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Chapter Text

S’Chn T’Gai Spock came down like the wolf on the fold,

As his logic was gleaming in all blue and gold;

And the sheen of his hair was like stars on the sea,

When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,

His Vulcan logic could not be unseen:

Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,

That logic on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Love spread his winds on the blast,

And looked in the face of the Spock as he passed;

And the logic of Spock waxed deadly and chill,

And his sense but once heaved, now for ever grew still!

And there lay his logic distorted and pale,

With no understanding of how it could fail:

And the Vulcans were silent, only he was alone,

And when he looked up, Jim called him home!

Chapter Text

His captain was dead.

As his head cleared, Spock became aware of the leather straps of the ahn-woon clenched in his hands, his knuckles white and bloodless. Jim’s lifeless body lay slumped beneath him, his head held aloft only by the leather coiled around his neck.

The same leather Spock had used to strangle him moments before.

McCoy stepped in, moving protectively between Spock and Jim as he assessed the captain’s condition.

“Get your hands off him, Spock,” he snapped, wrenching the ahn-woon from Spock’s grip—now limp with shock.

“It’s finished,” McCoy said coldly. “He’s dead.”

Jim was dead. And Spock had been the one to kill him.

Numbness settled over him as he turned away from his captain—his friend—and walked calmly across the arena.

He supposed he should be grateful for the numbness. It was easier to compartmentalize than the raw grief and horror clawing at the edges of his consciousness. T’Pau was watching, after all.

He may have destroyed one of the most important things in his life, but at least he could still salvage some semblance of dignity before one of the most respected living Vulcans.

Removing the kal-if-fee battle sash from his chest, he forced himself to glance back—to McCoy… and to Jim.

Illogical as it was, Spock had almost expected Jim to be standing beside the doctor, alive and well, as he always was. Perhaps giving him that small, amused half-smile he often wore when Spock had said something he found funny, though Spock rarely understood why.

But Jim’s body still lay prone in the ancestral sands of Vulcan, and McCoy fixed Spock with a hard, ice-blue glare as he stepped forward.

“Strange as it may seem, Mr. Spock—you’re in command now. Any orders?”

His tone carried a bitter edge, almost sarcastic in its disbelief. Almost.

Spock couldn’t look away from Jim. The numbness was ebbing, replaced by a growing tide of guilt and grief. Jim—decisive, courageous, painfully human—was now a corpse.

They needed to leave. He needed to leave.

He needed solitude. Time to meditate. Time to regain control over the emotions threatening to break through his carefully composed façade.

I did this. I killed Jim.

McCoy was still waiting for an answer.

“Yes,” Spock said at last, his voice distant, but calm. “I’ll… follow you up in a few minutes. You will instruct Mr. Chekov to plot a course for the nearest starbase.”

Finally, he tore his gaze from Jim to meet McCoy’s eyes. The ceremonial bells chimed in the dry breeze, filling the silence of the arena.

“…Where I must surrender myself to the authorities.”

It was logical, of course. He had killed—whether by instinct, madness, or ritual—what most, including himself, considered the finest starship captain in the fleet. T’Pau might grant him amnesty, but he would not permit himself to escape judgment.

McCoy had always harbored a streak of xenophobia, often making Spock feel lesser for not being fully human. Spock had leaned into his Vulcan identity in response, taking pride in his logic, in his control.

Now, under McCoy’s withering, hate-filled stare, there was no comfort in that identity. Because it was the Vulcan in him—the alien—that had killed Jim.

He had always been ashamed of his human half. It was weak. Illogical. But human Spock would not have succumbed to the pon farr. Human Spock would not have throttled his best friend.

When McCoy and Jim’s body dissolved in a swirl of golden sparks, Spock turned and approached T’Pring. She was merely another Vulcan now. Beautiful, yes, but no longer the object of a blood-fueled madness.

He needed to understand. He did not blame her—she had acted within her rights, and he had acted within his instincts. But… why?

“Stonn wanted me. I wanted him.”

Had he not just killed his captain, Spock might have felt anger at her cold delivery—but now, he only felt confusion. What logic was there in choosing Jim as her champion? Why Stonn, over him? He did not feel jealousy—only a desire to comprehend.

“You have become much known among our people, Spock—almost a legend,” she explained. “And as the years passed, I knew I did not wish to be the consort of a legend. By the laws of our people, I could only divorce you by the kal-if-fee. If your captain were victorious, he would not want me, and I would have Stonn. If you were victorious, you would free me, because I dared to challenge—and again I would have Stonn. And if you did not free me, it would be the same, for you would be gone, and Stonn would still remain.”

It was in moments like these that Spock was acutely aware of his dual nature. He had made decisions rooted in logic before—many times. But unlike T’Pring, he never forgot that logic did not absolve the consequences of emotion. Even when he disregarded it, he still understood it.

T’Pring’s decision was logical. Perfectly so. Regardless of the outcome, she would be with Stonn.

But she did not care about the cost. Not to Spock. Not to Jim. It was illogical to care.

Spock would have cared.

“Logical,” he said. “Flawlessly… logical.” Then he looked to Stonn. “Stonn, she is yours.”

He could have stopped there. Could have left to reflect on the day's events as the Enterprise made its way toward judgment.

But he didn’t.

“After a time,” he added, “you may find that having is not so pleasing a thing… as wanting. It is not logical—but it is often true.”

Stonn met his gaze with cool neutrality. T’Pring looked away. Perhaps, somewhere beneath the surface, there was guilt after all.

Turning toward T’Pau, he raised his hand in the ta’al, mirroring hers.

“Live long, T’Pau… and prosper.”

“Live long and prosper, Spock,” she replied in her deep, accented Standard.

He lowered his hand slowly, shaking his head as sorrow finally broke through his control.

“I shall do neither. I have killed my captain… and my friend.”

T’Pau’s hand dropped to her side. For a moment, something like sadness passed across her usually impassive face.

Spock turned and opened his communicator.

“Energize.”

The wedding party, T’Pau, and the heat of his homeworld dissolved in golden light. A moment later, he felt the grounding thrum of the transporter pad beneath his feet.

Thankfully, the doctor and captain were nowhere to be seen. Only Mr. Scott stood at the transporter controls, snapping Spock a silent salute. He said nothing.

Spock didn’t bother to inquire about the engineer’s thoughts on his captain’s death—or where McCoy had taken the body. Sickbay, presumably. He offered a brief nod in acknowledgment and headed for his quarters.

Clearly, the captain’s death had not yet been announced to the crew. Engineers, science officers, and ensigns passed Spock in the cold corridors without so much as a glance. They went about their duties, unaware that James T. Kirk had been asphyxiated by his own first officer.

Spock’s respiratory rate had begun to climb—unrelated to exertion. He was already breathing 12% faster than his baseline.

Jim is dead. I killed Jim.

He quickened his pace, feeling the last remnants of Vulcan control slip in the face of a jagged, overwhelming grief.

Once inside his quarters, he turned to the door’s interfacing computer and locked it with trembling fingers. He then backed into the cold metal, pressing his weight to the door, as a wave of primal emotion crashed over his mind. One hand flew to his face, fingers pressing against his eyes as if he could physically restrain the tears threatening to fall. His other hand clutched the door frame, steadying himself.

“I am in control of my emotions,” he said aloud to the empty room.

But his voice betrayed him—thick, uneven, fractured.

He gasped again, struggling to draw breath. His hand dropped to his side, balling itself into a tight fist.

“I’m an officer,” he hissed, shaking his head as if that might dislodge the grief clawing at him.

First, the uncontrollable aggression brought on by the pon farr. Now, the uncontrollable sorrow. It was as though a lifetime of careful discipline had evaporated in mere days.

Staggering to his desk, he dropped into the chair and pressed his hands flat to its surface, as if the contact might stabilize him. His breathing slowed incrementally, but his chest still heaved with residual tremors.

It was as if a part of him had died with Jim. A part he hadn’t realized was so integral to his very being.

What had life been like before James T. Kirk?

Logically, he could remember. His mnemonist memory could recall the years before Kirk’s command in exacting detail. And yet… those years felt distant, as if he had studied them in a text rather than lived them. Muted. Dull. Meaningless beside the vivid reality of his time serving under Jim.

How could he possibly live with himself now?

The thought wracked his body with a violent sob.

“I’m sorry,” he choked, the words barely forming. He raised trembling hands toward the computer, trying—failing—to reclaim control. He inhaled sharply, shaking his head.

Minutes passed in silence as he fought himself—battling the grief that threatened to consume him, refusing to relinquish control no matter how desperately he wanted to.

I am Vulcan first. That was what he had always told himself.

His humanity was an inconvenience. A flaw. An illogical problem with no solution but to bury it.

He forced his thoughts away from the pain, redirecting his mind toward structure—toward logic. If he could assign himself a problem to solve, perhaps it would distract his human side long enough to beat it back into submission.

He had experienced loss before. Not by his own hand, granted—but ensigns under his command, family, even individuals he might have considered friends. Starfleet was, by its nature, a dangerous profession. Yet through all those losses, he had never reacted as he did now.

Why?

Certainly, the circumstances of Jim’s death would weigh more heavily—ritual combat, a loss born of madness—but never before had grief overtaken him so completely. Never had control slipped so far.

It was as if he had lost the other half of his soul. As if he had lost his bondmate.

Illogical.

He and Jim were not bondmates. They were not intimate.

And yet, he grieved as if he had lost a mate. And that… he could not reconcile.

Perhaps he grieved the loss of a captain more than a friend. Without Kirk, the Enterprise would be reassigned—to someone less experienced, less courageous… lesser.

No one could compare to James T. Kirk. Statistically, at least.

He held the highest mission success rate in the fleet. He was—or rather, had—been a brilliant tactician, capable of decisive command while still maintaining the highest regard for life—all life. He had risked his life for his crew 134 times. Spock’s own performance had improved by 28% since Kirk had assumed command of the Enterprise—though he would never admit that to Admiral Pike.

As he considered these facts, his heart rate began to slow. His breathing steadied, gradually returning to its baseline rhythm.

He was no closer to a solution. But thinking through the why—the patterns, the logic—was easier than remembering the physical sensation of Jim’s body struggling beneath the tightening leather noose.

Spock allowed himself a final exhale as calm settled once more across his thoughts. With his composure reasserted, he rose to his feet, clasped his hands behind his back, and turned toward the door. If nothing else, his next steps were clear.

In precise and measured steps, he made his way to sickbay.

He entered and came to stand before McCoy and Nurse Chapel, clasping his hands loosely behind his back.

“Doctor, I shall be resigning my commission immediately, of course.”

“Uh, Spock—” McCoy attempted to interject, but Spock didn’t let him finish. He needed to get the words out while his composure held.

“—So I would appreciate you making the final arrangements.”

“Spock, I—” McCoy tried again.

“Doctor, please. Let me finish.” Spock drew in a controlled breath. “There can be no excuse for the crime of which I am guilty. I intend to offer no defense. Furthermore, I shall order Mr. Scott to take immediate command of this vessel—”

But whatever else he meant to say vanished in an instant, as a soft, familiar voice cut through the air behind him.

“Don’t you think you better check with me first?”

Spock’s head snapped around so quickly he nearly pulled a muscle in his neck—but he didn’t register the pain. Because there, standing just inside the door, alive and unmistakably real, was Jim. Unharmed. Smiling. Laughing softly.

“Captain!” Spock exclaimed, eyes wide, fixed on Jim as if he couldn’t trust what he was seeing.

Jim stepped forward to join McCoy, but Spock reached out, stopping him with both hands, pulling him close—needing confirmation.

Jim was alive. Cool human skin beneath his gold command shirt. Heart beating evenly. Breathing.

No amount of Vulcan discipline could stop the joy from breaking across Spock’s face. His features lifted, unguarded, as his face broke into a wide smile.

“Jim!” he cried with pure, unfiltered relief.

Then, as quickly as it had come, his expression sobered—embarrassment flaring at the realization of the others present. But the moment had already happened.

And everyone had seen it.

McCoy’s mouth curled into a twitching grin, as if he were trying—and failing—not to burst out laughing at the absurdity of the situation. Nurse Chapel, by contrast, simply smiled at them openly.

Spock took a moment to compose himself, burying his embarrassment as best he could. He lowered his hands, straightened the hem of his uniform, and clasped them neatly at the small of his back.

“I am… pleased to see you, Captain. You appear… uninjured. I am at something of a loss to understand it, however.”

“Blame McCoy,” Jim said lightly. “That was no tri-ox compound he shot me with. He slipped in a neural paralyzer. Knocked me out. Simulated death.”

“Indeed,” Spock managed, lifting his brows. He may have regained physical control of his expression, but the storm inside had not abated. His heart hammered in his side. His palms dampened with adrenaline behind his back. Though he tried to focus on McCoy—who was now speaking quietly to Chapel—his eyes kept flicking back to Jim.

He wanted to touch him again. To confirm his presence. To feel the truth beneath his fingertips. There was always a flicker of sensation when they touched—a subtle resonance that offered a glimpse into the captain’s mind. Waves of relief and joy surged through him now, so intense it bordered on concern.

The captain was alive. McCoy had made a logical, decisive call. So why couldn’t Spock’s body accept it? Why did his heart still race, his equilibrium still falter? Why were his feelings of elation so impossible to contain?

With Ms. Chapel dismissed McCoy turned to him in excitement, all trace of the anger and judgment he’d exhibited toward Spock on Vulcan gone. Spock had the fleeting thought that maybe the doctor should’ve been a thespian instead.

“Spock, what happened down there? The girl, the wedding?”

T’Pring.

Spock’s mind stalled for a beat. What had happened with her?

By the logic of ritual, by the biological violence of the palak tow, he should have been compelled to complete the bond—should have mated with his chosen bride. And yet...

“Ah yes, the girl. Most interesting. It must have been the combat. When I thought I’d killed the captain, I found I’d lost all interest in T’Pring. The madness was gone.”

If the humans had any further questions, they were thankfully interrupted by a communique from Lieutenant Uhura. Spock had answered their inquiries. It was his own that lingered—the why behind his lost interest in his former intended.

With Starfleet aligned with their temporary course deviation to Vulcan, Spock and Kirk left sickbay for the bridge. But not before McCoy made one last jab—insisting Spock had been on the verge of a “highly emotional reunion” with his “miraculously alive” captain.

Of course, it was only logical to feel relief. Jim was an exceptional starship captain—competent, principled, and strategic. Yet as they stepped into the corridor, Spock found himself wondering what his reaction might have been… had they been alone.

Would he have held onto Jim longer? Allowed himself a few more moments of visible emotion?

Of all the individuals Spock had ever known, Jim was the only one around whom he allowed his human side even partial liberty. Not often. But enough to believe that—if they had been alone—he might have done more than hold Jim briefly at arm’s length.

Chapter Text

User: Kirk, James. T

Personal Log – Star Date: 3196.1

Mr. Spock has been acting… differently since our brief stop on Vulcan, where the pon farr took place. He’s been performing his duties just as admirably as ever, but he seems to be avoiding me—for reasons I can’t quite grasp.

Maybe he’s embarrassed that I saw him in such an unguarded state. But this isn’t the first time I’ve had to push through that near-impenetrable Vulcan resolve of his. And besides, he’s been acting perfectly normal around Bones.

I can’t see a reason for the distance. “Awkward” is the only word I can come up with, though it feels too simple for whatever this is.

I’ve tried to ask him—over meals he used to regularly share with me, but now takes in the mess hall. I’ve tried inviting him to chess, games that used to be our routine… now untouched for over a month.

Bones hasn’t been much help either. He says Spock has returned to his usual self in every measurable way. Every way except when it comes to our friendship.

So how do I fix something I didn’t realize I’d broken?

How do you ask an unemotional man to tell you what’s wrong?

Spock found the past few weeks to be more… challenging than was typical.

Illogical, considering nothing of consequence had changed in his life since Vulcan—aside from the dissolution of his betrothal, which he deemed irrelevant. He and T’Pring had been strangers, promised to each other in childhood and little more. While undergoing the pon farr had been… enlightening, providing him with a deeper understanding of his Vulcan biology, it had not left him markedly changed.

And yet, he found himself unable to resume the normalcy of life aboard the Enterprise.

Specifically… regarding the captain.

There was a newfound agitation that stirred in him whenever Jim was near. A strange tension, like a phantom itch beneath the skin, one that intensified each time the captain cast his bright hazel eyes toward the science station on the bridge.

It was, of course, illogical. He had not altered any of his hygiene products, nor come into contact with any new substances that might provoke such a physical response. Nonetheless, the sensation was real—and deeply uncomfortable.

He considered whether it might be some unknown aftereffect of the pon farr—perhaps a telepathic tethering to those who had witnessed the ritual. But McCoy had been present as well, and there had been no perceptible shift in their dynamic. No… the change was singular.

It was only with Jim.

Unable to discern the cause of this strange idiosyncrasy—a fact he refused to admit was frustrating him—Spock chose instead to ignore it.

Spock increased his time in the laboratories, citing research efficiency, and shifted his meal schedule to avoid overlap with the captain’s. He told himself it was logical. It didn’t feel that way.

So really, he should not have been surprised when Jim appeared in the lab upon their arrival at Janus VI, requesting Spock’s presence on the landing party.

“Captain, I am quite in the middle of something,” Spock replied, his eyes fixed on the microscope. “I’m sure there are many other science officers who can be spared.”

“I would like you, specifically, to accompany us, Mr. Spock. Something—or someone—is killing those miners, and I intend to find out what it is.”

“A pergium mine is hardly a site of scientific interest, Captain. I would think a security team would be better suited to your expedition than I.”

Spock continued adjusting the microscope’s focus, pointedly avoiding Jim’s gaze.

There was a pause. Then:

“Fine, Mr. Spock. If you won’t accept my invitation, consider it an order.”

With that, Jim turned and exited before Spock could offer any further protest.

Alone in the laboratory he straightened and allowed himself a frustrated sigh, before pushing his chair back and heading for the transporter room.

Spock could admit the mining colony possessed a certain grandeur.

The office where they met the chief engineer featured a wide window overlooking a massive cavern filled with towering machinery—and this was merely the uppermost level of the mine. According to the colony’s report, fifty miners had been killed by… something. The engineer—Vanderberg—referred to it as a “monster.”

Highly improbable. The mine had been operational for decades without incident. And yet, as Spock gathered more facts, he found it increasingly difficult to dismiss the claim outright.

The victims, according to Dr. McCoy, had been burned to death—corrosive damage resembling acid exposure. No known environmental or mechanical factor within the mine accounted for such injuries. And given the mine’s role as a vital pergium supplier, the situation was of critical importance to Starfleet.

Spock found himself… intrigued.

The frustration he had felt earlier—at being ordered onto the landing party, and the swift way Jim had left the lab before he could further protest—had long since dissipated, replaced now by scientific curiosity.

There was no volcanic activity to explain the damage. According to Vanderberg, the danger appeared to be migrating—initially confined to the lower levels, but moving steadily upward. The most recent death had occurred just three levels below the main living quarters.

Even more curious was the eyewitness testimony. A technician named Appel had claimed to see the creature firsthand—describing it as large, hairy, and very much alive. Yet tricorder scans had detected no other life signs in the mine. Appel had even landed a direct phaser hit on it—to no effect.

Fascinating.

As Vanderberg and Appel departed to allow the team to strategize, Spock felt a brief surge of irritation. The interaction had been distinctly unpleasant. Vanderberg was gruff, impatient, and dismissive. Logically, Spock understood the stress the man was under—deadlines, pressure, fear—but it didn’t excuse his attitude.

Spock rarely took offense at such human rudeness when directed at himself. He had long since learned to disregard it.

But when it was directed at Jim… that was another matter.

They were here to help. Starfleet had sent its flagship—commanded by the most accomplished captain in the fleet—to assist. And still, these men had treated Jim without the respect he clearly deserved.

Spock inhaled deeply and pushed the frustration aside. It served no purpose. Least of all here, where they had a job to do.

Their musings were interrupted suddenly by an alarm, and immediately Kirk was sprinting to the door, Spock and McCoy breaking into a run behind the captain.

Another death. And something that plunged the situation from urgent to critical: the main circulating pump for the reactor was gone—without replacement. Within hours, the reactor would overload, rendering the mine, and half the planet, inhospitable.

That the creature had the intelligence to strike the one piece of equipment essential to the colony’s survival was… fascinating.

This was no ordinary animal.

With Mr. Scott called in to install a temporary fix, buying them a few hours, Spock, Kirk, and McCoy returned to the main engineering office to formulate a plan.

“The missing pump was not taken by accident. It was the one piece of equipment absolutely essential to the operation of the reactor.” Spock began.

“You think the creature is trying to push the colonists of the planet? But why now, Mr. Spock? These facilities have been in operation for over fifty years.”

“I do not know,” Spock admitted, before turning his attention to the large, purple silicon sphere he had examined earlier on Vanderberg’s desk.

“Captain, life as we know it is universally based on some combination of carbon compounds. But what if life existed… based on another element? For instance—silicon.”

Jim’s expression shifted from taut concentration to wide-eyed interest. Spock felt his heart rate increase by approximately 4%. He ignored it. There was no logical reason for the change.

McCoy huffed, incredulous. “You’re creating fantasies, Mr. Spock.”

Spock simply stared at him.

But Jim—Jim leaned in, eyes alight. “Not necessarily. I’ve heard of the theoretical possibility of life based on silicon. But… silicon-based life would be of an entirely different order.”

He paused, frowning in thought, then nodded slowly. “It’s possible our phasers might not affect it.”

A flicker of warmth passed through Spock’s chest.

It was moments like these in which he couldn’t deny the thorough enjoyment he experienced in working with Jim. The man’s mind was curious like his own, willing to consider any, and all possibilities—however outlandish they may appear.

“Certainly not a brief hit.”

“Alright, how about this…” Jim began pacing, his voice quickening with momentum. “A creature that lives deep within the planet, at home in solid rock. To survive, it would need some kind of natural armor plating.”

He turned back toward them, energized. “That could explain a lot—if we can adjust our phasers to be more effective against silicon…”

Jim grinned at Spock—clearly enjoying the shared mental sparring.

“Silicon-based life is physiologically impossible. Especially in an oxygen-rich atmosphere,” McCoy cut in.

Spock approached the silicon sphere again, fixing his gaze on it. “That may be, Doctor—yet it is my working hypothesis.”

A theory had begun to form in his mind. Unlikely, certainly. But considering they might be dealing with something that defied accepted science—it was not entirely outside the realm of possibility.

Jim mentioned dispatching a team of security officers with modified phasers, but Spock barely registered it. His mind was fixed on the orb.

A moment later, he realized Jim had come to stand opposite him, silently observing.

“You seem… fascinated by this rock,” Jim said softly, glancing between the sphere and Spock with clear expectation.

Another quality Spock hadn’t realized he missed during their recent distance: the captain’s willingness to not just accept, but value his curiosity. Encourage it, even.

“Yes, Captain.” Spock replied, picking up the sphere and turning it in his hands, “You recall that Vanderberg commented that there were thousands of these at a lower level. The level which the machinery opened just prior to the first appearance of the creature.”

The phantom itch returned as Spock spoke. The way Jim looked at him—with such intensity, as if he were the only being in the galaxy—was… unsettling.

“Do they tie in?”

Spock hesitated. McCoy was watching, his face already lined with doubt.

“I… don’t know,” Spock said quietly, returning his gaze to Jim’s bright, sparkling stare.

“Speculate,” Jim urged, without hesitation.

McCoy stepped forward, his skepticism barely concealed, awaiting what he clearly expected to be nonsense.

Spock turned back to the orb, his expression one of typical Vulcan neutrality—but for a keen observer, there might have been a trace of discomfort. Perhaps even regret.

