. Finds his way between newly-bared thighs. For a few seconds, Jim genuinely forgets how to breathe. "I would surmise that you missed me in my absence, Captain," the Vulcan murmurs, his face suddenly mere centimeters away from Jim's own.

"I might've," Jim just barely manages to croak out. He tilts his chin up, eyes burning hot with desire. Gets his fill of the blown pupils and green-flushed skin which both hint to his Vulcan's arousal. Kiss me, Jim begs through their mental connection.

Spock complies without hesitation.