“I have already given Dr. McCoy sufficient cause for amusement,” he said at last. “I would prefer to cogitate on the possibilities for a time.”

Not untrue. But not the full truth, either. He had a theory—and had it been only Jim and himself, he likely would have shared it.

A flicker of disappointment crossed Jim’s face.

“A short time, Mr. Spock,” he said quietly. “We have very little.”

With the security team assembled and phasers adjusted, the landing party entered the mine in pairs—Jim, unsurprisingly, with Spock.

Conflicting flashes of appreciation and trepidation passed quickly through Spock’s mind before he tamped them down, focusing instead on the task at hand.

He adjusted his tricorder to detect high silicon concentrations as they walked, and soon, something registered.

Jim stepped in close behind him. “Traces?”

“A lifeform, Captain. Bearing 111 degrees, elevation four degrees.”

Spock tried to ignore how close Jim was. The captain was simply looking over his shoulder at the tricorder readings, as he had done countless times before—2,443 to be exact. And yet now, Spock was acutely aware of Jim’s breath brushing the back of his neck. The warmth of his presence.

“One of our people?” Jim asked.

Spock refocused. “No, sir. Silicon.”

Jim continued forward, brushing past him lightly.

Moments later, a scream echoed down the tunnel—and they ran.

An ensign. Mr. Ford, Spock believed. Though by the time they reached him, the man was unrecognizable—nothing more than a smoldering stain on the rocky floor.

Jim’s brows knit together in concern. “It’s only been a few seconds since we heard him, the creature must still be around.”

Spock activated his tricorder, giving Jim a moment to process the loss. He knew how deeply Jim felt the death of his crew, regardless of rank.

One of the tunnels glowed with residual heat.

“Captain,” Spock called, scanning. “This tunnel. My readings indicate it was created mere moments ago.”

Jim peered into the blackness. “This tunnel goes back as far as the eye can see. Our best equipment couldn’t cut a path like this—not even with phasers.”

“Indeed. I find myself at something of a loss—”

A sudden shuffling behind them cut him off.

They spun. And there it was.

The creature.

Vanderberg’s use of the word monster no longer seemed so far-fetched. It was massive—Spock estimated its weight between 90 and 120 kilograms—covered in mottled greens and browns, streaked with fleshy veins of orange and yellow. Its shape was amorphous, almost slug-like, its hide coarse and alive with movement.

Spock’s first instinct was scientific—he wanted to scan, to collect, to learn. But the immediate danger overwhelmed his curiosity.

Jim fired.

Spock followed.

The creature didn’t die—but it did retreat, burrowing effortlessly through solid rock like it was air.

“Gone,” Jim said, the word heavy with frustration.

“Astonishing that anything of that mass could move with such speed,” Spock murmured.

The tunnel walls still glowed red-hot—554 degrees, his tricorder read. Pursuit was impossible.

Instead, he turned his attention to a large chunk of scorched tissue left behind. Security Chief Giotto approached as Spock examined it.

Jim knelt beside him, just as eager.

“Not animal tissue… what is it?”

“The closest approximation would be fibrous asbestos. A mineral, Captain.”

Their eyes met—Jim’s gaze lit with the same realization forming in Spock’s mind.

“Then your guess was right,” Jim said. “Summation?”

“We are dealing with a silicon-based lifeform native to the deep crust. It moves through solid rock as easily as we move through air. Its body secretes an extremely powerful corrosive agent.”

“Strong enough to burn through the reactor chamber door…” Jim muttered. “And we had our phasers set for silicon at full power, but we only wounded it.”

Jim turned to Giotto, instructing him to search their current sector, and that they may need to concentrate mass phaser fire to kill the wounded creature, while Spock took further tricorder readings.

His findings were troubling.

“Captain,” he said as Jim returned to his side. “I’ve scanned for life signs within a one-hundred-mile radius. I’ve located our personnel… and one creature, moving rapidly through the rock.”

“Only one?”

“Correct. Yet there are thousands of tunnels in this area.”

Jim frowned. “So either we’re dealing with more than one creature—despite your readings—or one that’s lived a very long time.”

Spock hesitated for the briefest moment, before voicing his concern.

“Or… it is the last of a race of creatures which made these tunnels. If so—if it is the only survivor of a dead race, to kill it… would be a crime against science.”

Jim’s expression shifted—his brow creased in thought. He began pacing.

“Our mission is to protect this colony, get the pergium flowing again. This isn’t a zoological expedition.”

He exhaled quietly. Though his back was turned, Spock heard the regret in his voice.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Spock. But the creature must be destroyed.”

A strange feeling coiled in Spock’s chest. Not resentment—but a muted sorrow. Most captains would have dismissed his concern outright. Jim didn’t. He understood—even if he couldn’t honor it.

“I see no alternative myself, Captain. It merely seems… a pity.”

With the floor's security team assembled, Jim briefed them on their new orders. Upon dismissal, Spock reached out—just briefly—placing a hand on the captain’s arm before he could head deeper into the mine.

The mission was proving more dangerous than Spock had initially calculated, and there was no reason to risk both of the Enterprise’s senior-most officers in a single encounter.

“Captain, I believe it would be more prudent for you to assist Mr. Scott with the circulating pump while the security team and I continue the search for the creature.”

Jim turned to him with an incredulous look, clearly taken aback by the suggestion.

“While I admit I have some engineering expertise, Mr. Spock… I’d argue that finding the creature takes precedence.”

“Captain, if I may be frank, this will be a dangerous hunt. I am expendable. You are not.”

Jim’s jaw tightened in frustration.

“Spock,” he exhaled, “you are not any more expendable than I am. And besides, there are nearly a hundred of us out here. What are the odds of both you and I being killed?”

Spock hesitated. He couldn’t dispute the logic of the question.

“2,228.7 to one.”

Jim’s expression softened into that familiar, half-smile—the one Spock had come to recognize as uniquely his.

“Pretty good odds, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Spock?”

Spock raised a brow, finally conceding, “Yes, Captain. Logically, it is understandable for you to remain.”

“I’m delighted you could see it my way,” Jim replied, smile turning wry.

He looked as though he might say more, but the chirp of his communicator interrupted the moment. Mr. Scott’s voice crackled through, reporting that the temporary reactor fix had failed.

Jim’s features hardened; urgency returned like a switch flipping.

Without another word, they resumed the search.

A few minutes passed in tense silence before they reached a fork in the tunnel.

Spock paused, scanning. “Captain. Fresh readings within the last hour—both tunnels.”

Jim checked his map. “They converge a few thousand yards down. You take the left, I’ll take the right.”

He gestured with his phaser toward each path.

Spock hesitated. “Should we separate?”

He knew the mission was dangerous, and logically, the risk of attack was still low. Jim had said as much. By all accounts, he should have calculated and accepted that already—should never have tried to send Jim back to engineering in the first place. Yet he had. And now, again, he questioned the captain’s plan.

Jim tilted his head, giving him a curious look before glancing around.

“Two tunnels, two of us.” He turned back with an easy, confident smile.
“We separate.”

Without further comment, he turned and moved down his chosen path.

Spock remained still, watching him go. He adjusted his grip on the tricorder. Glanced at his tunnel. Looked back.

Again, his gaze snapped to Jim’s retreating form, as the distance stretched between them.

Why was he hesitating? Jim had given him a direct order.

And yet… his legs refused to move.

Only when Jim turned a corner and vanished from sight did Spock regain control over his body. With reluctant precision, he crouched into the left-hand tunnel and began to move forward, though his mind stayed with the man he could no longer see.

He moved carefully, hunched beneath the low ceiling, phaser at the ready. Though the tunnels were modestly lit—this was a functioning mine—his Vulcan eyes were ill-suited to the dimness. He squinted into the shaft, adjusting his breathing and posture, then stilled himself for a moment, focusing all of his attention on sharpening his hearing.

Precious minutes passed as he traversed the tunnel, ready for the sound of the creature’s shuffling, the cry of Jim being burned to death.

None came.

Spock emerged from the narrow tunnel into a larger passageway where he could finally stand upright again, though the paths ahead still had not converged.

His communicator chirped.

“Mr. Spock.” Jim’s voice came through faintly, crackling softly against the stone walls.

Spock halted. “Yes, Captain?”

“I found a whole lair of these silicon nodules of yours. Hundreds of them.”

Spock’s brow furrowed in concentrated interest. His hypothesis regarding the orbs was growing increasingly probable.

“Indeed, I find that most illuminating, Captain. Be absolutely certain you do not damage any of them.”

“Explain,” Jim prompted, the signal crackling.

Had McCoy been present, Spock might have deflected. But this was Jim.

“Only a theory, Captain. I—”

A sharp crack pierced the channel—followed by the low, distant roar of falling rock. The sound echoed through the passageway.

“Captain?” Spock’s voice tightened. “Are you all right?”

Silence.

He started forward, briskly.

“Jim?” “Jim!”

“Yes, Mr. Spock. I’m all right,” came the familiar voice at last—calm, even casual.

Spock halted, breath catching in his throat, though he had barely broken a jog. Images of Jim’s blank, lifeless face rose in sharp, vivid clarity.

“We seem to have had a cave-in,” Jim continued.

Spock’s hand clenched the communicator tighter. “I could phaser you out.”

“No. No, better not. Any disturbance might bring down the rest of the wall. Besides, it’s not necessary. These tunnels meet further ahead.”

Spock shifted, unconvinced. “Very well. But I find it… extremely disquieting that your roof chose that particular moment to collapse.” He admitted. “Please proceed with extreme caution. I will quicken my pace.”

Snapping the communicator shut, he set off, no longer listening for the creature. He only needed to reach Jim. If his theory was correct, the captain was in far greater danger than he realized, surrounded by those nodules.

He kept moving, eyes on his tricorder. A new alert flashed across the screen: a freshly formed tunnel, diverging from his own.

He flipped open the communicator.

“Captain, I’ve just detected fresh signs. The creature is in this area. I will attempt a lifeform reading.”

Jim’s voice came through, staticky but clear. “Not necessary, Mr. Spock. I know exactly where the creature is.”

Spock’s stomach turned.

“Where, Captain?”

“Ten feet away from me.”

His breath caught.

“Kill it, Captain. Quickly.” His voice was soft—but colored with something unspoken, urgent, desperate.

“It’s… not making any threatening moves, Spock.”

Logically, Spock should have welcomed that. Should have recognized the opportunity for peaceful observation, even contact.

But what he said was:

“You don’t dare take the chance, Captain. Kill it.”

Jim’s voice turned wry. “I thought you were the one who wanted it kept alive. Captured, if possible.”

Spock’s brow furrowed. His voice dropped—lower, rougher, stripped of distance.

“Jim, your life is in danger. You cannot take the risk. I remind you—it is a proven killer. I’m on my way. Spock out.”

He shut the communicator before another protest could come through.

If Jim wouldn’t kill it, he would.

Moments of deafening silence passed as he walked—practically ran—greeted only by the sound of his own footfalls, echoed back at him from the cave walls. Finally, he rounded a corner and saw a figure.

He barely glanced at Jim, crouched against a wall with his phaser lowered—his eyes instead locking immediately on the creature Jim had been staring down.

He raised his phaser.

“No, no, don’t shoot!” Jim warned.

Spock’s eyes flicked to him, catching the outstretched hand, before returning to the creature. His finger tightened on the trigger as he studied it, hesitating.

It had turned to him but didn’t move. It rumbled lowly, as if in wait. A sickly white patch—exposed flesh, likely from their earlier phaser fire—was visible on its back.

Spock considered. Jim didn’t appear to be in danger. The creature had killed before, yes—but Spock was now 80% confident he understood the motivation behind its violence. He calculated only a minute chance of it attacking them now.

Re-centering himself in logic, he lowered his phaser a few degrees. The creature turned back to Jim, seemingly satisfied by the gesture of peace.

Jim relaxed visibly, then beckoned him over with a wave of his hand. “Come on over, Mr. Spock.”

Spock raised an eyebrow in curiosity and crossed the space, crouching beside him.

“Fascinating. It’s made no moves against you?”

“No. It seems to be waiting.”

Spock gestured toward one of the many piles of orbs scattered across the cave.

Jim nodded, already following his thought. “Yeah, they’re all through here. Thousands of them. Mean something to you?”

“Yes, Captain. Possibly the answer. Though I’m not certain.”

And they needed to be certain. Speculation wouldn’t suffice. The creature had killed over fifty men. Sparing it required confidence in their conclusions.

Spock shifted slightly, voice measured. “Captain, you are aware of the Vulcan technique—the joining of two minds.”

Jim’s eyes snapped to his, alarmed, then softened into concern.

“You… think you can get through to that thing?” he asked quietly.

Spock considered a moment longer. This was the most efficient course of action. “Possible.”

Jim’s gaze dropped in thought, resting briefly on Spock’s chest. Spock knew that look—the captain’s protective instinct at war with duty.

“Spock, I—”

“Jim. Please. It would be illogical not to try.”

Jim sighed, shoulders dropping almost imperceptibly.

“Very well, Mr. Spock. I know it’s a… terrible personal lowering of mental barriers, but if there’s a chance—I suppose we must take it.”

Spock nodded and approached the creature slowly, each step deliberate.

He focused, incrementally lowering the walls around his mind. Behind him, he could sense a wash of emotion—fear, tension, worry. Jim.

He ignored it, rubbing his hands together, then extending them—palms out—toward the creature.

As he brushed the edge of its consciousness, the pain began.

It started in his lower back—an itch, a throb—then sharpened. His breath hitched. Still, he pushed deeper.

The sensation flared into full agony—searing, white-hot. He gasped. Then cried out.

The creature gripped his consciousness like a drowning being clinging to a rope.

“Pain… pain! Pain!” Spock moaned, eyes clenched shut, body tensed against the flood of suffering.

He broke the link—violently.

Staggering back, he felt strong arms catch him—Jim.

Spock curled forward, gripping Jim’s biceps tightly as the torment subsided.

“That’s all I got, Captain,” he panted. “Waves and waves of searing pain. It’s in agony.”

Even through the barrier of Jim’s uniform, Spock could feel the gnawing weight of his captain’s concern. Deep. Personal.

He forced himself upright, pulling away, rebuilding the mental shields he had so briefly lowered. The pain dulled. His composure returned.

They turned to find the creature had moved—etching something into the stone with its corrosive secretions.

“‘No Kill I,’” Jim read aloud. “What is that? A plea for us not to kill it? Or its promise not to kill us?”

“I don’t know, Captain,” Spock replied, voice steady. “Evidently it gained some of our knowledge from its empathy with me. In my brief contact with the creature’s mind, I discovered it is a highly intelligent, extremely sophisticated animal. It calls itself a… Horta.”

“A Horta,” Jim repeated, squaring his shoulders and turning back to the creature in thought.

“We… need that reactor stabilizer, Mr. Spock. I’m hesitant to ask more of your mental capabilities, but if—”

“Captain, it has no reason to give us the device, and apparently every reason for wishing us off this planet,” Spock countered.

He would endure the pain again, of course—but only if necessary. Even Vulcans had limits.

“Yes, I’m aware,” Jim murmured. “If only we could gain its... confidence.” His eyes lit with sudden inspiration, and he flipped open his communicator, calling for Dr. McCoy before turning back to Spock.

He hesitated.

“I’m sorry to ask this of you, Mr. Spock, but if you’re willing—I’d like you to reestablish communication. We need to know why it took to murder. Maybe with McCoy’s aid—”

“I understand, Captain. To obtain that level of communication, it will be necessary to touch it.”

Jim bit his lip.

They both knew how dangerous the Horta’s exterior could be. If Spock touched it... could it harm him?

“Maybe—” Jim began, but Spock was already moving toward the creature with cautious determination. Behind him, he heard Jim’s breath hitch—as if the captain wanted to say more, to stop him—but thought better of it.

The mission came first.

Again, Spock approached slowly, methodically lowering his mental barriers.

He knelt before the creature, its hard, fibrous flesh—if it could be classified as such—quivering in anticipation as Spock extended tentative hands.

Upon contact, he wasn’t physically harmed. But he was pulled—down, into the dark. His eyes stayed open, though they no longer saw. He shut them tightly against the renewed wave of agony tearing through him.

Pain was a sensation of the mind.

Compartmentalize it. Control it. Push through.

But as he braced against the burning ache, a second sensation bloomed—equally powerful. Grief. Vast. Endless. Consuming.

He began to cry out, voicing the Horta’s thoughts, the pain too great to suppress.

“Murder! The thousands! Monsters! Eternity… ends!”

Thousands dead. The two-legged invaders had destroyed them. They must be punished. They must suffer as she had.

He didn’t know how long he was in the creature’s mind, adrift in pain and mourning, but—distantly—he heard McCoy’s voice. Then Jim’s.

“Mr. Spock—tell it we’re trying to help. The mechanism.”

Spock struggled to breathe. Struggled to find himself.

“Understood,” he managed hoarsely.

He envisioned the stabilizer, gently reaching toward the Horta in shared thought.

“It is the end of life,” he said aloud, the words not wholly his. “Go out, into the tunnel. Walk carefully... in the vault of tomorrow.”

A wave of grief crashed through him, nearly buckling his spine.

So many dead. Innocents. Children.

“The thing you search for is there. Go. There is a passageway.”

He clung to his senses, doing his best to remain anchored in reality. Jim’s receding footsteps. The gentle whir of McCoy’s scanner.

“It is time... to sleep. Failure. Death is welcome.”

Spock could feel the creature’s tears trailing down his face, itchy and foreign against his skin.

There was no point in living anymore. Not after failing to protect them.

“Spock? Spock.”

A voice—distant, but growing closer.

Jim.

They had the information now, and yet Spock couldn’t pull himself free. Not from this grief.

A gentle hand settled on his shoulder—warm, steady, familiar.

“Spock, come out of it,” Jim murmured near his ear, breath brushing the curve of his cheek.

Gingerly, Spock reeled in his consciousness, piece by piece. Mental barriers rose. His vision cleared. The cave reappeared as though for the first time.

His cheeks burned with tears not his own. He turned to find Jim kneeling beside him, hand still on his shoulder, eyes filled with concern. Spock took a steadying breath and removed his hands from the Horta—his palms damp with perspiration. Jim helped him to his feet, his gaze shifting from vulnerability back into the composure of command.

“I found the unit. It’s in pretty good shape. I also found about a million of these silicon nodules.” He held the stabilizer in one hand and a cracked shell of a nodule in the other.

A sharp jolt of sorrow twisted through Spock.

“They’re eggs, aren’t they?”

“Yes, Captain. Eggs. And about to hatch.”

Jim’s face fell, empathizing with the creature’s rage and loss. “The miners must’ve broken into the hatchery. Their operations destroyed thousands. No wonder.”

Just then, a group of miners stormed into the passage, demanding the creature be killed. Spock raised his phaser reflexively—protectively—his connection to the Horta flaring.

But Jim stepped forward, voice firm and commanding.

“We must kill it—it killed fifty of our men!” Appel protested.

“And you’ve killed thousands of her children,” Jim snapped. “Those silicon nodules you’ve been collecting and destroying—they’re her eggs.”

Spock felt Jim’s anger like heat beside him.

“Yes, gentlemen. Every fifty thousand years, the entire Horta race dies—all but one. This is the mother of her race.” Spock added, before Jim continued.

“The Horta is intelligent. Peaceful. Mild. She had no objection to sharing the planet with you... until you broke into her nursery and began destroying her offspring.”

Vanderberg’s expression shifted. “We—we didn’t know. How could we? But... when those eggs hatch, there’ll be thousands of these things?”

Jim smiled—confident, calm, in control.

“You’ve said this planet is a mineral treasure house—if only you had the equipment to get to it. Well, gentlemen, the Horta is arguably the greatest natural miner in the universe. Seems to me... we can come to an agreement. A modus vivendi.”

McCoy stepped in, cheerful as ever. “And she’s not going to die. By golly, Jim, I’m beginning to think I can cure a rainy day.”

Jim blinked. “How?”

“Had the ship beam down a few tons of that thermoconcrete we use for emergency shelters. Troweled it into the wound. She’ll heal up good as new.”

Jim turned to Spock with a small smile. “Think she’ll go for our bargain?”

Spock nodded. “It does seem logical. The Horta has a very logical mind. And after close association with humans… I find that curiously refreshing.”

Jim raised his eyebrows in mock offense, then chuckled softly.

And this—this was why Jim was his friend. Why Spock now understood that distancing himself would be impossible once they returned to the Enterprise.

For all Spock’s preference for silence and introspection—he craved Jim’s brilliance. He was like a midday sun—almost too bright to look upon, yet impossibly warm. Inescapable.

So later that evening, when Jim tentatively approached after their shifts, chess board tucked beneath one arm…

Spock simply nodded.

The observation deck was quiet—it was around 2300 standard hours, after all. The green foliage of ferns and small trees arched overhead as they sat at one of the round tables.

Jim set the chessboard silently. While silence was often comfortable between them, this one was different. Not awkward, but weighted—thick with unspoken thoughts.

“I… hope today wasn’t too difficult for you, Mr. Spock,” Jim said at last, moving his first pawn forward.

“It was the logical choice to meld with the Horta, Captain. I am unaffected.”

“Of course,” Jim replied with that small, private smirk—meant only for Spock. Then his expression shifted into something more contemplative.

“I know you’d probably prefer I didn’t pry, but I’d be a poor captain if I didn’t check in on my crew—especially my first officer.”

Spock claimed one of Jim’s pawns with precise efficiency. It was already clear this would not be a particularly challenging game—Jim was distracted.

“I have already confirmed I am fine, Jim.”

Jim’s expression soured slightly.

“Fine. Since you seem intent on evading me, I’ll just say it plainly. Vulcan. Something happened on Vulcan that’s made you act differently toward me. Spock, what was it? Did I… cause offense?”

Spock’s posture stiffened ever so slightly.

“No, Captain. You did not offend me. You honored Vulcan tradition, despite your disagreement with it. That is commendable.”

Jim didn’t acknowledge the compliment. He simply moved a bishop—recklessly, straight into danger.

“Well, if it wasn’t offense, then what was it? Because today, down in those tunnels, you were on edge. I’ve seen you calm under fire, Spock, but today—it was like you feared for my life at every turn.”

“It was a dangerous mission, Captain.”

“They usually are.”

Spock allowed the barest tightening of his mouth. His equivalent to throwing up his hands in frustration in Jim’s eyes.

“It… is illogical.”

“Try me.”

Jim wasn’t even pretending to focus on the board anymore. The game was forgotten.

Spock looked out towards the ship’s observation window. The endless expanse of stars that stretched to the ends of time itself.

“When I thought I killed you during the palak tow I… was disturbed in a way I’d never experienced before. It was unsettling.” He paused. “And today, when I thought you might be injured in the cave-in—or attacked by the creature—I experienced the same response.”

He looked back at Jim.

“I have become overly concerned for your well-being. I have concluded that my continued presence on away missions may lead to undesirable outcomes.”

Jim blinked, caught by the openness in Spock’s voice. He knew what it had taken for Spock to say those words aloud.

“I think I understand,” Jim said softly. “You saw me dead—and you don’t want to experience that again.”

He laughed gently. “Neither do I, Spock.”

Jim surprised him by reaching across the board to clasp Spock’s arm. Feelings of reassurance and affection bled through the touch.

“It’s normal to worry about a friend. And after a mission like today’s, it’s human to be affected.” His voice softened. “You’re the best first officer in the fleet. I’m taking you on missions whether you like it or not—even if I have to make it an order.”

He smirked. “Besides, let’s not ignore the quite logical fact that we make an excellent team.”

Spock remained still a moment longer, processing the warmth in Jim’s touch, in his words. Jim always knew how to frame things—to appeal to Spock’s logic while speaking directly to something deeper.

“I understand, Jim,” Spock said quietly at last. He resumed the game by taking his next move—skipping Jim’s turn entirely. He had grown impatient of waiting.

“I must admit, I’ve missed our games. Research… occasionally lacks the same stimulation.”

Jim chuckled to himself, hand drifting toward his next piece.

“I’ve missed you too, Spock.”

Chapter Text

The surface of Gamma Hydra IV reminded Spock of Vulcan.

The temperature was several degrees cooler, but the arid climate—dry to the point of desiccation—and the soft orange cast of the sky bore a distinct resemblance to his homeworld. As the landing party spread out across the facility’s perimeter, there was no sign of the six-person research team they had been scheduled to check on.

Starfleet had ordered a routine wellness check en route to Starbase 10. The stop had been on the itinerary for days. Yet the outpost greeted them only with silence.

“I had subspace contact with the leader of this expedition not an hour ago,” Jim said, frowning.

“Did he report anything wrong?” McCoy asked.

“No… but something was wrong.” Jim paused, brows drawing together. “The conversation felt… disjointed.”

Spock followed as Jim gestured for him and McCoy to accompany him into the nearest building. They had only just begun surveying the dim, cluttered interior when a shrill voice called out behind them.

“Captain!”

All three turned sharply and rushed out to locate the source.

It was Ensign Chekov—one of the newest additions to the bridge crew. Young, sharp, and mathematically gifted, Spock had privately noted the ensign’s potential more than once.

At the moment, however, the young navigator looked visibly shaken.

“A man, sir,” Chekov said, his Russian accent thickening. “Dead. In there.”

Jim steadied him with a hand to his shoulder, then led the team quickly toward the indicated building. Inside, they found a deeply unsettling sight: the withered body of an elderly man prone upon a research table, skin sagging loosely over bone.

An impossibility.

Spock had reviewed the station’s personnel records earlier that day. None of the researchers assigned to the outpost were over thirty years of age.

He said as much while McCoy scanned the body with his tricorder.

“Well, it’s exactly what it looks like,” McCoy muttered, disbelief in his tone. “Died of old age.”

Before further speculation could begin, two figures appeared in the doorway. Both moved slowly, their backs stooped, their faces heavy-lidded with the pall of extreme age.

“Ah,” said the man, his voice rough with age, “they’ve come to pay their respects to Alvin.”

He stepped inside with his companion. “I’m Robert Johnson. This is my wife, Elaine.”

Jim froze. “Robert Johnson?” he repeated. “You’re the one I spoke to earlier…”

Johnson gave a vague smile. “Did you…? Oh yes, that’s right.”

Jim studied the man. “How old are you?”

Johnson blinked slowly. “I’m… let me see… twenty-nine. And Elaine is twenty-seven.”

Jim turned back to the landing party, expression grim.

“Get them aboard the Enterprise. McCoy, full medical workup. Now.”

The group nodded, already tapping their communicators.

Something was very, very wrong.

Jim entered the briefing room briskly, McCoy close behind, and took a seat beside Spock. Without preamble, he addressed the two non-Enterprise personnel seated across from them.

“Commodore Stocker, I asked for your presence because Gamma Hydra IV falls within your administrative region. I understand we’re en route to deliver you to your new post at Starbase 10, but I hope you’ll bear with us as we remain in orbit to investigate whatever’s affecting the research team.”

“I appreciate that, Captain,” the Commodore replied, his voice a low, resonant bass.

Jim then turned his attention to the civilian woman beside him—Dr. Janet Wallace, one of the specialists Starfleet had assigned to assist with the colony’s wellness check. Spock recognized her name from the mission logs but had not yet spoken to her directly.

“Dr. Wallace,” Jim said, “I’d like you to coordinate with Dr. McCoy on the medical side of things. Work together, share everything.”

At the prompt, McCoy gave his report. “So far, there’s nothing unusual in terms of pathogens or environmental hazards. Medically, they’re just… aging. Rapidly. But everything about it reads as natural.”

Spock followed with his own findings: the planet’s atmosphere was entirely suitable for human life, with no detectable anomalies.

Jim leaned back slightly, frowning in thought. “We’re close to the Romulan Neutral Zone. Could this be some kind of experimental weapon—an aging device?”

“I’ve already begun to investigate that possibility,” Spock replied with a nod.

“Good. I want every avenue explored—biological, radiological, psychological, even the implausible. If you have a theory, no matter how far-fetched, I want it on the table.”

A chorus of acknowledgments followed, and soon the personnel filed out into the corridor. But as Spock stood, he paused.

Neither the Captain nor Dr. Wallace made any move to follow.

He hesitated a moment, curiosity pricking at the edge of his thoughts.

Then, silently, he stepped into the hallway and let the door slide shut behind him.

Back at the science station, Spock rechecked the atmospheric sensors. Still, there was nothing unusual.

Gamma Hydra IV was a standard Class-M planet—entirely hospitable to human life. The only anomaly was the recent appearance of a rogue comet in the system. Thus far, he had drawn no definitive conclusions about its impact on the colony.

Does Jim know Dr. Wallace personally?

The thought surfaced unbidden—illogical, and tinged with something dangerously close to irritation.

He dismissed it. Contemplating the Captain’s prior associations with the visiting endocrinologist served no purpose. And yet, the question lingered, smoldering in a corner of his mind where such emotions were meant to be contained.

Fortunately, an incoming communique diverted his attention.

“Mr. Spock,” came the Captain’s voice, “astronomical section reports that a comet recently passed the planet. Check into that.”

Spock’s brow lifted slightly.

“I am already doing so, Captain—as per your previous instruction.”

There was a brief pause.

“Oh. Yes. Let me know what you come up with. I’ll be in Sickbay. Kirk out.”

The channel closed, but Spock continued to stare at the comm panel a moment longer, his expression subtly drawn.

Jim had an excellent memory. Spock could not recall a single instance in which he had repeated an order without reason. Humans were fallible—but this did not feel like a simple oversight.

No. Spock suspected all members of the landing party—including himself—were now in danger.

The following morning, at the start of Alpha shift, Dr. McCoy ordered full physicals for all landing party personnel.

When Spock entered Sickbay, his brow lifted slightly. McCoy’s appearance had altered significantly since the night before. His chestnut-brown hair was now almost entirely gray, and deep lines etched across his face. Most notable—though not unexpected—was the worsening of his temperament.

Spock settled onto an examination table as Nurse Chapel approached, running a scanner slowly over him. One by one, the others arrived, each showing signs of advanced aging. Lieutenant Galway and Mr. Scott had worsened considerably. Jim, too, had aged—but not as rapidly. As for himself, Spock noted mild deterioration.

Only Chekov remained unaffected—a fact that seemed to provoke McCoy to no end.

“I don’t know what’s causin’ it,” McCoy snapped, his Southern drawl noticeably heavier. “Virus, bacteria… hell, maybe evil spirits. But I’m workin’ on it.”

“Spock,” Jim said quietly, approaching, “can I get some figures?”

Spock propped himself up on his elbows, studying his captain. Jim’s hair had thinned, gold now streaked with silver. His posture had changed—shoulders slightly hunched, expression drawn. The easy smile he often wore was absent.

Spock felt a tightness settle in his chest.

“Based on Dr. McCoy’s observations, I estimate we each have less than one week of physical viability,” he said. “However, cognitive decline is progressing more rapidly. Within a few days, our mental faculties may be severely impaired.”

Jim turned away, jaw tight. “What a way to die…” he muttered. Then more firmly: “We focus everything on a solution. Round-the-clock research. Start with Chekov. Find out why he hasn’t been affected.”

“I’m doin’ what I can,” McCoy muttered, rubbing his temple. Then he turned back to Spock with a scanner in hand. “Alright. You’re clear. Healthy as any Vulcan on the high side of a hundred.”

Spock nodded. The results matched his self-assessment. His concentration had waned during the latter half of his last shift, his vision had subtly degraded during meditation, and he now found the ship’s ambient temperature uncomfortably low.

At Jim’s request, he assisted Mr. Scott to Engineering. Before returning to the bridge, he stopped briefly in his quarters to retrieve an additional thermal layer beneath his uniform.

A small change. But necessary.

As Alpha shift progressed, Spock tried to ignore the growing sense that time was slipping away faster than they could work towards a cure. Jim, meanwhile, continued to forget his own orders. The bridge crew—concerned but discreet—did their best to gently correct him, which only seemed to worsen his agitation.

Commodore Stocker began pressing for a course change to Starbase 10.

“Captain, I understand this is a highly advanced ship, but the facilities at Starbase 10 are far better equipped to handle—”

“The Enterprise is just as well equipped as any starbase. We are not leaving orbit until we’ve found a cure!” Jim snapped, voice tight with desperation.

Spock had no immediate solution for the Captain’s growing fear of his own mortality. So he did the logical thing: he focused on the comet.

Though he found the bridge more tolerable in temperature than the science labs, he worked more effectively with his team and specialized instrumentation. He resigned himself to the discomfort as hours of intensive research passed. Spock squinted harder at the screens, performing calculations at a noticeably slower rate than he was accustomed to. Finally, straightening and passing a hand over his eyes, he was approached by one of the science techs—Mr. Boma—with a PADD in hand.

“Sir, good call on resetting the sensors. We’ve picked up trace radiation from the comet’s trail!”

“Excellent work, Mr. Boma,” Spock said, taking the PADD and heading straight for the bridge.

Inside the lift, he caught sight of his reflection in the polished surface of the closing doors. Gray threaded through his temples, and his skin had taken on a more sallow hue.

If he was showing outward signs of aging, his human companions had—at best—two days of mental clarity remaining.

Time was, indeed, running out.

As Spock rounded the captain’s chair, eyes scanning the data on the PADD in his hand, he began, “Captain, I believe—” but stopped short when he looked up.

Jim was asleep.

Slumped in the command chair, head resting on his left hand, his face—so recently drawn with tension—was still. Peaceful, almost. But the peace didn’t last.

Spock glanced around the bridge. The crew moved softly, voices hushed, steps quieted in deference to their captain. Their eyes flicked toward Jim, full of worry, and then quickly away.

For a moment, Spock stood frozen. It would have been easy to let Jim rest a little longer. To study the quiet lines of his face, the rise and fall of his chest. But he could not afford the indulgence.

He reached out, voice quiet and roughened by his advanced age.

“Captain.”

A hand to Jim’s shoulder—light, but enough. Spock felt it instantly as Jim startled awake: the sharp flicker of embarrassment, shame… and anger.

Jim’s spine stiffened as he sat up, his previous expression of vulnerable peace hardening like armor. He glanced between Spock and Stocker—who’d been standing on the opposite side of the chair—gaze sharpening.

“Spock. I was just… thinking.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Do you have something to report?”

“Yes, sir.” Spock offered the PADD. “We’ve located a likely cause. After re-calibrating the sensors, we detected extremely low levels of radiation from the comet’s tail. The planet must have passed through it recently.”

Jim leaned forward, interest kindling behind his eyes. “That’s it, then. Excellent, Spock. Well done.”

Spock absorbed the praise with a small nod, though the heat in his chest lingered longer than it should have.

Jim stood, energized. “Let’s get this to McCoy. No more wasted time.”

But no sooner had he issued the command than the confusion returned.

He began repeating earlier orders—directions the bridge crew had already carried out hours ago.

“Captain…” Sulu tried gently, “We already—”

“I know what I said,” Jim snapped, voice sharp with fury. “Why is everyone questioning my orders?”

The bridge went silent.

Jim’s eyes swept the room—accusing, defensive. When they landed on Spock, they narrowed, as if daring him to correct him again.

Spock hesitated. He didn’t want to.

But he had to.

When he gently pointed out the redundancy, Jim flinched, jaw clenched tight. Spock watched the anger flare in his captain’s eyes—not just at the crew, but at the situation. At himself.

It was pride, mostly. Wounded and raw. The kind of pride that lashed out to hide the fear beneath it.

Spock knew this. Understood it. But understanding didn’t ease the ache in his chest when Jim looked at him that way—like he’d betrayed him.

As they left the bridge, Jim walked stiffly ahead. Spock followed in silence, letting his gaze fall on the man’s back. He didn’t need to touch Jim to understand his emotions. The tension was written in every line of his body—frustration, helplessness, fury.

And, beneath it all, shame.

“Mr. Spock, may I have a word?” Commodore Stocker asked quietly. He had apparently been waiting just outside Sickbay, intercepting Spock as he returned to the science lab.

Spock raised an eyebrow by the smallest degree. “Commodore?”

Stocker glanced past him, eyes fixed on some distant point beyond Spock’s shoulder—unable, it seemed, to meet his gaze.

“A starship can function with a compromised head of medical, engineering, even first officer under the right circumstances. But a captain…?”

“I am aware of that, Commodore,” Spock replied, his tone carefully neutral. He had no intention of following where the Commodore’s logic was leading.

“Don’t misunderstand. I hold Captain Kirk in the highest regard. But… in light of his condition, I must formally request that you assume command.”

Spock stilled.

Jim was already fighting the loss of his faculties—fighting himself. To take his command by force, to confirm what Jim feared most… Spock wasn’t sure he could endure that, regardless of how much Vulcan discipline he summoned.

“Commodore, I must remind you that I am suffering from the same affliction.”

“Yes, but you’re a Vulcan. Your species has a far longer lifespan, a higher tolerance for physical stress—”

“I am only half Vulcan, sir,” Spock interrupted, voice clipped. “My reflexes are diminished. My cognitive faculties are impaired. I am unfit to take command of this vessel.”

A partial truth.

Even if he had been at full capacity, Spock could not bring himself to do what Stocker was asking. Not to Jim.

“Well then,” Stocker said grimly, “if you—with your Vulcan resilience—are unfit, how can Captain Kirk possibly be considered capable?”

Spock exhaled through his nose, suppressing a swell of frustration. The Commodore’s logic was sound. He knew Jim’s condition was worsening by the hour. He knew the command decisions were beginning to falter. But to strip Jim of his authority—of the Enterprise—was to take away the core of his identity.

“Sir,” Spock said, stepping forward with finality, “I do have duties to attend to.”

He moved to walk past, hoping that would end the exchange.

But Stocker’s voice halted him. “Mr. Spock.”

Spock stopped. His hands folded tightly behind his back.

“I don’t take pleasure in this,” Stocker said. “But regulations are clear. As second in command, you are required to convene an extraordinary competency hearing.”

Spock’s fingers dug into his wrist.

“I… strongly resist the suggestion, Commodore.”

“It is not a suggestion. It is regulation. And you know the code better than I do.”

Spock dropped his gaze. A small stain on the navy carpet of the hallway caught his eye—dark brown, possibly coffee.

The moment stretched.

“Very well, sir,” he said at last, voice low. “The hearing will take place at the beginning of Beta shift.”

Without waiting for acknowledgment, Spock turned and made for the turbolift. He paused only briefly before stepping inside, the weight of what he was about to do pressing heavily across his shoulders.

Then the door hissed closed behind him.

At 1800 hours standard, the briefing room slowly filled with those summoned for the hearing.

The bridge crew—officers who had received repeated, confused orders from their captain—took their seats behind the judgment panel. At the briefing table sat Mr. Scott, Dr. McCoy, Commodore Stocker, and Spock.

Across the table, Jim sat stiffly, his arms folded, expression unreadable but simmering just beneath the surface.

He had not acknowledged Spock’s summons. Hadn’t spoken a word since his arrival. Only fixed his first officer with a long, piercing stare before silently taking his seat.

Spock rose, hands folded neatly behind his back. His voice was even, controlled.

“Let the record show that this competency hearing was ordered by Commodore Stocker,” he began, “and—” a faint pause, almost imperceptible, “—reluctantly convened by myself.”

“Let the record also show that I consider it invalid,” Jim cut in, his tone clipped, bitter.

Stocker stood. “If I may speak, Mr. Spock.” He turned to the room. “I was compelled to invoke regulation to protect the lives of this crew’s senior officers. The responsibility for this hearing is mine.”

Spock’s fingers tightened around his own wrist behind his back. He resisted the instinct to look away. The pressure of rising emotion—shame, guilt, dread—pressed at the edge of his mental discipline.

“No, Commodore,” he replied, voice low but firm. “As second in command, and presiding officer, the responsibility… is mine.”

He took a breath—calculated, deliberate—and lifted his gaze to meet Jim’s.

Hazel eyes met his without warmth. Anger. Betrayal. A quiet, boiling disbelief that Spock had never hoped to see aimed at him.

“Captain Kirk,” he asked, as calmly as he could manage, “would you care to make a statement?”

Jim stood with effort, the stiffness in his movements betraying a pain in his joints he couldn’t hide.

“Yes,” he said, voice thick with pride and defiance. “I am the captain of this ship. And I am more than capable of commanding her. Now let’s end this farce and get back to work.”

Spock stood silent for a moment. The words caught somewhere between logic and loyalty. His hands remained tightly clasped behind him, his posture immaculately composed. Only the faintest tension in his jaw betrayed the fracture beneath the surface.

“The regulations are quite specific, Captain,” he said quietly. “You are entitled to examine witnesses directly—after the board has questioned them.”

He sat again, deliberately avoiding Jim’s eyes.

Forgive me, he thought.

And the hearing began.

“Well, go ahead then. Ask your questions,” Jim said, needling Spock with a forced edge of confidence. “You’ll see I’m as capable as ever.”

Spock did not respond immediately. He had no intention of putting Jim through further scrutiny. The testimony from the bridge crew had already painted a clear enough picture—reluctant, uncomfortable admissions about repeated orders, confusion, lapses in memory. And Jim’s own attempts to defend his mental clarity had only further underlined the truth.

The decision was already made.

“There will be no further questions, Captain,” Spock said as he stepped forward, his expression unreadable. “If you would please wait outside while the board deliberates…”

Jim nodded stiffly. “Good. Let’s get this over with so I can return to running this ship. Most foolish thing I’ve ever heard—a competency hearing in the middle of a crisis…”

He muttered the words under his breath, obstinate to the end, shaking his head as he turned toward the doors.

“I’ll be in my quarters awaiting your decision.”

He paused as the doors slid open before him—and turned back.

Their eyes met.

In that single moment, Spock saw it—just beneath the pride, beneath the frustration. Vulnerability. A flicker of fear.

It pierced through him like a pulse of static.

He held Jim’s gaze with careful neutrality, though he knew his own control was fraying at the edges. He said nothing.

Then Jim turned and left, the doors hissing closed behind him.

Spock resumed his seat. He folded his hands and turned immediately to the other board members, speaking with precision and formality—anything to occupy the part of his mind that threatened to be overwhelmed.

The vote was swift. Unanimous.

Captain Kirk was unfit for duty.

With the matter resolved, the board’s focus shifted to the question of succession. Who would take command?

“I suppose that falls to me,” Stocker said at last, rising from his seat. “By regulation, as the highest-ranking officer still capable of duty, I am… required to assume command.”

Spock turned to him with a measured look. “Sir, you have never commanded a starship.”

Stocker straightened, clearly uncomfortable. “What would you have me do, Mr. Spock? Place the Enterprise under the authority of a junior officer?”

Spock considered it, painfully aware of how sluggish his thoughts had become. His cognitive processing was slowing more with each hour.

Perhaps Mr. Sulu… but that would leave them without their chief navigator—a critical role, especially this close to the Romulan Neutral Zone.

There was no optimal solution.

Spock inclined his head slightly. “Understood.”

Stocker gave the order. “Set course for Starbase 10. Warp 5.”

There was a beat of silence before Sulu replied hesitantly. “Across the Neutral Zone, sir?”

“We need to reach Starbase 10 as soon as possible,” Stocker said firmly. “All officers are to return to their posts.”

One by one, the crew exchanged wary glances. No one voiced their concern aloud, but the unease was palpable.

The room slowly emptied.

Left with Dr. Wallace, Spock steeled himself once more. There remained one final duty he could not defer—perhaps the most difficult of all.

It was time to inform Jim of the board’s decision.

“How long have you served with Jim?” Dr. Wallace asked softly as they walked side by side—slowly, for Spock’s sake. He knew that.

“This is the third year of our mission.”

“Ah.” She fell silent for a beat. “He and I… we knew each other, once. A long time ago. It didn’t work out,” she added with a faint, self-deprecating laugh. “Starship captains, hmm, Mr. Spock? Always married to their vessels.”

Her smile faded almost as quickly as it had come. “And now we’re taking Jim’s ship away.”

“I do not relish the prospect either, Doctor,” Spock replied. He attempted to clasp his hands behind his back, but his shoulder mobility had already deteriorated too much to complete the gesture. The failure stung more than it should have.

The rest of the walk passed in heavy silence.

When they entered Jim’s quarters, he was seated at his desk, his back to the door.

“Spock?” he asked quietly, not turning.

“…Yes, Captain.”

The room fell still, the silence so thick it felt suffocating. Spock didn’t need to say the words. Jim already knew.

“So, I’ve been relieved,” Jim said flatly.

Spock’s shoulders sank beneath the weight of guilt. “I’m sorry, Captain.”

Jim gave a bitter laugh. “You should’ve been a prosecuting attorney.”

“Jim, regulations required—”

“Regulations,” Jim snapped, pushing himself to his feet, hands braced against the desk. “Don’t give me regulations. You’ve wanted command from the beginning. And the first excuse you get—”

“Captain,” Spock interrupted coolly, stepping closer. “I have not assumed command.”

Jim turned toward him, disbelief in his eyes. His thinning hair, more silver than gold now, caught the low light like a dull crown.

“What do you mean you haven’t?”

“I suffer the same affliction as you.”

Jim’s jaw clenched. “Then who’s in command of this ship?”

“Commodore Stocker.”

“Stocker?” Jim barked. “Are you crazy? He’s never commanded a day in his life! He’s a chair-bound pencil pusher… no—no I order you to take command.”

“I cannot, Captain.”

Jim stilled. His hazel eyes locked on Spock’s with a narrow, searching intensity.

“Are you refusing a direct order?” he asked quietly.

“No, sir. Only Commodore Stocker is currently authorized to issue orders aboard the Enterprise.”

The silence that followed was worse than shouting.

Jim’s expression turned frigid. “You—” his hands trembled with fury, “You traitorous, disloyal— You stab me in the back the first chance you get?!”

Then his expression faltered. His voice softened and his eyes searched Spock’s face in pleading desperation.

“Spock…”

Spock held his gaze. To anyone else, his expression was the same unreadable mask he always wore. But in his eyes—if Jim had looked closely—he would’ve seen the hurt. Deep and raw.

His hands hung limply at his sides.

A part of him longed to step forward, to rest his hands on Jim’s shoulders, to say something—anything—that would make him understand. That this wasn’t betrayal. That he was suffering just as Jim was. That he had to follow protocol. That his hands were tied.

But another part of him—dark, unfamiliar—raged beneath the surface. Logically, he knew Jim was lashing out, redirecting helplessness onto the closest target. But the emotion didn’t care. Not in this moment. In this moment, Spock hated him for it.

“Get out,” Jim muttered, turning his back. “I never want to see you again.”

Spock froze.

It was not an order.

It was like a knife to his stomach.

Something deep within him cracked.

He stood there a moment longer, waiting—hoping for the flash of a smile, a half-joking comment, some signal that the trust between them hadn’t completely unraveled. That Jim still knew who he was.

It never came.

So, Spock nodded once—sharp, automatic—and turned to leave. He ignored the concerned look Ms. Wallace gave him. Ignored the ache in his joints. Ignored the pain gathering in his chest, thick and suffocating.

He wanted to scream. To break something. To feel something.

Instead, he returned to the lab.

Not because he believed they had time. Not because the odds of finding a cure—hovering now around 23% and falling—were favorable.

But because it was the only place left where he could lose himself in numbers, silence, and the small illusion of control.

The next day’s Alpha shift dawned, and Spock found himself once again in Sickbay, discussing possible theories with Dr. McCoy and Dr. Wallace. But despite hours of effort, they were no closer to a cure than they had been two days ago.

Spock was reviewing compound synthesis protocols when the Sickbay doors hissed open.

Jim entered, unsteady on his feet.

His hair had gone completely white. His skin sagged with deep lines, posture bent with age. But it was the look in his eyes that struck Spock most—a mix of cold anger and exhausted determination.

“What are you doing here?” Jim asked, voice brittle, his tone cutting.

Spock didn’t meet his gaze. “This seemed to be the place I could be of most use.”

Jim let out a harsh, mirthless laugh. “Maybe you'd like to relieve Dr. McCoy while you're at it?”

Spock said nothing.

Jim turned to McCoy instead. “What about Chekov? Have you found anything?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” the doctor croaked, his voice gravelly and worn. His eyelids drooped so low they nearly obscured his eyes.

“There has to be something we’ve missed,” Jim pressed. “Chekov beamed down with us—he was on the surface just as long.”

Spock’s head lifted slightly. Something about that detail—

“No,” he interrupted, “he left us for a few moments, Captain.”

Jim’s eyes, though ringed with age, sparked suddenly with focus. “He left us... yes. Yes, Spock. He went into that building. He saw the body. He panicked—ran out terrified.” He turned to McCoy, a flash of energy in his voice. “He was afraid. He was scared to death.”

McCoy’s brows drew together. “Fear... adrenal response…” He licked his dry, cracked lips. “Yes. Yes, that could be it—heart racing, rapid breath, cold sweat. Adrenal activity.”

He looked up at them, the spark of an idea taking hold.

“I read somethin’—ancient history now—but just after the atomic age, they used adrenaline to treat radiation exposure, long before we developed hyronalin.”

Spock gave a small nod. “A primitive treatment, but it may explain Chekov’s resistance. If so, we might be able to develop a synthesized compound to mimic the effect.”

“Well don’t just stand there jawin’, Spock!” McCoy snapped, urgency overtaking fatigue. “You and Dr. Wallace—get crackin’!”

Without hesitation, Spock turned and crossed to the lab alcove, Wallace and Nurse Chapel close behind. His body protested every movement—but for the first time in days, he moved with renewed purpose.

Hope, however slim, had returned.

Boom!

Spock was nearly thrown from his chair as the deck lurched beneath him. Another violent tremor rippled through the hull—Romulan torpedoes hammering the Enterprise’s shields. The lab lights flickered. They must have entered the Neutral Zone under Stocker’s command.

With the Commodore’s inexperience and total lack of familiarity with Romulan tactics, Spock estimated they had no more than fourteen minutes before the shields failed and the ship was torn apart.

From Sickbay, he could hear McCoy shouting for Dr. Wallace and Nurse Chapel, followed by the unmistakable sound of Jim’s voice, raised in fury.

“I have to get to the bridge! I can’t let Stocker run my ship into the ground—I have to defend the Enterprise!”

Spock steadied himself and returned to the lab table. His calculations were complete. Now came the final step—formulating the compound. He waited for the next tremor to pass before carefully pipetting the unstable reagents into the flask. One wrong movement, and the dose might be fatal.

Every second was a risk, and the ship continued to shake with each fresh impact.

Finally, the mixture was complete. Crude, unrefined—but their only chance.

He moved to Sickbay, cradling the solution in one hand, navigating around debris and flickering lights. Inside, Jim was restrained to a biobed, still fighting against his bonds, muttering furiously about the state of the ship.

“Doctor,” Spock said, breath short, “it’s ready. The compound is untested. It may cure—or it may kill. But we’re out of time.”

“Spare me the Vulcan qualifications,” McCoy snapped. “Give me the damn shot!”

“No.” Jim’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and certain. “Give it to me. I’ve got to get up there. If we don’t try, I’m dead either way.”

A beat of silence passed—then another detonation rattled the walls.

Spock gave a brief nod.

At McCoy’s instruction, he prepared the dosage. The vial clicked into the hypo with a hiss. Spock stared at it for a moment—at the tip, at Jim’s shoulder, at the implications.

“Hurry,” Jim said. His voice trembled, but not with fear. With urgency.

Spock met his gaze, then pressed the hypo into his skin.

Jim’s breath caught. His eyes widened. A beat later, his body arched in agony.

Spock dropped the injector and caught him, gripping his shoulders. Through the contact, emotion bled through—fear, pain, confusion, and most of all: desperation. It crashed against Spock’s barriers, clawing for purchase against his formative control.

His hands tightened instinctively, holding Jim still as his body convulsed. Spock bent closer, lowering himself until they were face to face. Jim’s eyes were squeezed shut, but the changes had already begun. The paling of his skin reversed. The lines across his brow began to soften.

“Jim,” Spock whispered, almost inaudible. The name slipped out as if unbidden.

Jim opened his eyes slowly.

“It’s working,” Spock said. “Just breathe.”

A pause.

Even softer—barely a breath:

“I’m here.”

Jim nodded faintly, sweat on his brow, muscles still trembling. But through the contact now came something new: gratitude. And beneath it—remorse. Shame. Guilt.

Spock didn’t understand. Not fully. But he didn’t need to.

They stayed like that for another moment—just a breath, in the middle of chaos—while the Enterprise rocked under another barrage.

Then Jim’s eyes cleared.

Bright. Alive.

Spock didn’t wait for permission. He released the restraints. Jim sat up immediately, caught Spock’s arm with a hand that was strong again, and met his gaze—silent, sincere thanks passing between them.

Then Jim rose and ran.

Straight for the bridge.

Of course Jim had managed it.

Not only had he navigated them clear of one Romulan ship—but three—armed with nothing but a bluff and his characteristic bravado. Spock was not even surprised when, an hour later, Jim strode into Sickbay with a wide, triumphant smile painting his youthful face once more.

Among the afflicted landing party, Spock was the last to remain untreated. He had insisted the human crew members be prioritized, citing his Vulcan physiology and presumed resistance as justification. But now, with Mr. Scott sitting up and already grumbling cheerfully about missed engine calibrations, Spock was prepared to follow suit.

McCoy was in the process of clearing breakables from the bio-bed where Spock had been restrained.

Jim entered just as McCoy tucked a handful of empty hypos into a drawer, quirking an eyebrow at the scene.

“All that really necessary, Bones?”

“You want to give an overgrown half-Vulcan a jolt strong enough to jump-start a star?” McCoy shot back. “I’d rather not get flung into the bulkhead.”

Surprisingly, Jim didn’t laugh and leave it at that.

“I’ll administer it.”

McCoy looked up, startled. “You sure? I was just kiddin’, Jim.”

But Jim only smiled, taking the prepared hypo from the doctor’s outstretched hand. “You’ve got reports to file. I’m sure Starfleet is breathing down your neck. I’ll call you if I start getting throttled—promise.”

McCoy glanced between them, then gave a reluctant nod and disappeared into his office.

Alone now, Jim approached Spock slowly, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes.

“Never thought I’d see the day where you were gray and I wasn’t,” he said softly.

“My hair is still gray due to the lingering effects of the affliction, Captain,” Spock replied. “If you recall, you began to gray several days before my symptoms presented.”

Jim snorted. “Thanks for the reminder.” He looked down at the hypo. “You ready?”

“More than ready, Captain.”

Jim stepped to his side and rested a hand on Spock’s arm—brief, but intentional. Through the contact, Spock felt it: concern, care, residual guilt. Then the hand was gone, replaced by the sharp hiss of the hypo as it pierced his skin.

Spock’s back arched as searing pain tore through him. His vision went white.

The sensation of cellular repair was violent—his body rebooting in real time, nerves screaming. He clenched his fists until his knuckles were bloodless, fighting the instinct to cry out.

Then he felt it: two steady hands gripping his shoulders. Jim, mirroring what Spock had done for him.

“Breathe, Spock. Breathe.”

Spock gasped raggedly, chest rising and falling as he fought for control. But through the pain, through the chaos of regenerating nerve endings and bone alignment, there was warmth. A quiet, grounding presence emanating from Jim’s touch.

Spock allowed his barriers to ease—just enough to let that comfort in. Whether Jim intended it or not, the contact calmed him. He doubted the man even remembered Spock’s telepathy half the time. Jim had always been physically expressive in ways Spock found... disorienting. Yet strangely welcome.

Gradually, the agony faded.

His vision cleared. Breath steady.

And Spock fixed his eyes on Jim—sharp now, lucid.

“Thank you, Captain. I believe the serum has run its course. If you would assist with the restraints.”

Jim blinked as if suddenly remembering where he was. The warmth in his face faded to sheepish surprise.

“Right. Sorry.”

He quickly unfastened the straps securing Spock’s wrists and ankles. Spock sat up, taking a moment to assess his physical condition—finding it vastly improved.

“If you’ll excuse me, Captain,” he said, rising with fluid ease. “I’ll return to my duties.”

“Wait—Spock.” Jim’s voice halted him. He glanced around the room, then back to Spock. “I... need to apologize.”

“Apologize, Captain?”

“For what I said. Back in my quarters. I called you traitorous. Disloyal. That wasn’t just out of line—it was inexcusable.” His voice dropped. “I was angry. Helpless. I lashed out—and I used you as a target because I knew you’d take it.”

Spock inclined his head slowly. “You were indeed disturbed at the time, Captain. I—”

“Spock,” Jim cut in gently, “please. Let me finish.”

Spock fell silent.

“You were doing your duty. You didn’t want to convene that hearing. I saw it. And I trust you. More than anyone. That’s what made it so awful.” He drew a breath. “Can you forgive me?”

“As a Vulcan, I took no offense.”

Jim rolled his eyes. “Don’t give me that. It’s okay to be angry with me.”

His tone was teasing, but there was something earnest behind it—a need to be held accountable.

Spock almost smiled.

“I suppose, Jim, I simply pity that you will have the misfortune of losing one of your more favorable physical attributes in the coming years.”

He inclined his head toward Jim’s hair.

Jim’s mouth dropped open.

Then came a laugh. Rich, unrestrained.

“I suppose I deserved that,” he said, eyes glinting. “So you do think my hair is nice?”

Spock stiffened—a minute, almost imperceptible reaction.

But not imperceptible to Jim.

He laughed harder.

“Alright, at our next resupply stop, you’re putting in a requisition for Vulcan hair oil. Can’t have these glorious locks falling out if they mean so much to you.”

Spock, unable to formulate a logical response, simply replied:

“As you wish, Captain.”

Chapter Text

As Spock entered the captain’s quarters, he was greeted by a troubled Jim, seated before his computer screen, hands steepled in tense contemplation.

“Captain, you requested me?” Spock asked.

Jim glanced up, as if only just realizing he wasn’t alone.

“Oh… yes. Well—” He hesitated, then rotated the screen toward Spock. “—Probably best if you read it for yourself.”

Spock scanned the encrypted transmission from Starfleet Command, feeling his stomach slowly sink, as though stones were being dropped one by one into the pit forming within him.

Surely this could not be correct… yet the message was unmistakable.

He met Jim’s gaze. His captain’s expression was drawn tight with strain.

“Captain, Starfleet is aware of our lack of training in espionage. We are not a military vessel. I am concerned that we are not the appropriate choice for this operation.”

Jim sighed and tipped his chair back.

“Yes… I thought the same. I don’t know why Starfleet saw fit to assign Enterprise a mission like this. I tried to appeal, but it was no use. They insisted we were up to par.”

He stood and began to pace, his steps restless, carrying a nervous energy that betrayed the torrent of thoughts behind his eyes.

“On the one hand, if we pull this off, we could gain invaluable insight into modern Romulan technology… on the other—” he turned to Spock, eyes clouded with uncertainty, “—what are our chances here?”

“The likelihood of mission success, with minimal to no casualties, is thirteen-point-five-eight percent,” Spock replied without hesitation.

Jim bit his lower lip.

“It would be just us against—God, who knows how many Romulans? And we can’t inform the crew. Starfleet insisted on complete secrecy.”

He dragged a hand through his hair. “Dammit, this isn’t what the Enterprise should be used for. We’re a diplomatic and scientific vessel first!”

Spock inclined his head. “Agreed. However, our preferences appear irrelevant. If we are to carry out this assignment, we should begin devising a strategy.”

Jim exhaled slowly, pressing his palms to his eyes before turning his gaze back to Spock.

“At least with you by my side, my chances of staying alive go up significantly.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Captain, your odds of survival in my company increase by only four-point—”

Jim cut him off with a laugh, waving a hand. “I don’t need the numbers, Mr. Spock. It’s just a gut feeling. Now, let’s begin.”

He sat back down, and as Spock began sorting through a swirl of potential tactical scenarios, he felt the rhythmic pulse of his heart beating too hard, too fast in his side.

He quickly averted his gaze and forced himself to focus on the task at hand.

***

Hours of meticulous planning had led them here: face-to-face with a Klingon warship in the heart of the Neutral Zone.

Spock knew the most difficult aspect of the mission—for Jim, at least—was the betrayal of his own bridge crew. And yet, he had executed his role with unwavering precision. Over the past several days, he had sown subtle seeds of erratic behavior: bursts of agitation, questionable decisions, a creeping unpredictability. Now, with what appeared to be an unauthorized breach of the Neutral Zone, the crew was unsettled—but not enough to suspect their captain had been compromised.

“Red alert. Battle stations, all hands,” Jim ordered.

The alarm had scarcely sounded before two additional Romulan ships decloaked around them, confirming the theory: the Romulans were employing Klingon warbird designs to mask their vessels.

At the very least, one piece of intelligence had been secured for Starfleet.

So far, the plan was proceeding as intended—though Spock still did not concur with the decision to send the Enterprise on such a mission, he understood Starfleet’s rationale. The logic became even more clear the moment the Romulans hailed them.

Ordinarily, Romulan protocol would dictate destruction on first contact. But the Enterprise was a technological marvel—an impressive prize—and they wanted it intact.

Minutes later, Jim stood in the briefing room with his senior officers, having just received an ultimatum from the Romulan sub-commander—Tal.

“Gentlemen, we have three options,” Jim began. “Fight and be destroyed. Destroy Enterprise ourselves to keep her from the Romulans. Or… surrender.”

Five pairs of eyes turned to him, disbelieving.

Spock knew how much it cost Jim to speak that word aloud. To suggest surrender—it cut against the very grain of his being. But it was necessary.

“Jim, you can’t be serious. If you hadn’t ordered us into the damn Neutral Zone we wouldn’t be havin’ this conversation anyway!”McCoy exclaimed, fixing Jim with a hard glare.

“Thank you for the input Doctor. Do you have anything useful to add?” Jim responded coldly.

McCoy’s face turned a darker shade of red, but before he could protest further, the comm chimed. The Romulans were hailing again.

“Captain,” Tal greeted, his sharp featured, narrow face appearing on the screen, “my commander wishes to speak with you. You and your first officer will beam aboard. We will send two of our own in exchange.”

Jim inhaled sharply—subtle, but not invisible to Spock—and feigned a moment of deliberation.

“Very well. Send us your transporter coordinates. We’ll beam aboard shortly.”

As the transmission ended, Jim cast a glance toward Spock. Others in the room remained unaware of the true mission, but Spock read it clearly in his captain’s eyes: anxiety, excitement, anticipation.

The bait had worked.

Consultation with the only Vulcan officer in the fleet, and the commander of the flagship—it was too tempting a prize to resist.

The first portion of the plan was complete.

***

Spock could admit to a moderate degree of fascination with the Romulan people as they materialized on the ship’s transport pad. They were, after all, distant cousins of the Vulcans.

He found himself curious—since their divergence from Vulcan and subsequent isolation—how had they evolved?

Though their physical similarities were apparent, the ideological divide could not be starker. Where Vulcans pursued peace and logic, Romulans had become totalitarian, emotional, yet calculating.

As they passed through the ship, Spock’s gaze cataloged every detail he could observe. The architecture was bathed in warm purples and deep greens, the lighting dimmer than that aboard Enterprise. The corridors were narrower, more confined—almost oppressive in design.

Where Vulcans favored loose robes, Romulans wore tailored uniforms of heavy knits, almost resembling chainmail, cast in grays and muted pinks and blues. A striking juxtaposition of hard lines and soft textures. He wondered if the Romulan people mirrored this contradiction—warlike yet passionate, capable of gentleness under different circumstances.

They were escorted to a briefing room where they encountered their first deviation from the plan.

The Romulan commander was female.

They had based their assumptions on Starfleet protocol, which, while antiquated, rarely placed women in command positions. Spock was aware of the flaw in that logic—and of Starfleet’s own shortcomings—but it had been their baseline nonetheless.

She rose and turned to face them, and even Spock could not deny a certain commanding beauty in her presence. Voluminous dark hair framed sharp features, and her posture radiated control. There was strength in her stance, but softness in her gaze. Her eyes carried a deep understanding of emotion.

“I will speak to your captain first,” she said, her voice deep and low, with an almost sultry undertone.

Spock hesitated—briefly—glancing to Jim before restraining his concern behind the mental barriers reserved for all emotion. He followed his Romulan escort without protest.

Again, the Romulans proved themselves no fools, guiding him to an adjacent room beyond listening range. Perhaps their hearing was as acute as his own.

The wait was thankfully brief—only 4.7 minutes—before he was summoned back to the briefing room.

Seeing Jim still standing where Spock had left him sent an unexpected wave of relief through his chest. Illogical. He trusted the Romulans to be diplomatic—for now.

The commander turned her attention to him.

“Spock, I must admit, we did not expect to see you aboard the Enterprise. We were not aware any Vulcans served in Starfleet.”

Interesting. They had assumed the Romulans knew of Spock’s presence. It seemed Starfleet’s knowledge of Romulan intelligence was equally flawed. But why would the commander admit such a lapse?

Spock inclined his head. “Starfleet is not in the habit of informing Romulan interests of its crew assignments.”

She offered a slight smile and stepped closer, dark eyes fixed intently on him. “Quite so. I have heard of Vulcan integrity. A rumor—or perhaps a myth—that Vulcans are incapable of lying.”

“It is no myth.”

“Well then… by your honor as a Vulcan, what was your mission?”

Over her shoulder, Spock saw Jim stiffen, bright hazel eyes fixed intently on him. This was the moment everything could collapse. One wrong word, and Jim, Spock, and the entire Enterprise could be lost.

“I reserve the privilege of speaking only when it does not violate my honor as a Vulcan,” Spock replied calmly. “And it is not a lie to keep the truth to oneself.”

Jim inhaled sharply behind her, a dramatic sound halfway between frustration and disbelief. The commander’s eyes gleamed.

“Oh, so there is truth here that remains unspoken,” she purred, then turned to Jim, narrowing her eyes as a predatory smile split her lips. “You are aware of our cloaking device, aren’t you? You were ordered to violate Romulan space on a deliberate mission of espionage, were you not, Captain?”

Spock crossed the room slowly, clasping his hands behind his back, choosing each word with deliberate care.

This had to be convincing.

“Commander, it is my belief that the strain of captaining the Enterprise has been weighing heavily on Captain Kirk. He has not been himself.”

“That’s a lie.”

Spock’s gaze flicked to Jim.

“As you can see,” he continued, “the captain is highly emotional. I do not believe he is currently capable of rational thought—”

“Shut up, Spock!” Jim barked, squaring his shoulders defiantly.

“—furthermore, I believe there was no mission from Starfleet. Rather, it was the captain’s own hubris that led us to violate the Neutral Zone.”

Jim lunged forward, gentle, confident face twisted in rage as the two Romulan guards restrained him.

“I’ll kill you for this, you traitor!” He shouted, struggling vainly against the men.

Spock held his gaze steady, his posture unshaken.

The commander smiled with satisfaction. “Take him to the brig. Spock, I would like to speak with you further, if you will stay with me a while?”

Spock dipped his head in acknowledgment, watching as Jim was dragged from the room, wild-eyed, still shouting.

He gripped his hands tighter behind his back, and swallowed the panic rising in his throat, as Jim vanished from sight.

***

After the communication channel to the Enterprise was closed—where she had informed acting Captain Scott of their situation—the Romulan commander turned to Spock, who remained standing stiffly in the corner of the briefing room.

“A Vulcan among humans,” she mused, studying him. “Working with them… living with them. Why do you do this?”

He debated his answer. At present, she had no reason to suspect him of dishonesty. But if she learned of his hybrid nature, it might raise unwanted questions. Conversely, if he lied about being wholly Vulcan and the truth came out—

“I am half-Vulcan. My mother is human.”

Her eyes widened slightly, intrigued. “Then where does your allegiance lie? Are you Terran… or Vulcan?”

“Vulcan.”

That answer seemed to satisfy her. She leaned back into the rich leather of her chair, relaxing as she began asking him a string of strangely personal questions.

How long had he served? Both in Starfleet and under Kirk. Did he like his ship? His crewmates?

The questions were irrelevant. He said as much.

The plan had always been for Spock to betray Jim—to appear to betray him—but he had not anticipated this level of personal interest. He and Jim had assumed Spock, as a Vulcan, might intrigue the Romulans… but not to this degree. Though adept at deception, he found the practice unpalatable.

“You are a superior being,” she said suddenly. “Why do you not command?”

Superior. It was a term Spock had never associated with himself. He was an outlier. Different. Other. Neither Vulcan nor human. He had never desired command. Or… perhaps, even if he had, no one would have offered it.

And now here she was, extending that possibility.

His thoughts flicked briefly to Jim. If the plan was progressing as expected, McCoy should now be aboard to “treat” his captain’s fractured psyche. For now… Spock had to continue playing her game.

“Such opportunities in Starfleet are… a rarity for someone like myself.” He admitted.

She smiled, and opened her mouth to reply when the comm system chimed. A message for the commander: Dr. McCoy wished to speak with her.

At her invitation, Spock accompanied her to McCoy, but as they neared the holding cell, she stopped and dismissed her guards.

“I… would request you join me for dinner.” She said softly, then stopped herself, “—no, rather… Will you join me for dinner?”

Ah. So, it was romantic interest she was showing.

With no viable means of refusal, he inclined his head in agreement. “I would be honored.”

She flashed a soft smile, and they entered the small holding cell.

Jim was seated away from the doorway, upright on the interrogation table, breathing hard. It seemed he had deliberately disheveled his hair to fit the role.

Spock kept his gaze carefully averted from the captain’s heaving shoulders as McCoy straightened from where he’d been running a medical scanner over Jim.

“Well, he’s mentally depressed, physically weak, disoriented… I need to run a full psychological eval as soon as possible.”

A beat of silence, then, “So, you’d state for the record that, currently, he is unfit for duty?” the Romulan commander asked with a sharp smile.

McCoy hesitated for a moment, then nodded tightly. The commander turned to Spock, her eyes glimmering.

“Well… it would seem the good doctor has corroborated your testimony. Captain Kirk was acting out of his own desire for renown. Now, it is your duty to take command of the Enterprise. Are you ready to accept?”

Spock nodded, “I am.”

McCoy’s eyes widened in shock. “Spock, I don’t believe it. There’s no price you could pay to sell him out like this!”

Then came the penultimate deception.

Spock was prepared for it—had mentally readied himself for it—but still, when the moment it arrived, it took him by surprise.

“You traitor. I’ll kill you…” Jim murmured as they spoke with McCoy. Then, louder—angrier—he lunged. “I’ll kill you!”

Spock raised his hand and swiftly pressed his fingers to Jim’s face. The contact was precise—deliberate. His fingers spread wide over Jim’s shocked expression like a spider clinging to glass.

They had determined this would be the least painful, and most convincing, method of simulating death. But it came with a cost: Jim’s mental privacy.

Contact through clothing could be filtered—emotions sensed, but deflected. Touching bare skin however, particularly at the head, opened a direct path to thought.

“I trust you, Spock,” Jim had said, back on the Enterprise. “From you… there’s nothing to hide.”

And yet now, as Spock’s fingers pressed to Jim’s skin, his mental defenses braced, he was struck by a barrage of emotion and thought.

Jim was terrified they would be discovered, and he would doom them all with an unconvincing performance. That the commander, or even McCoy, might recognize the “Vulcan Death Grip” for the fiction it was—a concept so un-Vulcan it bordered on absurd.

But underneath the anxiety… beyond the fear and desperation… there was something else, something Jim was trying to beat into submission.

The feeling was bitter. Uneasy. And something Spock—maddeningly—could not immediately identify.

It wasn’t directed at the plan itself—but rather at Spock, and his dynamic with the Romulan commander.

A sudden, unwanted urge gripped him—to delve deeper, to push through the mental noise and uncover the root of that emotion Jim seemed so intent on suppressing.

He caught himself and felt a flicker of annoyance for even considering it. Using any form of telepathy without express consent was a serious crime among Vulcans.

A heartbeat later the connection severed. Jim slumped to the deck of the Romulan ship, lifeless in appearance.

In truth Spock had rendered him so deeply unconscious that McCoy’s medical sensors should be unable to find life readings, a hope that was proven true a moment later.

“Well Mr. Spock, looks like you’re the captain now. He’s dead.” McCoy said.

Spock wondered how many more times the doctor would accuse him of that.

***

Upon entering the Romulan commander’s quarters, Spock was once again struck by the similarities to Vulcan aesthetic preferences.

The room was bathed in warm orange and purple tones, sheer white curtains marking the doorways. It reminded him of his own quarters aboard the Enterprise, where red velvet drapes and Vulcan artifacts adorned the sleeping alcove. An unfamiliar floral scent hung in the air, underscored by a musky undertone.

“I’ve had special Vulcan dishes prepared for you. I hope they’re to your liking,” the commander said as Spock approached a tiered cart of warm, familiar scents.

“I am very flattered, Commander.”

They sat on a low, plush couch layered with pillows, and she poured an opaque, orange liquid into two small glasses.

“Vulcans do not typically imbibe liquor,” he said as she handed him one.

She smiled knowingly. “It is not alcohol. Rather, a Romulan drink, reserved for celebrations. Please,” she gestured gently, encouraging him to taste.

The liquid burned slightly on the way down, a warm burst of ginger and citrus. He found the sensation unexpectedly pleasant.

“You have nothing to return to in Starfleet,” she said softly. “I—we—offer you an alternative. We’ll find a place for you… with me.”

His thoughts wandered to Jim.

With the captain thought to be dead time was ticking away. Soon, the Romulans would attempt to take control of the Enterprise. Would Jim be back aboard this ship now, awake and in Romulan disguise? Would he make it to the cloaking device unharmed?

His role had never included seducing a Romulan commander, but now it seemed unavoidable. He had to continue the farce, though he found himself without much appetite for food—or deception.

The guilt weighed on him. Not just for leading her on, but for the betrayal—however false—of Jim. Even knowing the captain was in on the plan, the dissonance lingered, as did the question of what mysterious emotion Jim had been feeling was.

The commander shifted closer, running a finger along the rim of her glass.

“Romulan women are not like Vulcan females,” she said. “We are not ruled by pure logic. We are warriors. We feel deeply… love fiercely. As a Vulcan, you might study that, and as a human… I believe you might appreciate it.”

Spock leaned in slightly, allowing his posture to soften.

“Believe me—I do appreciate it.”

Her eyes, heavy-lidded and dark with intent, met his. “There is but one more step. You will beam aboard the Enterprise with a Romulan landing party, assume command, and direct the ship to Romulus.”

Spock hesitated. Another unexpected turn, to put him in charge of the boarding party. They needed more time—Jim needed more time.

He offered a measured pause. “Indeed. But not just this moment,” he said carefully. “An hour from now would be even better. Would it not… Commander?”

Her expression softened. “Yes, Mr. Spock,” she murmured. “You do know I have a first name?”

“I was beginning to wonder.”

She leaned closer, her breath warm against his ear. “My name is… Dion.”

After a pause, she pulled back slightly. “If you’d allow me… the soldier will transform herself into a woman.”

He gave a small nod of agreement. Slowly, she smiled and rose, eyes lingering on him, before retreating into the bedroom.

The moment the door closed behind her, Spock flipped open his communicator.

“Spock to Captain Kirk. Have you beamed over?”

“Kirk here,” came the soft crackle. “Yes, I'm aboard. Have you gotten the information?”

“Yes, Captain. We passed a room I believe contains the cloaking device—adjacent to the commander’s quarters. Heavily guarded. Authorized personnel only.”

“Understood. I’ll retrieve it. Spock, will you be able to return to the Enterprise without drawing attention?”

Had the situation not been so dire, Spock might have made a wry comment about the unlikelihood of that outcome.

Instead, he began, “Unknown, Captain. At present, I’m rather—”

He snapped the communicator shut as Dion reemerged—no longer in uniform, but in a long black dress that bared one toned, muscular shoulder. Her hair had been oiled and crystals now dangled from her ears.

“Is my attire more appropriate now?” she asked, resettling beside him.

He slipped back into character smoothly.

“It is not only more appropriate—it should… stimulate the conversation,” he said in a low voice, then raised his hand in the ta’al.

She gasped softly at the gesture. Even she recognized what it meant: one of the most intimate acts a telepath could perform—a touching of the minds.

She raised her hand in response.

He hesitated—just for a moment—as his hand hovered centimeters from hers.

Images of Jim clouded his thoughts.

Jim’s body on Vulcan. His smile when Spock realized he was alive. The way he teased Spock’s logic without ever demeaning it.

A flurry of emotions flooded him, even as he pushed them back into submission—guilt, confusion, and something dangerously close… to longing. Longing for Jim to be the figure before him.

Illogical. Something to concern himself with later (or preferably not at all). This was espionage. Necessary deception.

He closed the gap between their hands, brushing her fingers with the barest of touches.

A torrent her emotion met him—desire, joy, a lonely hope for connection, and above all… trust.

“It’s hard to admit I could be so moved by the touch of an alien hand,” she murmured, fingers gliding along his neck and jawline as he mirrored the motion.

He doubted Romulans retained Vulcan-level telepathic sensitivity, but he raised his mental defenses nonetheless. Focusing on them also served to keep the unwelcome emotions at bay.

A sudden chime at the door broke the moment.

Dion closed her eyes in frustration. Spock could feel it clearly as it rippled across her face and through their touch.

“Commander, may I enter?” came a muffled voice.

“Not now, Tal,” she said sharply.

“It is urgent, Commander.”

Spock pulled his hand back. If Tal was this insistent, there was a high probability Jim had been discovered.

He readied himself for what might follow.

Fight… or death.

Dion exhaled in frustration and stood. “Enter.”

The door slid open. “Commander, we have intercepted an alien transmission. From this room.”

Her eyes turned to Spock, betrayal tightening every muscle in her face.

He withdrew the communicator silently from his pocket.

Her expression shifted from confusion to anger, and urgency. She turned to the sub-commander. “The cloaking device—bring him!” she ordered, striding swiftly from the room.

***

The device was indeed gone—and though Spock’s life was now likely forfeit, his chest still swelled with pride. Jim had pulled it off.

Of course, there was still time for failure. Mr. Scott had approximately fourteen minutes, while the Romulans scoured their vessel for the device, to integrate the technology into Enterprise’s deflector shields so they could make their escape. Not nearly an adequate amount of time for such a task, but Spock had confidence in the engineer. Scott had managed to accomplish more with less before.

As her guards fanned out across the ship, Spock and Dion were left alone in the control room. He found himself unable to look at her, though he could feel her eyes burning into him.

“You must be insane,” she said at last, her voice trembling. “Why would you do this to me? What are you, that you could do this?”

The hurt in her voice was raw, unfiltered.

He forced himself to turn. Her eyes were glassy, hardened with pain.

“I am first officer of the Enterprise,” he said quietly. And despite his effort to restrain it, he wondered if she could hear the regret beneath the calm.

He didn’t move when she raised her hand and slapped him—hard. He met her gaze with the same neutral expression.

“What is your current method of execution?” he asked evenly.

She stared at him, stunned.

“You would choose death for—for an inferior race? For humans?!”

He said nothing.

She exhaled, voice brittle. “It matters not. At least you can take comfort knowing you will not die alone. We will find your captain. I won’t detail the nature of our execution methods, only that they are… unpleasant. It will be carried out once all facts are recorded.”

Spock gave a small nod, before making one final attempt for time.

“Commander, am I permitted the Romulan Right of Final Statement?”

Some of the warmth from earlier flickered back into her expression. “You know Romulan tradition well. Yes—the right is granted.” She led him back toward the computer console in her quarters.

“Thank you. I shall require no more than twenty minutes,” he said, inclining his head.

She activated the recorder.

Spock knew the odds of being located and beamed aboard Enterprise, with only his Vulcan biology as a traceable marker, hovered around nine-point-three percent. Still, he made his statement. Buying Chekov as much time as he could get to locate his life readings.

The speech was long-winded, even by his standards.

He detailed the parameters of the mission, his observations of Romulan culture, and the nuances between Vulcan and Romulan customs—all in painstaking, deliberate detail.

Remarkably, minutes from the end of his time, a shimmering veil of golden light began to cloud his vision. He almost smiled as the familiar tingle of the transporter beam hummed through him.

“No!” he heard Dion cry, her voice muffled under the rising whine of the energizer. An instant later, she was gone.

Once again he was surrounded by the comforting, clean white walls, of the Enterprise.

***

User: Kirk, James T.
Personal Log – Stardate: 5031.3

sigh… I’ll likely be deleting this entry once it’s complete, but I feel compelled to get these thoughts out somehow.

Earlier today, Mr. Spock and I accomplished what was likely the most dangerous mission Enterprise has ever undertaken. We succeeded—despite Spock’s less-than-favorable odds. Though, to be fair, his odds regarding my plans are often dismal.

So why am I not satisfied with the outcome? Why do I feel so… upset?

laughs Rhetorical questions. I know exactly why I’m upset.

I’ve understood my—as Spock would so succinctly put it—illogical feelings for my first officer for the better part of a year now. I told myself I’d speak of it once, dump out this mess of longing and unrequited emotion, and move on.

Yet here I am, breaking my own rule.

It’s just… I know I’m the romantic one here. I’m a walking contradiction—desperately longing for connection, then refusing to allow anything to last longer than a week. I’m human, after all.

It’s the guilt. The guilt of dragging someone into my life—a life where I can’t give them all of me, because I’ve bound myself to duty first. A life where I’ve experienced too much pain to allow myself to share it with another.

So, of course the loneliness follows… eventually I reach out for connection again… and the cycle repeats.

It’s maddening.

And as if that weren’t enough self-flagellation, I had to go and fall in love with a being I could never have.

Dammit. I said I wouldn’t talk about this again. And here I go.

I just wanted to get today off my chest… but now all I can think about is Spock.

Seeing him with that Romulan commander—it lit something in me. A fire. A raging jealousy. One I desperately hope Spock didn’t sense through the so-called “death grip.” Because… what if he did?

I’ve imagined scenarios where my feelings are accidentally revealed and, truthfully? I have no idea how he’d react.

Part of what makes Spock so endlessly compelling is how thoroughly he confounds me. He’s an enigma. Constantly surprising. And I can think of no greater joy I feel, than the moments when I succeed of predicting him correctly—not something that happens often. laughs

Would he accept this love as a logical outcome of our working relationship? Would he be disappointed in my irrational human nature? Would it change how he sees me?

I knew the odds of reciprocation were highly unlikely even before I learned about Vulcan mating practices. But now—with what I know of pon farr—it’s painfully clear these feelings serve no purpose but to depress me.

He may not be engaged now, but Vulcans don’t strike me as the type to involve themselves in relationships outside of those meant for reproduction. And even if they did—I’m not exactly… ahem… biologically compatible.

Is it Vulcan instinct to be drawn only to the opposite sex? Was that shaped by their evolution?

I assume Spock will be bonded to another before his next pon farr, though he admitted that wouldn’t be for another seven years.

sigh These ruminations are pointless anyway. If Spock is capable of love, I doubt it would mirror the way humans experience it.

So why did I feel so goddamn jealous over the Romulan’s interest in him?!

He was doing his duty. He compromised his Vulcan sense of honor in favor of his human capacity for deception—for us. Maybe even for me.

If anything, her interest in him is why the mission succeeded.

And here I am, drinking out of anger—not celebration—and sulking like some cadet with a crush who saw his date go off with someone else.

It’s like I’m back at the Academy. Like I’m back with Gary.

No. That’s enough.

I’ll bury these feelings—again. I won’t risk the friendship of someone who’s already defied personal logic to grow as close to me as he has.

I’ll get over him. I have to.

It’s better for me to be alone anyway. I knew what I was sacrificing when I became a starship captain.

I’ll throw myself into the work. I’ll admire him from a distance. And I’ll continue on.

Alone… as I’ve always been. And probably always will be.

Do you wish to delete this entry? Y / N

Y / N

Kirk, James T. – Logged out.

Chapter Text

As he materialized, Spock’s sensitive ears were immediately assaulted by the sounds of old Terran vehicles—rubber wheels skimming over pavement, steel frames groaning, and external horns blaring to announce their presence. The scent of dirt and refuse clouded his thoughts for a moment as he adjusted to the new environment.

He and Jim hadn’t yet been noticed, though the streets were far from empty. People bustled past in simple slacks, flannel shirts, and long coats made of cotton and wool, each too wrapped in their own concerns to pay attention to the alien presence that had appeared out of thin air.

The exact time and place remained uncertain, but Spock felt confident they had at least landed in the correct year—America, 1930—though timing their jump had been approximate at best.

Eventually, a pair of older women noticed them. They gasped and shrank away, wide-eyed.

It seemed their Starfleet uniforms stood out starkly against the muted browns and grays of local fashion—and that was without accounting for Spock’s alien features.

He and Jim turned away awkwardly, Spock throwing a hand up to conceal his ears, until the women finally scurried away.

“We seem to be costumed a little out of step with the times,” Jim observed, mouth quirking.

“Indeed. I will be particularly difficult to explain, in any case, Captain.”

Perhaps Jim should have brought Mr. Scott to assist with McCoy’s retrieval instead. But it was too late for what-if scenarios, and Spock would’ve volunteered to accompany Jim if he hadn’t been selected in any case. There was only one shot to right the wrong—whatever it was—that McCoy had made in this time period, and Spock wasn’t about to stand back and let someone else take his place at Jim’s side.

Jim laid a hand on Spock’s arm as he examined the features that distinguished him from humans—saffron-toned skin, upswept brows, pointed ears. Spock found himself unconsciously leaning into the warmth of the touch.

“Well, if we can’t disguise you, Mr. Spock, we’ll find some way of… explaining you.”

Spock raised a brow. “That should prove interesting.”

Jim chuckled and tugged him away from the alley, already speculating quietly to himself about how they might blend in.

They wandered the streets for several minutes, drawing curious glances and narrowly avoiding a collision with one of the antique vehicles—an admittedly fascinating piece of engineering. Then Jim spotted what he had been searching for: a few articles of men’s clothing hanging from a fire escape just off the main road.

“Theft, Captain?” Spock inquired, tilting his head.

Jim offered a crooked grin before bounding up the narrow ladder.

If not for the noise of the traffic, Spock might have heard the heavy-soled footsteps approaching from behind, as he observed Jim nimbly scale the ironwork. As it was, by the time his captain climbed back down with the clothes, they found themselves face-to-face with what appeared to be local law enforcement.

The officer cleared his throat, obviously expecting some sort of excuse. Jim paled, and began stumbling through an explanation of the unexplainable—until the officer cut him off and ordered them to face the wall.

Normally, Spock’s brand of intervention in this matter would constitute a breach of the Prime Directive—no interference with developing societies—but given the urgency of their mission, he made a calculated decision. As the officer moved in to frisk them, Spock turned and applied a precise nerve pinch.

The man immediately went limp, and gasps erupted from nearby pedestrians, as Spock and Jim gently lowered the now-unconscious officer to the sidewalk—then bolted, clothes in hand.

They ran through the streets amid a rising clamor of voices and exclamations, before Jim finally pulled them into an alley and through the door of an unlocked basement.

Shutting it behind them, Jim let out a deep sigh. “Well, that could’ve gone worse, wouldn’t you say?” He grinned.

The basement was cooler than the streets above—already cold by Spock’s standards, which suggested they had arrived in mid-autumn. Dusty furniture and cobwebs lined the dim space, and though the air was musty, it offered a welcome reprieve from the sensory onslaught outside.

Spock approached the staircase and paused. He could hear voices above—so the building was not abandoned—but it was unlikely the basement saw regular use.

“I think you enjoyed seeing me squirm under that policeman’s questions,” Jim teased as he stripped off his command golds and thermal. “Sometimes I believe you’re more human than you care to admit.”

Spock averted his gaze from Jim’s bare chest as he began to undress as well. It was a strange sensation. He had seen Jim shirtless thirty one times before—yet something now made his gut twist. Thick, corded muscle traced his arms, and his broad chest still glistened with perspiration from their escape.

He snapped his gaze back to the pile of clothes before them and instead focused on a retort.

“Captain, I hardly think now is the time for insults.”

Jim laughed, warm and unbothered, as he removed his boots and pants. Spock glanced over again—and found that Jim was now in only a pair of boxer briefs.

His cheeks warmed and he turned away quickly, but not before catching a fleeting, unreadable expression on Jim’s face—one Spock was not sure he imagined.

They finished changing in awkward silence.

***

Spock had always understood the doctor to be… eccentric, even by human standards. Though an officer of Starfleet, McCoy had always positioned himself as a physician first. His medical proficiency was beyond reproach—surpassing that of most ship-based medical personnel—but not without its drawbacks.

His hand-to-hand combat skills were, by Spock’s estimation, abysmal—an assessment he doubted McCoy himself would contest. The man abhorred violence. Yet Jim seemed to regularly favor him for away teams regardless.

During bouts of ship-to-ship combat, the doctor was infamous for refusing to strap himself in, often emerging with a fresh array of scrapes and bruises.

He had once dismissed Jim’s concern with a gruff, “I can’t just stop halfway through a surgery ‘cause some damn Klingons wanna line dance with us!”

Spock had long predicted that the doctor’s eccentricities would one day set in motion a chain of events with catastrophic consequences. That chain began, as these things often did, with a simple bout of turbulence.

The Enterprise had been orbiting an uncharted Class-M planet, mapping temporal distortions that had been causing the ship to shake violently. A sudden malfunction at the navigation console left Mr. Sulu unconscious, prompting Dr. McCoy to administer a high-risk stimulant to revive him.

The small dose of cordrazine worked instantly. Unfortunately, another violent jolt of the deck caused McCoy to stumble—accidentally injecting himself with an entire hypo of what was, essentially, pure adrenaline.

What followed could only be described as a butterfly effect: one small moment unleashing consequences far beyond its scale.

Gripped by adrenaline-fueled mania, McCoy beamed down to the planet and managed to leap through the very anomaly they’d been observing—a sentient time portal which called itself the Guardian of Forever.

Wherever the doctor had gone, the impact was enormous. When Jim and the remaining landing party attempted to contact the Enterprise, there was no response.

The ship no longer existed.

Marooned in a foreign timeline on an alien world, Jim and Spock had no choice but to ask the Guardian to send them after McCoy—into the past, to correct whatever change had fractured their original reality.

And now, all of that had led them here: a dusty basement in what Jim suspected was New York City. As ever, his historical knowledge was exhaustive—giving credence to his academy nickname (according to Jim himself) ‘a stack of books with legs’.

While Jim postulated aloud about where McCoy might have ended up within the timeline, Spock finished tucking his shirt into a pair of surprisingly well-fitting slacks and activated his tricorder.

“If I could just tie in with the ship’s computers for a moment,” he said, “I might be able to determine the point of divergence.”

Jim glanced over. “Couldn’t you build some kind of computer aid here?”

Spock actually balked and made no effort to mask the incredulity in his voice. “In this zinc-plated, vacuum-tubed culture?”

Jim’s mouth quirked with a teasing smile. “Yes, I suppose it would pose an extremely challenging problem in logic, Mr. Spock.” He returned to fiddling with the basement furnace. “I apologize. I suppose I expect too much of you sometimes.”

Spock arched a brow at the jab but could not deny the warmth that bloomed in his chest.

Jim had a talent for compelling him to do things that defied reason—and it infuriated Spock as much as it… fascinated him.

Suddenly, the overhead fluorescent flickered to life.

“Who’s there?” called a gentle but confident voice from above.

Spock immediately snatched a hat from the clothes pile and fit it over his ears just as a young woman appeared at the top of the basement stairs. She was beautiful—soft-featured, with cropped dark hair and large, wary eyes.

“Apologies,” Jim began, holding his hands up in a show of peace. “We didn’t mean to trespass. It’s just… cold outside.”

Her eyes narrowed, though her tone remained free of hostility. “A lie is a very poor way to say hello.”

Jim lowered his hands with a soft laugh. “Yes… apologies. We were being chased by a policeman. These clothes, you see? We stole them. We didn’t have any money.”

She studied them for a long moment, as if weighing their honesty—then nodded.

“Well… I could use some help around here. Cleaning, cooking, that sort of thing.”

That would solve their funding issue for acquiring the necessary computer equipment.

“Thank you, ma’am. And if you don’t mind me asking… where are we?” Jim replied.

She smiled then, warm and soft. “You’re at the 21st Street Mission. And my name is Edith Keeler.”

Jim nodded, responding with their names in kind, but Spock noted the way his captain’s gaze lingered just a little too long on the woman.

Of course, he thought, a flicker of annoyance stirring—along with something else.

Something deeper. Unfamiliar. And wholly unwelcome.

***

Jim wasn’t a stranger to manual labor; however Spock was, and had always been, a scientist. He might be stronger than the human—built for higher gravity environments—but he was more physically accustomed to the rapid-fire training of hand to hand combat, not slow, methodical scrubbing and polishing for hours at a time.

Finishing his third, and final, scrub of the basement floor he stood with a wince, his back twinging from bending at an awkward angle for so long.

“Worn out, huh?” Jim chuckled from the step stool he’d been on to change the bulbs in the overhead lamps.

“I’m… not accustomed to polishing floors in my daily work, no Captain.” Spock begrudged.

“Maybe we’ll add that to your duties!” Jim laughed as he climbed down, “Come on, I think we’re done here, and Ms. Keeler mentioned dinner would be served about now.”

The dining area was modest, just a windowed buffet into the kitchen where Ms. Keeler and a few other staff members were serving a host of bedraggled men.

They received a modest meal of some type of vegetable soup and a crust of bread, and took seats at one of the many long, wooden tables.

With the last of the mission’s patrons were served, Ms. Keeler exited the kitchen and turned to face the men from a slightly raised pedestal.

“You wanna eat? You gotta pay the price.” One of the scruffy attendees murmured to Jim.

Edith began to speak about how she was no do-gooder, and if anyone turned to alcohol instead of trying to improve their circumstances, they were welcome to leave. Then she began to speak of her vision of the future, how things may have been bleak currently, but one day man would breach the stars.

Spock felt his appetite evaporate as he watched Jim gaze at Edith, hazel eyes shimmering with appreciation. The unpleasant feeling returned, burning the back of his throat though the soup itself wasn’t that hot. He did his best to lock it away, unsure he wanted to know the meaning behind it.

After their meager meal, one that Spock barely touched, he caught Jim side-eyeing him, opening his mouth to say something before Ms. Keeler approached.

“You two are fabulous workers, that basement looks like it was built yesterday! I have more work for you tomorrow morning if you’d like. Do you have a flop for the night?”

Jim turned to Spock in confusion. “Flop?”

Edith laughed, “Gosh, you two are really new to this, aren’t you? A flop is a place to sleep. There’s a vacant room in my building for $2 a month if you’d like.”

Jim nodded, eyes fixated on Edith, “Thank you.”

There was a charged pause between them, before Edith nodded shyly and scurried away.

***

The next few days passed with agonizing slowness. Jim spent his daylight hours working at the Mission, while Spock labored to construct some form of radio system using the inexorably primitive technology available.

The flop—a dingy, single-room rental—offered little comfort: two narrow twin beds, a cramped kitchenette, and a shared bathroom down the hall. With one bed overtaken by jury-rigged equipment, Spock had taken to meditating on the floor. But even Vulcan discipline had limits, and after three days, his human physiology demanded sleep.

He pressed the heels of his hands against tired eyes, wincing at the headache forming behind them as he tried once again to modify his tricorder to be compatible with vacuum tubes and copper wiring.

But fatigue wasn’t the only thing gnawing at the edge of his mind.

A deeper irritation simmered—illogical and persistent.

Using a dull kitchen knife as an impromptu screwdriver, Spock’s thoughts drifted, as they had repeatedly, to Jim… working alongside Ms. Keeler. All day. Every day.

The thoughts served no rational purpose, yet they lingered, smoldering in the back of his consciousness like embers refusing to extinguish.

Did she return the infatuation Jim so clearly harbored for her? Why couldn’t Jim prioritize Spock’s needs to locate McCoy?

Why couldn’t Jim focus on him?

The thought landed like a slap, but he didn’t have time to examine it before the sound of the door unlocking startled him back to the present.

Jim entered, arms full of groceries, his collar open and face lightly flushed from labor. He smelled faintly of sweat and sawdust.

“Captain, I must have some platinum,” Spock said, standing. “A small block would suffice. By passing certain circuits through—”

Jim cut him off with a weary sigh. “Yes, thank you for the warm welcome, Spock.” He set the groceries down. “I’ve brought vegetables, bread, and spent the last of our money filling your order.”

He handed over another bag. Spock opened it, only to find a disappointing tangle of copper and aluminum wire.

“I regret to inform you this bag does not—nor is it likely to, in the future—contain any platinum, gold, or silver,” Jim said, his tone edging toward exasperation.

“Captain, you’re asking me to build a computer from materials barely more advanced than stone knives and bearskins,” Spock replied. “McCoy may arrive in a matter of days, and with current resources, I estimate I’ll complete only the most rudimentary mnemonic circuitry in three weeks.”

Jim’s frown deepened, “Look, I’ve seen a couple men at the Mission working on some clocks with some small, detailing tools. They’re kept in a lockbox but maybe you’d be able to crack it with those Vulcan ears of yours. I’m loathe to breach Ms. Keeler’s trust again but—” at that moment a knock sounded at the door—and before Jim could stop her, Ms. Keeler herself was peeking in.

“I found someone who can offer you work tomorrow—twenty-two cents—” She stopped mid-sentence, her eyes widening as they landed on the deplorable tangle of wires, vacuum tubes, and half-melted solder cluttering the bed.

“W—what is all that?” she asked, curiosity overtaking concern.

When Jim hesitated, Spock stepped in smoothly behind him.

“I am endeavoring, ma’am, to build a mnemonic circuit board,” he said evenly, “using stone knives and bearskins.”

Jim shot him a look of pure exasperation. Spock met it with a single, measured raise of his brow.

“I… see,” Keeler said softly, blinking. “Well—erm, just be at the Mission tomorrow by noon.” She stepped back out, the door clicking softly shut behind her.

Both men nodded—but only one of them looked slightly smug about it.

***

The following evening, after they’d finished sweeping up the Mission’s cafeteria following the nightly free meal, Jim led Spock to the storage closet where the lockbox was kept.

The lock was rudimentary, and with Jim keeping watch, Spock closed his eyes and listened intently, attuning himself to the subtle clicks that signaled each correct number.

With the tools safely tucked into his jacket pocket, they resumed their evening duties—until Ms. Keeler approached as they shoveled coal into the basement furnace, a frown tugging at her mouth.

“That toolbox was locked with a combination,” she said, tone light but edged with suspicion. “And you opened it like a real pro.”

There was a beat of silence.

“I needed the tools for my radio work,” Spock replied evenly. “They would have been returned in the morning.”

Ms. Keeler scoffed, then backpedaled. “No, I’m sorry, I—”

“If Spock says they’ll be returned in the morning, they will be,” Jim interjected with a warm smile, first at his first officer, then at her. “You can bet your reputation on that, Ms. Keeler.”

She hesitated, glancing between them with cautious eyes, before her gaze settled on Jim.

“Very well. But one condition,” she approached Jim with a sly smile, “Walk me home?”

Spock stiffened. His heart clenched—sharp and immediate.

“I still have questions about you two,” she added. “And don’t give me that look—like you’ve no idea what I mean. You know as well as I do how out of place you are here.”

Spock pushed down the spike of anxiety and shifted his focus to the implications of her words.

“Interesting,” he said. “Where do you believe we belong, then, Ms. Keeler?”

She smiled, knowingly. Almost sadly.

“You? At his side. As if you’ve always been there, and always will.”

Spock faltered, the quiet truth of the statement striking deeper than he expected. Jim must have noticed; something flickered behind his eyes—concern, curiosity, maybe both.

“And you,” she said, turning to Jim, “you belong with him… just not here. Not in this time. I don’t know where, exactly, but I’ll figure it out.”

She grinned as Jim flushed, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly embarrassed.

Spock felt the ache return to his chest—low and bitter. He couldn’t entirely keep the tension from his voice.

“I’ll finish with the furnace, then.”

“Captain,” Edith teased as she took Jim’s hand, “even when he doesn’t say it out loud, he means it.”

With that, she tugged Jim along, and Spock stood rooted in place, watching them disappear down the corridor.

He didn’t realize, as he turned back to his task, that his grip on the coal shovel had tightened so much the wood had splintered beneath his fingers.

Silently, he wrapped a strip of tape around the fractured handle… and kept working.

***

The autumn air nipped at Jim’s nose and ears as he and Edith strolled the quiet streets, the bustle of the day long since faded with the setting sun. A few couples passed by now and then, but mostly the streets were empty—peaceful.

Edith looked radiant in a deep navy coat that set off the milky paleness of her complexion. She had brushed her short hair into soft waves that framed her face.

“Were you two in the war, then?” she asked.

Jim smiled at the thought. “We… served together, yes.”

“Is it something you don’t want to talk about? Are you on the run? Is that why we met the way we did?” She hesitated, voice earnest. “If there’s anything I can do, please—let me help.”

Jim smiled warmly. She might not have called herself a do-gooder, but she was—perhaps the most genuine one he’d ever met.

Well… aside from one particularly stubborn half-Vulcan.

He took a breath. “You know… about a hundred years from now, a famous novelist will write a classic using three words—deeming them even more important than ‘I love you.’”

She laughed, delighted. When she asked who the novelist was and where he was from, Jim pulled her gently closer and pointed toward the sky, sparkling with stars.

“That planet circling the star on the far left of Orion’s Belt—see it?”

Even as he looked into Edith’s kind face, his thoughts drifted—inevitably—toward Spock.

It had been Spock who had gifted him the book. Found in some forgotten bookstore on Zeta Orionis.

“It is not my preferred reading, Captain, but it would seem to appeal to your human sensibilities,” Spock had said with typical dryness. Jim had laughed, accepted it—and devoured it in a single night. It had appealed to him in every way he was most vulnerable. Not overtly romantic, but suffused with sentiment that bled through every page.

They arrived at Edith’s apartment—just one floor down from his own—and stopped at the door. She turned toward him, large doe-eyes bright and full of unspoken things. Sensing invitation, Jim leaned down to kiss her—only to feel a small hand press gently against his chest.

“Jim,” she said softly, regret clouding her voice, “I like you very much, but… am I the one you really want?”

His eyes widened. “I—I mean—” He stumbled over the words, caught off guard.

She smiled, sad but kind. “Mr. Spock is a loyal man. You’re lucky to have him by your side.”

“It’s—it’s not like that,” Jim stammered. “He’s my—he was—my first officer.”

“Your first officer,” she said gently, “that you’re in love with.” She winked, though her smile was tinged with melancholy. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”

Jim swallowed hard, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“I do like you, Edith. You’re… everything I could dream of. Courageous. Sharp. Compassionate…”

She laid her hand lightly over his own. “But I’m not him.”

He closed his eyes and sighed, the truth cutting clean through him.

“No. No, you’re not.”

She squeezed his hand once, then offered a soft smile. “Would you like to come in and tell me a little about him? I’ll put on some tea.”

Jim managed a smile of his own. “That would be lovely.”

***

Spock hadn’t meant to spy on Jim—he hadn’t meant to see.

While Jim had been walking Ms. Keeler home, Spock had already returned to the flop and made a breakthrough with the tricorder’s makeshift “computer.” Unfortunately, the breakthrough had been fleeting: a flash of a news article reporting Ms. Keeler’s untimely death before the image fizzled out.

He was in the middle of tampering with the wiring, trying to recover the article with a sinking feeling in his stomach, when he heard Jim’s voice in the hallway below. He cracked the door open to call him in—only to see Jim leaning down to kiss Ms. Keeler.

Spock froze. Then, quickly, he shut the door and staggered back, a confusing torrent of emotions gripping him, immediately driving away his concern about the article. There was anger. Hurt. And above all, an ugly, burning sensation in the back of his throat, like bile rising.

It felt like a slap across the face. Like plunging into ice water.

And suddenly, he understood the emotion for what it was.

Jealousy.

Severe, unbridled jealousy.

Spock sank heavily onto the edge of the bed, beside the scattered pieces of tech, trying to push the unwanted emotions aside. But when Jim didn’t return within the next few minutes, Spock assumed—correctly—that Ms. Keeler must have invited him in.

Slowly, deliberately, he allowed himself to sift through the wreckage of his emotions.

He had seen Jim with many women before. Granted, the connection he observed between Jim and Ms. Keeler was stronger than usual—but still. He had never experienced this kind of visceral reaction to Jim’s affairs.

And it wasn’t the first time he had reacted strangely to something involving Jim.

For a troubling number of months now, Spock had struggled to ignore how often his thoughts drifted to his captain. How his pulse seemed to spike in Jim’s presence. How his stomach clenched—as if thrown from hyperspeed—whenever Jim’s gaze lingered too long.

It had all started on Vulcan.

Perhaps there was more to pon farr than he had initially understood. Perhaps he had somehow bonded to Jim through the ritual—though logically, he knew the unlikelihood of that scenario. He was well-versed in Vulcan tradition.

No. Another theory had been forming, unwelcome and persistent, for several weeks now.

And this flare of jealousy lent it credibility he could no longer ignore.

Somehow—illogically, impossibly—he had developed romantic feelings for Jim.

Allowing the thought to fully form caused a measurable spike in his pulse rate. He closed his eyes and forced a series of slow, deliberate breaths to steady himself.

Romance was rare among Vulcans—and he had never experienced it before—but he had lived among humans long enough to recognize the signs, however unwelcome.

With the understanding that Jim would likely return soon Spock decided, with grim efficiency, to compartmentalize this new revelation until he could address it properly during meditation. He refused to meet Jim still grasping at the frayed edges of his control.

Drawing another long, centering breath, he sealed the emotions away behind mental barriers.

And turned his attention back to the tricorder.

***

Jim returned an hour later, stepping into the apartment with a sheepish smile.

Spock had spent the time rewiring the tricorder’s fuse connections, determined to focus on anything but the revelation still echoing through his thoughts. He was fairly confident he could retrieve the news article again.

“How are the stone knives and bearskins?” Jim asked lightly.

Spock didn’t look up. He found himself in no mood for banter and continued working in silence.

A beat. Then Jim tried again.

“Smells like you might be burning something.”

“Yes,” Spock replied coolly. “I’m deliberately overloading one of the connections, but I believe I will be able to isolate the focal point of the temporal disturbance shortly.”

He paused, then added more quietly:

“Jim… you may find this disturbing.”

Jim crossed the room and sat beside him, a frown knitting his brow. Before he could speak, the article flickered back to life on the tricorder’s small screen.

He leaned in to read, his shoulder brushing the Vulcan’s. Spock tried not to react to the contact—or to the familiar scent of sweat and aftershave that clung to Jim.

“Hmm… ‘With American peace talks dragging on, Germany—’” Jim broke off with a sharp intake of breath. “‘—Germany was able to develop atomic weaponry first?!’”

Before Spock could answer, the article dissolved into static as the overloaded circuit finally gave out and a burst of flame and smoke erupted from the crude circuitry on the bed.

Spock moved quickly, snatching the small extinguisher he had prudently purchased for such an outcome. A hiss of foam, and the fire was out, leaving only scorched wires and the bitter stench of burned insulation.

Jim watched the ruins for a beat, then asked, “How bad?”

Spock exhaled slowly. “Bad enough.”

Jim began to pace, his expression taut with thought.

“How? How did Germany get there first? What could McCoy possibly have done to cause that?”

Spock rose to his feet, feeling the weight of the answer before he spoke.

“I caught a name in the article, Jim—Edith Keeler. She founded the peace movement.”

Jim turned, jaw slack. “So Edith… founded a movement that kept the U.S. out of World War II long enough for Germany to win…?”

“Or, Jim,” Spock hesitated, the words heavy, “Edith Keeler will die. This year. That article confirms she is the fixed point. I saw her obituary just before you returned. McCoy—McCoy is the random element. Somehow, his presence allowed her to live when she was fated to die… and history was changed.”

Jim stared at him, stunned—then slowly, visibly, the truth sank in.

Spock looked away, unable to bear the look of Jim’s cutting anguish. Instead, he turned his gaze to the blackened remains of the tubes and wires.

“Are you sure?” Jim asked at last, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes, Captain. I am sorry.”

“I see.” Jim swallowed thickly. “I—I’m going to take a walk, Mr. Spock.”

Without waiting for an answer, he crossed to the door, opened it blindly, and stepped out into the night.

Spock remained still for a long moment, staring down at his own hands.

Comfort. Assurance. Solace.

He knew the words, but they were empty to him. He did not know how to offer them to Jim.

He did not know how to offer them to himself.

Instead, he did what he always did. He found a problem to solve. They still didn’t know where or when, exactly, McCoy would arrive, so he allowed himself one more moment—one brief, silent second of despair—

—and then began recalculating how to rebuild the circuit board.

***

“Captain… I really must insist I take the floor,” Spock said, striving to keep his tone even—though he was anything but calm.

Jim shifted beside him, his back turned. “Sorry, but no. You need proper sleep, and it’s too cold for that Vulcan physiology of yours.” He let out a dry, humorless laugh. “And yeah, I could take the floor myself, but frankly, I’d rather share a bed with you than wake up to a rat on my chest.”

A few solemn hours had passed since the evening’s discoveries, and eventually, they’d agreed to get some rest. Though Jim said nothing aloud, he seemed to know that Spock had reached the end of his tolerance—three days without sleep being the limit of his hybrid physiology.

Without leaving room for protest, he’d ordered Spock to take the bed, and then promptly curled up beside him, making an effort to maintain a buffer of space.

“Jim, this is not comfortable for either of us,” Spock muttered.

Jim groaned in exasperation. Before Spock could react, the captain reached behind, grabbed the Vulcan’s farthest wrist, and gave a firm tug—pulling Spock onto his side, his arm now draped across the curve of Jim’s waist.

“Jim!” Spock exclaimed, both surprised and alarmed.

“Relax, Spock,” Jim said softly. “We’re just two men trying to get some sleep, okay? It’s been a long day.” He nudged back slightly, adjusting now that there was some empty space behind him.

Jim’s tone was casual, but Spock could hear the quickened pace of his heartbeat, feel the rapid, shallow breaths as Jim’s lungs rose and fell against his chest.

Though they were doing their best to minimize contact, their bodies were nearly flush together in this position—and Spock couldn’t block out the wash of emotions radiating off the man beside him. Mostly nerves. Anxiety, likely about Ms. Keeler’s fate, he surmised.

Spock wasn’t much better off—though his own nerves had nothing to do with Edith, and everything to do with the human lying mere inches away.

It was too much.

Just hours ago, he had still managed to think of Jim as simply a friend—though in truth, friend had never felt like the right word for James T. Kirk.

McCoy was a friend. Mr. Scott, Lieutenant Uhura, and Mr. Sulu were all friends. But Jim had always been something more.

And now Spock finally understood what Jim was to him—and perhaps how long he’d harbored feelings he hadn’t dared identify. Longer than a few simple months.

Long before he’d ever admitted it to himself.

“—pock… Spock?”

Jim’s voice cut through the haze of thought. Spock blinked, realizing he’d been silently staring into the dark.

“Apologies, Captain. I was… thinking.”

Jim hummed a soft laugh, and Spock felt the warm vibration of it echo through the space between their bodies.

“Yes, that’s a given. But right now you’re lying next to me like a mannequin, and if you stay this tense I’m never going to get to sleep.”

Spock opened the fist he hadn’t realized he was making with the hand resting on Jim’s side.

“Apologies,” he said again, more quietly.

“S’fine,” Jim mumbled through a yawn. “Stressful situation. Just… start counting sheep or something.”

“Captain… how would the mental enumeration of imaginary livestock assist in our current predicament?”

Jim let out another soft laugh but didn’t answer. His breathing soon slowed, body relaxing fully. After precisely thirteen-point-two minutes, Jim was asleep.

Slowly, Spock felt the pull of sleep tugging at the edges of his consciousness. He continued turning over the tangled knot of emotions within him until, at last, he succumbed—lulled into unconsciousness by the quiet breath of the man who defied all his logic.

***

The next two days passed in a strange, suspended fugue.

Spock had been unable to get the mnemonic circuit board working again—though even if he had, there wasn’t much left to learn. Somehow McCoy had ended up in New York City. Somehow he had saved Edith Keeler from a traffic accident.

And all Jim could do now was stay close to Edith—and wait.

It was a painfully difficult task.

The second night after their revelation, Jim, Edith, and Spock went out to dinner—Spock included at Edith’s insistence.

Spock’s eyebrow had climbed alarmingly high at the suggestion, but he had not rebuked the offer. So, after the day’s work, they found themselves seated around a simple table with plates of homey pasta before them.

Edith spoke with bright, boundless energy about her dreams for humanity’s future among the stars. Jim found it endlessly addictive—the way her wonder mirrored the unquenchable curiosity he saw in Spock.

The two of them soon fell into conversation, speculating about what might lie beyond Earth’s borders. Spock, ever cautious, kept his answers vague.

Jim watched them fondly, marveling at the rare passion they both shared.

“If we hurry, we can catch the Clark Gable movie at the theater,” Edith said as they crossed the street away from the restaurant.

“Who?” Spock asked, confused.

Edith laughed. “You’ve never heard of Clark Gable either? Dr. McCoy said the same thing! I—”

Jim stopped abruptly, grabbing Edith’s shoulders.

“McCoy? Leonard McCoy?!”

Edith frowned. “Yes? He’s at the Mission. He’s—”

Jim spun toward Spock, then back to Edith. “Stay right here!” he barked—and sprinted across the busy road toward the brick-walled mission, Spock close behind.

“McCoy!” Jim shouted. “Bones!”

The door swung open just as Jim reached for it, and there stood McCoy—alive. Healthy. Clearly recovered from the cordrazine’s effects.

“Jim!” McCoy grinned, and Jim’s arms were around him in an instant, Spock stepping forward as well, clasping McCoy’s shoulder in a rare show of emotion.

A week’s worth of fear and stress melted away in that moment.

Jim turned back, heart lightening—

—just in time to see Edith smiling gently, stepping off the curb toward them.

He lurched forward instinctively—but stopped at Spock’s voice: “No, Jim!”

“Edith—” Jim whispered, almost choking on her name.

Everything happened so fast.

He remembered Spock’s warning: she had to die. Her survival would lead to the deaths of millions. But it was Edith. His friend. His confidante. A soul so full of hope, of goodness, that it seemed impossible—unthinkable—to allow this.

Out of the corner of his eye he caught it: a hulking truck barreling too fast down the road. Edith, too focused on them—on him—to notice.

McCoy dashed forward instinctively, but Jim caught him, yanking him back, pressing his face into McCoy’s shoulder as the screech of tires and Edith’s aborted cry tore through the night.

Then—silence.

The distant murmur of horrified bystanders. Footsteps pounding toward the street.

But nothing from Edith. Nothing ever again from the Angel of the Slums.

Jim squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could’ve shut his ears too—wishing he could erase the sound of her final moment of terror, a sound he knew would haunt him for the rest of his life.

At last he forced himself to breathe—gasping, broken—and loosened his grip on a shaken McCoy.

“You deliberately stopped me, Jim! Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” McCoy demanded, voice rough like his vocal chords had been dragged over gravel.

Jim let him go, staggering blindly backward—seeking something, anything, to anchor himself.

He found it in the only place he ever had.

Spock.

Jim pressed his forehead to Spock’s shoulder, despite the voice in his mind screaming that he shouldn’t—that it was improper, illogical. But he was raw. Shattered. And he needed comfort more than he needed dignity.

Spock stiffened under him for a moment. Then, carefully, he placed a hand on Jim’s shoulder—his thumb stroking the muscle there in a silent, grounding gesture.

“He knows, Doctor,” Spock said quietly, his voice a low, steady bass against Jim’s fractured heart. “He knows.”

The world shifted again, and suddenly they were no longer in 1930s New York. Time slipped around them like smoke, leaving nothing but the ache of what they had lost, and now they stood before the Guardian of Forever once more.

The landing party—Scott, Uhura, and the others—blinked at them in confusion.

“What happened, sir?” Mr. Scott asked. “You were only gone a moment!”

Spock answered for him, voice still low. “We were successful. Our time has been restored.”

Jim said nothing. He simply stood there, breathing heavily, his expression hollow. The crew watched him with concern.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he finally said, softly.

Without further question, Uhura called for beam-up.

As soon as the transporter room shimmered into being beneath their feet, Jim stepped off the pad without a word and made his way to his quarters.

They had returned.

But at what cost?

Chapter Text

A week passed in which Jim barely smiled. Barely ate. Barely did anything beyond the duties required of a starship captain.

Spock knew that Edith Keeler’s death had struck him deeply. It was evident Jim had fallen in love with her—a fact Spock was trying, and failing, to regard with detachment—and since her death, Jim had slipped into a quiet, persistent depression.

The Vulcan found himself at a loss—an agonizing one—as to how to help him.

Logically, he needed the captain at his best. In two solar days, the Enterprise was scheduled hold a small delegation for talks regarding dilithium crystal harvesting on the planet Babel. Tensions would be high. The crew would look to Jim to mediate, to lead.

But another part of him—equally strong, perhaps stronger—simply wanted Jim back. Wanted the light in him restored.

The absence of the captain’s smile was like the extinguishing of a star. The ship felt colder now. Barren. Lonelier in a way that had nothing to do with its environmental controls.

Spock had tried, of course. After their shifts he’d invited Jim to play chess. Suggested sparring. Even offered to finally try poker—a game Jim had been coaxing him toward for years. Each time, Jim declined with a quiet shake of the head and retreated to his quarters.

So desperate was Spock to solve this intangible problem that he turned, at last, to McCoy.

“Spock, listen,” the doctor sighed, taking a long swig of the amber-toned brandy he’d been absently swirling. “We both know there’s nothing we can do. Jim always refuses my mood stabilizers, no matter how hard I try to shove ’em down his craw. Yeah, he’s takin’ this one hard—but he’ll bounce back. He always does. Right?”

Spock’s brow furrowed. “I am not so certain, Doctor. You did not witness his interactions with Ms. Keeler. It was as though they had known each other for years.”

The omission stung in his throat.

“Well, what do you want me to do, huh?” McCoy snapped. “I’m a doctor, not a psychic—’sides, that’s more your department than mine. All we can do is be here. If—and when—he needs us.”

That was when the idea struck.

Spock had failed to provide the comfort Jim required. But perhaps he could soften the edges of the grief. Dull the emotional weight of the memories—just enough for Jim to begin to heal.

He rose from the chair across McCoy’s desk. “Thank you for your counsel, Doctor. It was most enlightening.”

McCoy rolled his eyes. “Sure it was. And do me a favor—hesitate next time you feel the need to dump your emotional crises in my office.”

Spock raised a single eyebrow, turned, and departed.

***

He found Jim in his quarters, slumped over his desk, head resting on clasped hands—fast asleep. Golden hair, rakish and unkempt, fell loosely across his forehead. Spock watched, entranced, as broad shoulders rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm beneath the folds of his command tunic.

Something tightened in his chest.

He approached quietly, reaching out. Even without contact, the air around Jim radiated sorrow—heavy and unspoken.

He hesitated. He should retreat. Let Jim rest. Return later with his proposal. Yet, against all better judgment, Spock lowered his hand—fingertips grazing the tousled blond strands.

Jim had been right, weeks ago, when he teased Spock about his fascination with his hair. The memory glowed oddly bright now. Sandy curls, usually tamed by wax and habit, were soft and yielding beneath Spock’s touch. Jim hadn’t styled it in days.

Spock’s hand drifted across the crown of his head, feather-light. His heart thundered in his side.

How long had he wanted to do this?

He kept his fingers above the scalp, careful not to touch skin—but even so, he felt the shift. Jim stirred, lashes fluttering, breath catching.

Spock snatched his hand back and clasped it behind his back just as Jim blinked himself awake.

The captain sat up slowly, glancing around before his eyes landed on Spock.

“Ah—Mr. Spock. Sorry, didn’t hear you come in,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck with a quiet groan.

Spock inclined his head. “Quite alright, Captain. You have been… preoccupied.”

A pause.

Jim shifted in his chair, posture stiff. “Did you need something?”

Spock’s gaze flicked to the wall behind him. His hands tightened behind his back.

“Yes. I wished to propose something to you, Captain.”

Jim waited, watching carefully. Spock ignored the twisting sensation in his abdomen.

“It is no secret that Ms. Keeler’s death has… affected you. I believe I can help lessen the intensity of your emotions—if you would permit it.”

Jim stiffened. The warmth in his expression faded.

“I’m perfectly capable of handling my emotions, Spock.”

“I do not doubt that, Captain. However, with the Babel diplomatic mission imminent, it may be prudent to ease the more visceral aspects of your grief. You would not forget Ms. Keeler—nor what she meant to you.”

Jim eyed Spock for a moment before looking down at his hands with a sigh.

“I just…” His voice caught. “The guilt, Spock. It’s tearing me apart. I know she had to die. I know that. But stopping Bones… letting her be hit like that…” He trailed off, jaw tight, throat working.

Spock stepped closer and placed a hand gently on Jim’s shoulder. Guilt and sorrow surged through the contact, crashing against Spock’s mental barriers like angry waves.

“I hear her scream every time I close my eyes,” Jim whispered.

Spock lowered himself to one knee, bringing them eye level. The proximity felt intimate—closer than he had ever allowed himself to be.

“Jim,” he said softly, one hand grounding the human’s shoulder, the other hovering beside his face, “let me help. This will not be a meld. I will focus only on your memories of Edith. It would help if you thought of her directly—so I do not need to search.”

Jim’s eyes widened. Hazel locked with brown for a breathless moment before he looked down in quiet assent.

“You’re right. I can’t carry this and still command. The Enterprise comes first.”

When he looked up again, grief had hardened into resolve. “Do it.”

Spock inhaled slowly and pressed his fingers to the psi-points at Jim’s temple, cheek, and jaw. The captain closed his eyes.

Spock was seeing—but unseeing.

Over the years, a mild mental link had formed between them—common, even inevitable, in Vulcan households. However, though he felt Jim’s presence regularly, he’d never previously entered the captain’s consciousness—until now.

The first sensation was warmth.

Not the dry heat of Vulcan’s deserts, but a radiant immersion—like sinking into a thermal spring. A steady, calming pressure enveloped him. Safe. Familiar. As if this place had always been waiting.

He might have forgotten his purpose, lost himself in the warm peace of the outer layers of Jim’s mind, had it not been for the jarring screech of tires—and the sharp, broken scream.

The sound pulled him back to his task.

He followed the memory, catching a glimpse of Jim resting heavily on him, mind frenzied with shame, grief, self-loathing. Spock held the moment gently, dulling its sharpest edges to a bearable ache, and moved on, swimming through the balmy current of Jim’s thoughts.

He found them again—Jim and Edith walking home from the Mission. Jim spoke softly about a book Spock had given him the year prior. Affection radiated from him, warm and bright. It pressed against Spock’s consciousness with a bittersweet comfort.

Spock dimmed the glow of that memory, easing its emotional intensity.

One more. That would be sufficient.

He found it after a moment’s search.

Jim was bending down to kiss Edith. He was happy. In love. And then—he stopped. No. She had stopped him.

Outside the connection, Spock’s breath hitched.

Why?

Edith was speaking, but her words were muffled, as though filtered through water. He should have pulled back. Dulled the memory and broken the connection. But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

He had to know.

Irrational. Illogical. But urgent. He pushed deeper into Jim’s mind.

“—but I’m not the one you want,” her voice finally surfaced, like a knife through cotton. Soft and certain.

“No. You’re not,” Jim replied.

Spock ripped his hand away from the human as though burned, gasping like he’d just surfaced from deep water.

“Spock?” Jim asked, concern threading through his voice. Both hands reached for the Vulcan’s shoulders, steadying him. “Hey. Talk to me. You see my first kiss or something?”

The human laughed—quiet, nervous. The tension in his posture had eased. The sorrow was still there, but distant now, like background static.

Spock composed himself, straightening away from the contact and taking a step back.

“Yes, Captain. I am… uninjured.” He’d almost said unaffected, but the word would have been a lie.

Jim smiled solemnly. “Well… thank you, Spock. It still hurts, but I think I can function now. Better than McCoy’s pills, anyway.” He hesitated. “What—ah… what did you see?”

Spock did not want to have this conversation. His heart was pounding. His palms were damp. And he had no clear way to name the emotions now thrashing inside his mind.

He forced control into his voice. “Captain, I do have duties to attend to. I would request we speak of this another time.”

Jim regarded him a moment longer, suspicion flickering in his gaze—but he nodded. “Sure, Spock. I’ll see you at 0700 tomorrow.”

The Vulcan nodded, turned sharply, and left the room.

He could only hope that the next time he faced Jim, he’d be composed enough to bear it.

***

The next few days brought no reprieve for Spock’s increasingly frayed composure—nor any clarity regarding the question that now haunted him: what, exactly, had he witnessed inside Jim’s mind?

He wasn’t ready to speak with Jim about it. In truth, he wasn’t sure he could. He’d need to explain that he’d violated his promise to Jim that he wouldn’t dig any deeper than he had to, and in any case, he didn’t even know what he was feeling. For all his studied understanding of human emotion, his own remained a mystery—one he had spent his entire life avoiding rather than unraveling.

So, he avoided Jim.

Thankfully, the arrival of Federation ambassadors provided a convenient distraction. Slowly, dignitaries from Tellar and Andoria trickled aboard the Enterprise, their presence demanding constant logistical coordination. The consistent work should have helped. But these particular emotions refused to be ignored or pushed behind the disciplined walls of his mental training. Instead, they flared without warning—rising hot and sharp whenever something reminded him of Jim.

A newly assigned science ensign with long blonde hair and piercing blue eyes—so like Dr. Janet Wallace—brought an unfamiliar tightness to his throat, a flash of jealousy bitter as bile.

A passing glimpse of Jim running in gym, sweat glistening on his brow and arms, left his stomach twisting with a strange and insistent longing.

A Tellarite ambassador speaking curtly to Jim during a bridge tour sent his pulse racing, his temper rising in defense of a man who did not need defending.

It was all so illogical, so unruly, that Spock found himself contemplating a course of action he had once considered unthinkable: speaking with his father—Vulcan ambassador Sarek—the final dignitary the Enterprise was scheduled to pick up before the talks would begin.

Of course, that conversation would be impossible. Their relationship had never been an easy one, but ever since Spock announced his plans to join Starfleet eighteen years previously his father had barely spoken to him.

But the fact that the thought had crossed his mind—that he would even consider consulting another Vulcan, consulting Sarek—was troubling enough. A sign, perhaps, of just how dangerously unchecked his human half had become.

***

The next solar day, Spock dressed in his formal science officer attire—distinctly more uncomfortable than his standard uniform. The high collar, gilded with scratchy golden piping, felt suffocating. Though perhaps that sensation stemmed more from the impending reunion with his father than the cut of the fabric.

He should have told Jim about his relationship with Sarek, but something had stopped him. Today, he regretted it.

Hands clasped tightly behind his back, he resisted an annoyingly human urge to fidget as he waited for the Vulcan delegation to disembark from the transport shuttle. Beside him, McCoy sighed in audible annoyance.

The doctor hated his formal uniform more than Spock did.

They stood just inside the hangar as Jim stepped forward to greet the ambassador.

“And this is my first officer, Commander Spock. And Chief Medical Officer, Dr. Leonard McCoy,” Jim said, turning to present them.

Spock acknowledged the complicated swell of emotion—shame, anger, love—as it surged within him, only to be sealed away with clinical efficiency.

Sarek met his gaze with the same impassive Vulcan neutrality he’d worn the day Spock departed for the Academy. But Spock could read his father too well not to recognize the lingering disapproval beneath the mask. Eighteen years had changed nothing.

“Vulcan honors us with your presence. We come to serve,” Spock said, offering the ta’al in a gesture of peace.

Sarek did not return it. The omission was pointed—so much so that even the humans seemed to sense the tension thickening around them.

“Our aides. And Amanda, she who is my wife,” Sarek said, extending his fingers in the customary Vulcan gesture of intimacy.

His mother stepped forward to meet it, offering them a warm smile, kind blue eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Captain Kirk,” she greeted.

Jim smiled, visibly startled to discover the ambassador’s wife was human.

“When you’re settled in, I’ve arranged a tour of the ship,” he said. “Mr. Spock will conduct you.”

“I’d prefer another guide, Captain,” Sarek replied coolly.

Jim blinked, masking his confusion as he glanced toward Spock—who couldn’t bring himself to lift his eyes from the linoleum beneath their feet.

“Very well… ah—Mr. Spock, we’ll be leaving Vulcan in two hours. Care to beam down to visit your family?”

Spock found himself briefly wishing the airlock would fail, ejecting him into the cold vacuum of space before he had to endure another moment of this conversation.

“Captain… Ambassador Sarek and his wife are my parents.”

Jim opened his mouth. Closed it. Clearly unsure how to respond.

Yes. Spock really should have mentioned that before now.

“I see. Well then—erm—let’s get you to your quarters, shall we?”

***

The rest of the day passed in simmering irritation for Spock. He had retreated to a science station in Engineering, hoping to avoid all non-Enterprise personnel—and, of course, promptly came face-to-face with his parents as Jim escorted them on a tour of the ship.

Is Engineering truly a necessary area to tour? Spock wondered, his frustration mounting.

Jim, in what must have seemed an act of diplomacy, attempted to initiate conversation between father and son.

“Mr. Spock, would you explain the main engineering computer?” he asked with a hopeful smile.

If Spock were human, he might have sighed openly.

“Captain,” Sarek interjected flatly, “I gave Spock his first instruction in computers. He chose to apply that knowledge to Starfleet rather than the Vulcan Science Academy.”

Spock practically fled back to his console, unwelcome heat rising to his face.

The question resurfaced: why had he kept his parentage secret?

It had been illogical. But the reason was plain.

He was ashamed.

Ashamed that, after nearly two decades of exemplary service, he remained a disappointment in his father’s eyes.

That truth stung. Bitterly.

***

Later that evening, well into the ship’s night cycle, Spock found himself in the gym. Meditation had failed him. Sleep had been equally elusive. Thoughts of his father’s relentless disapproval—and, most frustratingly, what Jim had meant by Edith “not being the one he wanted”—swirled through his mind, unchecked.

The silence of the facility was complete, save for the rhythmic slap of his feet against the treadmill belt.

Eighteen years hadn’t dulled the guilt he felt over disappointing his father. Sarek remained too stubborn to try to understand his reasoning. Starfleet was the only place Spock had ever found even a semblance of belonging. He had never truly been at home on Vulcan—nor during his years at the Academy in California.

It was only once he boarded his first starship, surrounded by beings of every species working toward a common goal, that he’d found something approaching home.

And thinking of home led his mind, inevitably, to Jim.

If the captain hadn’t been in love with Edith due to a preexisting connection, then who was he in love with? Surely Jim would have told him. Yet the revelation had blindsided him—a fact that made his breathing grow sharper as he ran, and not from exertion.

He was 6.48 miles into his run when the familiar scent of sun-warmed skin and worn leather—years of command chair residue—wafted into the room. He slowed to a walk, schooling his expression to one of perfect Vulcan neutrality, just as a tanned figure came into his periphery.

“Captain,” Spock greeted.

“Can’t sleep?”

Spock stopped the treadmill, gaze fixed ahead. “I was hoping physical exertion may counter my restlessness.”

Jim chuckled softly. Out of uniform, he wore a plain white cotton shirt and black sweatpants, rumpled enough to suggest he’d recently abandoned his bed after his own failed attempt at rest.

“Come on,” he said, nodding toward the adjacent combat room—empty but for an impact-absorbent tatami mat. “Been a while since we sparred, huh?”

“I assumed your lack of requests for hand-to-hand practice stemmed from the fact that you have never bested me.”

Jim laughed, tugging off his boots and socks. “Hey, there was that one time. After the Orion incident.”

Spock followed him, slipping off his running shoes, now clad only in a fitted black thermal and lightweight exercise pants.

“Captain, you won due to a momentary lapse in my attention. If you recall, we were interrupted by Mr. Chekov, who had detected a rogue black hole requiring immediate analysis.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Jim said with a grin, rolling his neck and stretching. As he reached overhead, his shirt rode up, revealing the sharp lines of his hipbones above the waistband of his sweats.

Spock swallowed thickly and forced his eyes back to Jim’s face.

“I fail to see how recalling our sparring matches would assist with sleep.”

Jim grinned—and spun into a sudden roundhouse kick aimed at Spock’s chest. The Vulcan caught the strike with the flat of his palm, barely fast enough.

He raised an eyebrow at the ambush just before Jim came at him again, launching a flurry of punches. Spock parried them with open hands, sidestepping smoothly. Jim dropped into a crouch and swept at his legs. Spock leapt easily over the attempt and dodged the next.

Jim straightened with a smirk. “Come on, you’re not even trying!”

“It would seem trying is unnecessary.”

“Oh, you’re gonna get it now.”

Jim charged—abandoning Starfleet formality in favor of moves that belonged in the bar fights he had entertained before he’d enlisted. He slammed into Spock, hoping to knock him down by sheer momentum. But Spock was stronger. Denser. They locked together in a messy grapple instead.

“Perhaps another angle of attack would suit you best, Jim,” Spock said evenly, as Jim strained uselessly against him.

With a grunt, Jim broke free and circled, eyeing Spock like a predator considering its next strike.

Again he lunged, breath sharp between punches. “You’re the one that needs this more than I do anyway. Daddy issues, Spock?”

Spock felt something spark beneath his skin.

“I would hardly reduce it to such an ignorant assumption.”

“But you didn’t tell me,” Jim huffed, kicking at Spock’s chest.

Spock caught the ankle—and held it a moment too long as realization dawned.

Jim was hurt. As angry as Spock was at himself for not confiding about Sarek.

Jim tried to yank his leg free, but when that failed he threw his weight forward, bending his captured knee and finally toppling Spock to the mat with a thud. He landed on top with a startled laugh.

“Finally! Can’t blame this one on Chekov!” Jim whooped, straddling Spock’s lap in triumph.

For a moment, neither moved. The room was silent save for the echoed sounds of Jim’s breathless pants and Spock’s even exhales. Then they locked eyes—and both seemed to register the awkwardness at the same time. Jim scrambled off with a muttered apology, settling cross-legged beside him.

“I’m sorry, Jim,” Spock said as he sat up. “I should have told you about my parents sooner. I was the first Vulcan to forgo the Science Academy, and the son of an ambassador at that. Sarek was—is—ashamed of me.”

Jim rested a hand on his shoulder.

“Spock… you’re the best first officer in the fleet. And a mission like the Enterprise—one centered on exploration and discovery—it’s a much better fit for a scientist like yourself.”

Spock met his eyes briefly before glancing away. “My father refuses to understand that. Even now. It is the Vulcan way... and I have made it clear I am not wholly Vulcan.”

“You’re as much Vulcan as you are Human,” Jim said quietly. “That’s what makes you so incredible.”

Spock’s heart stalled. His eyes flew to Jim’s—but the captain was already rising, dusting off his clothes with a groan.

“Alright, that’s enough of that. I’m not getting any younger.” He grinned, clapping Spock on the back. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

Spock looked down at his hands, trying to make sense of what had just passed between them.

“Yes,” he said.

Chapter Text

The next day was uneventful, though Spock caught not one but two incorrect calculations made he during shift. His mind had been… preoccupied by the previous night’s events.

He pushed the unwanted emotions—about Jim, about his father—aside as he entered the formal ambassadorial dinner, finding a space beside his mother just as McCoy approached, hands in his pockets, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet.

“So, tell me, Mrs. Sarek—what was Spock like as a child? As stuffy as he is now?” McCoy asked with a grin.

“Well…” Amanda laughed softly. “He was a model child—for a human, that is. Though he did have a pet sehlat he was very fond of.”

“Sehlat?” McCoy blinked.

“It’s—erm, sort of like a large teddy bear, I suppose,” she offered with a smile.

Spock stiffened, narrowing his eyes. That was a woefully inadequate description.

A devilish grin spread across McCoy’s face, like a Ferengi discovering latinum. “A teddy bear?”

As if I-Chaya couldn’t have torn him limb from limb. The idea, at this moment, did not seem unpleasant.

Before he could respond, Jim turned from the conversation he’d clearly been trying to escape—one involving Sarek and the Tellarite ambassador—and clapped Spock on the back with a hearty laugh.

“Apologies, Mrs. Sarek. I couldn’t help overhearing your war stories. I’m sure a sehlat is much more than a teddy bear, Bones.”

Spock almost felt a smile tug at his lips.

Jim always seemed to hover on the edge of his awareness, arriving precisely when needed. He also didn’t immediately remove his hand from Spock’s shoulder, instead sliding it to his lower back.

The contact was not unpleasant.

Though perhaps it should have been.

“Indeed, Captain,” Spock said, schooling his voice to neutrality. “In fact, my sehlat had six-inch fangs and weighed approximately as much as a Terran Bengal tiger. I’m afraid my mother’s description is sorely lacking.”

“But you were so cute with I-Chaya, Spock,” Amanda added fondly, sipping from the glass of blue liquor she’d been nursing.

Jim laughed, hazel eyes gleaming. “If you have any pictures, I’d love to see them sometime, Mrs. Sarek.”

“Make that two of us,” McCoy said with a grin.

Spock tilted his head toward the ceiling, trying to channel his rising frustration somewhere inert. Jim’s amusement was palpable.

Worse, Spock couldn’t summon the irritation he wanted to feel toward the man.

Only warmth.

Suddenly, raised voices drew their attention—coming from the very conversation Jim had abandoned.

“Vulcan is always interfering in the affairs of others,” Gav, the Tellarite ambassador, barked. “How we obtain the crystals is our business!”

Without warning, he grabbed Sarek’s collar, shaking him roughly.

Sarek batted the hands away with lightning precision, face impassive as the Tellarite stumbled back.

Jim was between them in an instant. “Gentlemen—please. These are peaceful talks. And while I’m in command, they’ll remain that way. Understood?”

Sarek gave a cool nod. Gav hesitated, then stormed out of the room with a snort.

The group approached.

“What was that about?” Amanda asked.

“Nothing to concern yourself with, my wife,” Sarek replied. “I merely pointed out the Tellarites’ existing illegal mining operations on Babel.”

Jim sighed. “Well, that’d do it.”

Spock stepped forward, noting with unease that Sarek’s respiration was 6.3% above baseline.

“Sarek. Are you well?”

His father spared him a brief glance before turning to Amanda. “I will retire to meditate now, wife. Please, continue to enjoy yourself.”

Amanda looked between them. Her expression softened into something like regret before she offered a gentle smile. “Of course.”

Spock could feel Jim’s eyes on him—worry in every crease and divot of the man’s face. Amanda noticed, too. She frowned slightly, her curiosity evident.

Before either could speak, Jim was pulled away by a comm message from the bridge.

A moment later, he called Spock over with quiet urgency.

“I don’t want to spark panic among the passengers, but it looks like we’ve got a ship shadowing us,” he said in a low voice. “Lieutenant Uhura intercepted a transmission—encrypted, beamed to someone onboard. Get to the bridge and see if you can decode it, Mr. Spock.”

Spock nodded and departed swiftly.

Exactly 47.6 minutes into his work, his communicator chirped.

“Captain, I am still in the process of decrypting—”

“Never mind that,” Jim snapped. “Get down to Deck 11. Now.”

The urgency in his voice had Spock on his feet before the channel cut. His chair was still spinning when the turbolift doors slid shut behind him.

***

The Tellarite ambassador had been murdered.

Not just murdered—his neck had been broken with such surgical precision that the possibility of a Vulcan assailant could not be denied.

“Spock, you do realize you’re implicating your father with a statement like that.” McCoy said gruffly.

“I’m not saying I believe my father committed this murder Doctor, only that he possesses the ability to do so. With the current facts I do not see any logical reason for Sarek to kill Gav.”

Jim and McCoy exchanged wary glances.

“Nevertheless, someone killed this man,” Jim said. “We need to question your father, Spock.”

Spock inclined his head. “Understood.”

They made their way to Sarek’s cabin together. But before the questioning could proceed beyond introductions, Sarek suddenly collapsed.

McCoy rushed forward, scanning him with his tricorder. “Difficult to say, but I believe it’s cardiac in origin. I’ll need to run more tests in Sickbay.”

Spock stood rigid, hands clasped tightly behind his back as medical staff arrived with a gurney. His father’s breaths were shallow, rasping. His eyes barely opened.

“Mother,” Spock said quietly, “has he exhibited any health problems recently?”

“Not that I’m aware,” Amanda replied, voice tight with fear.

Part of him wanted to reassure her. To promise that Dr. McCoy would find the cause, find a cure. But such reassurances were unfounded. Illogical.

For all they knew, Sarek was dying.

“I must return to my duties, Mother. I will request updates from Dr. McCoy as needed.”

He turned and left without looking back.

***

Two hours later McCoy requested for Jim and Spock to report to Sickbay.

Sarek was conscious again when they arrived, sitting upright on a biobed, though pale and drawn. His forehead gleamed with fresh perspiration. Amanda sat beside him, blue eyes glassy, her expression tight with worry. Spock’s stomach twisted.

McCoy straightened from the monitor above the bed.

“The attack was similar to a human myocardial infarction. He needs surgery, but… even if I could perform it—which is hard enough on a human, let alone a Vulcan—he needs blood. A lot of it.”

“Has he had one of these attacks before?” Jim asked gently, glancing at Amanda.

She began to shake her head, but Sarek reached out, resting a hand on her shoulder.

“Yes,” he rasped softly. “Three. The most recent occurred during the murder of the Tellarite. I was alone, but… quite incapacitated at the time.”

Jim sighed. “Still no witnesses then…” He turned to McCoy. “What about donations? There are other Vulcans on board—we could gather enough blood from them, couldn’t we?”

“No, Captain,” Spock cut in quietly. “My father’s blood type is T-negative. It’s rare, even among Vulcans. I am likely the only viable donor.”

He turned to McCoy. “And I’m volunteering.”

McCoy crossed his arms. “Spock, even you don’t have enough blood to spare. Not for this.”

“Doctor, I know you’re aware of the experimental hematopoietic drugs developed for use in situations like these—designed to increase blood production.”

McCoy exhaled sharply. “First of all Spock, I’m the doctor here, not you—and I decide what’s safe. Second, we have no idea if those drugs would work on you. More than likely, they’d kill you. And third, as I’ve said before, I’ve never operated on a Vulcan—certainly not open-heart surgery. It’s a disaster waiting to happen!”

“Then you condemn Sarek to death,” Spock replied calmly.

“Spock!” Amanda and Jim said in unison, both flinching slightly as they glanced at each other.

“I won’t allow it. I can’t risk both of you,” Amanda said firmly.

“And I agree,” Jim added, his voice low.

Spock turned away from them, struggling to suppress the flare of frustration tightening in his chest.

“Doctor,” he said, voice measured, “I request we investigate the use of the blood reproduction drug. If there is any acceptable chance of success with myself as a donor, I urge you to proceed. I am a volunteer, and as such, you are ethically compelled to consider the option.”

McCoy let out a long-suffering groan. “Goddammit.” A beat. “Fine. We’ll research it.”

He turned toward the adjacent lab, muttering under his breath: “You pointed-eared hobgoblin.”

Spock turned back to find both his mother and Jim watching him with a mixture of human emotions he didn’t particularly feel like deciphering.

Jim opened his mouth to speak, but Spock cut him off before the words could form.

“Captain, it is my choice. I’ll be on the bridge while I await Dr. McCoy’s findings.”

Jim closed his mouth with an audible click, then glanced toward Amanda, his concern mirrored in her expression.

Spock understood their worry. He did. He could attempt to console them, to explain his reasoning, to listen to their anxieties—but they needed to understand his logic.

It was an impossible situation. But if there was a feasible probability of success—however small—he would take it.

***

Returning to the bridge, Spock resumed the decoding process—though in truth, he could hardly breathe. It felt as though some ghostly entity had reached through his ribcage and was squeezing his heart until it threatened to burst.

He buried himself in calculations, hunched over his console, analyzing sensor readings while simultaneously monitoring his decryption device. The intercepted transmission remained stubbornly incomprehensible—its code unlike anything in the ship’s existing databases.

If nothing else, it kept him busy. Focused.

He was so absorbed, so determined not to think of anything but analytics, that he didn’t hear Jim approach some time later.

“Spock…”

The captain’s voice cut softly through the hum of the computer.

“Captain,” Spock replied flatly, eyes fixed on the screen. “I am detecting tri-tritanium in the alien ship’s hull.”

“I’m sorry about your father.”

Jim was standing close—so close Spock could feel the warmth of him. Gentle threads of empathy brushed faintly against his awareness.

He ignored them.

“Yes. My father’s condition may adversely affect our mission.”

“…Aren’t you worried about him?”

“Worry is a human emotion, Captain. I accept what has occurred.” His voice remained neutral; his gaze unmoving. He could not meet Jim’s eyes.

He just needed to keep working.

“The ship’s hull is unusually dense or possibly cloaked against our sensor probes. It is manned, but we cannot determine specifics.”

There was a pause—then Jim’s hand came into view, his fingers ghosting lightly across Spock’s forearm.

“I see,” he murmured, so quietly it was almost inaudible.

Spock looked at him before he could stop himself. Jim’s hazel eyes were soft, heavy with empathy. And without thinking, Spock placed his other hand gently over Jim’s.

“I will be all right, Jim. Please do not worry.”

Jim smiled somberly. “You know… I was trying to console you.”

He lingered a moment longer, then turned quietly back to the captain’s chair.

***

A few hours later, Spock approached Jim on the bridge.

“Captain, I believe I have decoded the message,” he said quietly, glancing around.

Though they’d done their best to keep the dignitaries confined to their quarters, rumors of the Tellarite’s murder and the Vulcan ambassador’s collapse had spread like wildfire. More than once, concerned passengers had wandered onto the bridge seeking reassurance.

“I believe we should speak privately,” Spock murmured.

Jim’s eyes widened a fraction. He gave a sharp nod.

As they stepped into the turbolift, Spock caught, out of the corner of his eye, an Andorian aide watching them—too intently.

“Jim,” Spock whispered as the lift descended, “I believe there is a spy aboard. Be prepared for violence.”

He chastised himself for not retrieving phasers. If only his father were well—if only he were operating at peak concentration.

But there was no time for regret.

The turbolift doors slid open silently. They had only to reach the conference room. Then Spock could brief Jim on the message and summon security.

They didn’t make it far.

He heard the shift of motion before he saw it—the scrape of metal, the flash of pale blue skin.

“Jim!”

Spock shoved the captain into a bulkhead just as the Andorian lunged, blade glinting. Pain burst through Spock’s abdomen as the knife slid deep into his side.

It was sharp. Blinding. But not fatal—if they could act quickly.

He twisted, forcing the attacker back, grimacing as the blade tore free at a worse angle, widening the wound.

“Spock!” the cry tore from Jim’s voice like the cracking of a whip.

The Andorian crouched, knife ready again, his antennae twitching. Spock clutched his side, dark green blood slipping through his fingers.

“He’s an assassin,” Spock ground out. “He killed the Tellarite.”

He sank to one knee, blood pattering onto the carpet.

Jim looked briefly to Spock, and then his eyes slid to the Andorian, and something snapped. A fire lit, one that Spock had never seen before.

The Andorian’s antennae stilled as he locked eyes with Jim, and then the alien turned and bolted, fumbling for his communicator.

Jim may have been broad. Solid. Built for close combat versus endurance. But in this moment the captain was lightning fast.

The Andorian made 19.5 feet of headway before Jim was on him, barreling into the slighter alien and slamming him to the ground with a strangled grunt.

Then came the fists.

Jim flipped the Andorian, straddled him, and began to hit.

Again.

And again.

His knuckles came away stained—human red and Andorian violet blood mixing into a muddy slurry.

The Andorian didn’t fight back. Couldn’t. His hands came up in defense, but Jim pinned them under his knees and kept swinging.

Spock tried to rise. “Captain!” he rasped. The pain was staggering.

Jim didn’t stop.

The wet crack of cartilage and bone filled the corridor.

“Jim!”

Spock forced himself upright as the blows continued to land, dragging himself along the bulkhead, leaving a sickening trail of dark green blood along the pristine wall. With effort, he staggered forward and grabbed Jim’s shoulders, hauling him off the unconscious Andorian.

The hall fell deathly silent but for the sound of labored breathing—three sets. The assassin still lived. For now.

Jim pulled himself to his knees, panting, his gaze fixed on the Andorian’s ruined face.

Spock followed that look—and felt something twist.

Jim’s expression was... wrong. Empty.

Jim was staring at the alien with a cold malice so complete that Spock felt a flash of worry that the captain would attempt to continue the beating.

Jim’s face wasn’t meant to look like this.

It was meant to smile. To light up over books, to smirk over chess victories. To look at Spock with the quiet warmth that no one else ever did.

His heart clenched at the sight.

Without thinking, Spock reached out, bloodied hand settling on Jim’s cheek. Gently, he turned the captain’s head until their eyes met.

There was anguish in Jim’s gaze.

So much anguish it bled through the contact, a wave of pain and guilt crashing into Spock’s mind.

“Jim,” Spock whispered, struggling to keep the pain from his voice. “You need to call for McCoy. And a security team.”

Jim blinked—dazed—then suddenly looked around as if seeing the corridor for the first time.

He glanced at the Andorian. At Spock’s wound. His expression crumpled.

“Y—yeah.” He stumbled to the nearest comm panel.

“This is the captain,” he said, voice hollow. “I need medical and security on Deck Five. Now. Kirk out.”

He returned slowly, crouching beside the Andorian, examining the mess he’d made.

Spock watched him.

“Jim,” he murmured, “it’s… okay.”

Jim looked over, expression drawn. “No, Mr. Spock. Nothing about this is okay.”

***

Arriving in Sickbay, McCoy greeted Spock and the ruined Andorian with his ever-impeccable bedside manner.

“What the hell happened? I leave you alone for a few hours and you get stabbed in the spleen?” he barked, already waving orderlies over to move Spock onto the biobed. The medical tricorder in his hand was scanning before he’d even finished speaking.

“It was not my intention to be stabbed, Doctor,” Spock managed, voice thin.

McCoy snorted and turned on Jim. “And you—did you do that to the Andorian?”

Jim nodded solemnly.

“What in the—Jim, Andorians are fragile. You know that. What possessed you to beat him within an inch of his life?”

“He killed the Tellarite! He stabbed Spock!” Jim snapped, throwing out a hand. “He put my shipmates in danger!” Then his voice dropped. “I—I didn’t mean to go that far… I just… I lost it.”

McCoy huffed, his glare softening—but only slightly. “Clearly. Just… get out of here and let me work, Jim. You’ve still got a mystery ship to deal with.”

Jim gave one last lingering look at Spock—then turned away, resignation in every line of his frame, and left.

McCoy sighed as he turned back. “You know… you’re more trouble than you’re worth sometimes.”

Spock quirked a brow.

“I mean, why the hell did you have to throw yourself in front of a knife? Jim can take care of himself—but when it comes to you—” McCoy stopped himself, jaw clenching.

He shook his head and grabbed the skin-grafting device, beginning to knit Spock’s wound closed with fresh pale-yellow tissue.

“I’ll patch you up,” he muttered, “but I couldn’t let you donate a normal amount of blood—let alone what Sarek needs—in your condition.”

Spock shook his head, bracing against the flare of pain.

“With the medication, and my accelerated Vulcan healing, I estimate a 24% chance of surgical success, even with my wound.”

“Damn it, Spock, that’s too low. Even for you.”

Spock reached out and closed his fingers around McCoy’s wrist, firm despite the tremor of weakness.

“Doctor… it is vital you attempt to save Sarek. He is a Vulcan ambassador. His death would have consequences beyond my own. And—” he paused, voice quieter, “—he is my father. I would not see him die if there is still a chance.”

McCoy closed his eyes with a deflated sigh, then turned toward the other biobed.

“Nurse Chapel,” he called. “Prep Sarek for surgery. And inform his wife that Spock will be going forward as the donor.”

Chapel blinked, glanced at Spock with quiet surprise and concern, then nodded and hurried off.

McCoy turned back, voice low.

“Don’t you dare die. Jim’ll never forgive me.”

Spock felt the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth. “I cannot guarantee that. But I will do my best.”

***

With the transfusion lines in place and Nurse Chapel administering the experimental blood regeneration serum, McCoy began the surgery. Spock, still conscious, lay on the adjacent biobed, quietly observing. His mother sat beside him, her hand resting lightly on his.

The ship shuddered every few minutes—evidence that Jim had engaged with the assassin’s vessel. Spock could only hope the captain was in the proper state of mind to handle the situation.

Logically, he reminded himself, Jim performs above standard under pressure. Running statistical analyses on the captain’s tactical efficiency in combat situations had always been a reliable way to soothe his nerves.

“Vitals?” McCoy asked as he began entering the initial incisions into the surgical interface.

“Mr. Spock’s blood production is up 200%. Sarek’s heart rate is 324. Blood pressure 90 over 40 and dropping,” Chapel reported.

“I wish I knew whether that was good or bad,” McCoy muttered—light in tone, but tense in delivery.

Spock watched his father’s face carefully, then blinked as his mother’s hand gently pressed over his own.

“It would seem your captain cares a great deal about you,” Amanda said softly.

He turned toward her. Beneath her calm exterior, he could feel the tension—yet there was also confidence. Hope.

“Captain Kirk cares deeply for his crew, yes,” Spock replied evenly.

She chuckled and shook her head. A stray lock of gray slipped from her bun.

“That’s not what I said. I said he cares about you.”

He regarded her in silence, his brows rising slightly. “Yes. I suppose you are correct. He considers me a… friend.”

“Friend,” she repeated, tasting the word like it didn’t quite sit right. “And what is he to you?”

Another blast rocked the ship. Overhead, the lights flickered.

“Sterile field engaged,” McCoy said in the background.

Spock opened his mouth to repeat friend—but it felt wrong. Distant. Inaccurate.

He paused, then answered honestly.

“He is… my equal. The other half of myself. More than a friend. More than a brother, even.”

Amanda’s eyes widened slightly. Her grip on his hand tightened.

“I can’t remember the last time you were this open with me,” she said with a soft laugh. “Maybe after all of this you can bring him to visit. Or we could join you on shore leave. Your father’s been talking about a trip to Earth you know? There’s a new Orion run restaurant by the embassy I’ve been dying to try.”

Spock gasped in sudden realization, beginning to sit up.

“It’s Orion.” He said hurriedly.

“Nurse!” McCoy barked, and Chapel was instantly at Spock’s side, gently pushing him back onto the bed.

“Doctor, I must speak with the captain. I’ve realized something critical about the alien ship.”

“And I have a surgery to perform,” McCoy snapped. “You just lie there and keep confessing how in love you are with Jim to your mother. Got it?”

Spock flushed with embarrassment, glancing toward Chapel—who was smiling far too widely for his comfort.

“It is not love, Doctor,” Spock said quickly. “Merely appreciation. Jim is an exceptional starship captain.”

McCoy didn’t even look up. “Mmhmm,” he hummed with heavy skepticism, continuing to work.

Spock turned to Amanda. “Please, Mother. You must go to the bridge and tell Captain Kirk the Andorian is, in fact, an Orion in disguise. The Orions have long been smugglers of dilithium near Babel—they do not want these talks to proceed. This information will greatly assist the captain in resolving the situation with the enemy vessel. You must hurry.”

Amanda’s eyes widened, but only for a moment. She squeezed his hand in return, then stood—leaning down to press her forehead gently against his own.

A quiet spark of warmth passed between them.

“Be safe,” she whispered.

Then she turned and swept from the room in a flurry of fabric, grace, and determination.

***

Jim gripped the arms of the captain’s chair so tightly his knuckles had gone bloodless. The mystery ship had started retaliating the moment they fired phasers—and damn were they fast.

Warp 10. Zipping around the Enterprise like a wasp with teeth, hitting them with phasers before they could even think about torpedoes.

“They’re coming around again, Captain,” Sulu called out, his smooth baritone tight with urgency.

“Evasive maneuvers—fire phasers!”

The ship rocked hard from another impact.

“Missed, sir! They’re just too fast!” Sulu reported.

“Shield Two is down,” Chekov called from Spock’s science station.

Spock.

Was he still alive? Jim knew his first officer well enough to know he’d cajoled Bones into performing the procedure, no matter how risky.

Had the experimental drug failed? Or had the strain of donating blood while wounded pushed him past endurance?

Jim’s mind spiraled through worst-case scenarios.

He was certain he’d know if Spock had died. Surely it would be something he’d feel—like being ripped in half, like losing a limb he hadn’t known was part of him until it was gone.

No. Spock was still alive. Had to be.

But the thought of him dying—alone, and Jim not being there—was almost more than he could stand.

And this damn ship, darting and firing and bleeding them dry—it was like a mosquito, buzzing and stinging and slowly wearing them down.

The turbolift doors hissed open.

Light footfalls approached quickly—and then Amanda Grayson stood breathless at his side.

“Captain—!”

The ship lurched violently. Amanda staggered, but Jim caught her, pulling her close as the lights overhead flickered.

“Spock?” he asked immediately, gripping her shoulders. His hazel eyes were wide, frantic. “Is he—?”

“He’s fine,” she said quickly. “He and Sarek are still in surgery, but Spock sent me. The ship—it’s Orion. They’re dilithium crystal smugglers, disguised as Andorian.”

Jim exhaled sharply, releasing her with a breath that was almost a laugh.

“Amanda, that’s the best news I’ve heard all day,” he said, a crooked smile breaking across his face—even as the ship rocked again and Amanda grabbed the back of his chair to steady herself.

“Alright, Mr. Sulu,” Jim barked, fire in his voice again. “They’re Orion smugglers. We can’t outrun them—but we can outplay them.”

He grinned, sharp and unrelenting.

Amanda found herself smiling too. No wonder Spock liked this young captain.

***

“Direct hit, sir. They’re finished.” Mr. Sulu announced proudly, turning in his chair with a grin.

“Excellent work, Mr. Sulu.” Jim rose, already moving. “Amanda—if you please.”

He offered his arm, and together they strode briskly toward the turbolift.

All it had taken was a bit of bluffing and a well-timed feint. Pretending to play dead had baited the enemy perfectly. Jim had dealt with enough Orion smugglers to know they were dangerous, reckless, and—thankfully—terrible tacticians.

Another gamble, another win.

But while the tactical victory was satisfying, his thoughts were already back in Sickbay.

Amanda was silent beside him in the lift, her frame tense.

“They’ll pull through, Mrs. Sarek,” Jim said gently. “Those Vulcans are damn tough. And Bones is the best physician in the fleet—ask anyone.”

She looked up at him, eyes softening, and patted the arm linked through hers.

“Spock is lucky to have you, Captain Kirk. I don’t believe he’s ever known anyone who understands him the way you do. Not even me.”

Warmth bloomed in his chest. Spock had rarely spoken of his mother, but when he had, it had always been with deep affection.

“Call me Jim.”

She nodded as the turbolift doors parted and they stepped into the corridor, heading for Sickbay.

***

Jim and Amanda entered just as Nurse Chapel was finishing her post-op readings on Spock and Sarek. Doctor McCoy had retired to his adjoining office to begin the ever-tedious Starfleet paperwork, but now emerged at the sound of the corridor doors whooshing open.

Amanda disengaged from Jim—a gesture Spock noted with a warm, private fondness—and rushed to Sarek’s bedside, her face lit with unfiltered relief.

Sarek was sitting upright on the biobed. Cool Vulcan impartiality radiated from him, as if he hadn’t been a hair’s breadth from death an hour ago.

“My wife,” he said, inclining his head in quiet greeting.

Amanda cupped his face in both hands and kissed his cheek, hard. “You’re okay!” she exclaimed.

Sarek flushed a faint olive-green at the display. He gently removed her hands and instead offered the traditional two-fingered greeting.

“Yes. The doctor informed me my heart had stopped at one point. I estimate my odds of survival had been—” Amanda gave him a warning look. “—well, I will say they were low.”

Jim stepped up beside Spock as Amanda turned next to her son.

“You did a brave thing, Spock,” she said, resting a hand gently on his shoulder.

Spock ignored the compliment, instead shifting his gaze toward the captain. Jim’s private smile—the one reserved only for him—was on full display, radiant to the point of discomfort. Spock had to look away, lest he get drawn into its gravity and smile back.

“Captain, I trust the encounter with the Orions was successful? I estimate their plan had been to frame Sarek for the murder of Ambassador Gav—inciting interplanetary conflict that would keep both Vulcan and Tellar out of dilithium operations on Babel. Strategically clever… but ultimately shortsighted.”

Jim didn’t answer immediately, still staring at him.

“Hmm? Oh, yes—the Orions,” Jim said at last. “Yes, we… took care of them.” He glanced around at the otherwise empty biobeds, expression faltering. “Bones... where’s the assassin? Did he—did I…?”

He trailed off, voice hitching with unease.

“No, Jim,” McCoy said quickly. “You didn’t kill him.”

Jim exhaled sharply, shoulders loosening with relief.

McCoy continued, more grimly, “It was a suicide mission. He had a false tooth—a poison capsule in case he was captured. Managed to crack it with a broken jaw.”

Spock noticed the captain’s hand curl into a tight fist at his side.

“I see,” Jim murmured.

A heavy silence settled.

“Well,” Amanda interjected, clearly trying to shift the mood, “Sarek, aren’t you going to thank your son?”

Her tone—teacherly, expectant—struck a familiar chord. Spock recalled it from childhood. Some instincts, it seemed, never faded.

Sarek looked at her, puzzled. “I do not understand.”

“For saving your life!” Amanda snapped.

Sarek turned to Spock. “He acted in the only logical manner available. One does not thank logic, Amanda.”

Amanda groaned, tossing her hands up. “Logic. Logic! I’m sick to death of your logic,” she exclaimed, glaring at both Vulcans. “Do you want to know what I think of your logic? It. Is. Annoying!”

The other three humans burst into laughter. Spock tried not to squirm at the heat rising in his cheeks. A glance at Sarek confirmed he, too, was... displeased.

After the laughter settled, Jim turned to McCoy.

“When can I expect him back on the bridge?”

“Give it a day,” McCoy replied. “That green blood of his works overtime—and right now he’s got extra to spare.”

Jim nodded, turning back to Spock with a smile and a hand on his shoulder.

“I’ll see you in a day then.”

“A day, Captain.”

They held each other’s gaze a moment longer. Then Jim tore himself away and strode confidently out of the room.

***

Spock shifted onto his side in frustration, opening his eyes to see the dim blue glow of his digital clock face in the otherwise pitch dark—02:26. In a very human display, he huffed in frustration and moved to his back once more, delicate new skin at his side protesting angrily the movement.

He had assumed, perhaps naïvely, that after the day’s events sleep would come easily. His father had survived. The diplomatic talks could proceed. And Jim—Jim seemed to have returned to himself.

Yet it was the middle of the night, and despite McCoy’s strict instructions to go straight to bed and rest, Spock had neither slept nor meditated. Not for hours.

This pattern had begun the previous week, after his… realization about Jim. He could usually manage a few hours if he focused hard enough—emptied his mind of the captain’s voice, his face.

But tonight was different.

Tonight, thoughts of Jim in the combat room, of the way his hand had lingered too long during the formal dinner, of the fury in his eyes as he pummeled the assassin for harming him—

He wanted to be disgusted at himself for finding Jim’s unbridled rage attractive, but instead the opposite was happening.

He was hardening beneath the sheets.

He exhaled sharply, frustration at the dissonance between logic and desire mounting.

Even if he did find Jim sexually attractive, lusting for him because his captain had committed such a violent act for Spock was wrong.

It was wrongwrongwrong—who cares, he suddenly thought as his hand—which he hadn’t realized was moving—landed on the bulging fabric of his pants.

He shuddered at the touch.

He had only permitted himself sexual release during two periods of his life: as a boy on Vulcan, when surging human hormones overwhelmed even his strongest mental disciplines, and more recently, in the days leading up to his pon farr—an attempt to ease the mounting tension through purely physical means.

But now?

There was no biological imperative. No justifiable reason for stimulation.

No reason except that he wanted Jim. Desperately.

Over the past few days, his mind had begun offering flashes—unbidden and explicit—of imagined encounters. Scenes he did not will into being, but which surfaced nonetheless when sleep eluded him or his gaze lingered too long on the captain.

Each time, he’d shoved the hunger deep into the recesses of his mind.

It was one thing to crave contact. To yearn for Jim’s attention, his voice, the warmth of his presence.

It was another thing entirely to surrender to lecherous fantasies of a man he should not want.

But tonight the desire for release was too great, overpowering his logic as if he were experiencing pon farr all over again.

Except he wasn’t. He was perfectly lucid. He should be perfectly able to control himself…

He pressed down into his erection, rewarded with a pulse and fizz of pleasure shooting through his mind.

He had never fantasized during previous moments of release. Instead, he focused solely on the physical sensations—the mechanical process of relief, pursued out of biological necessity, not desire.

But now… now he had a subject.

Someone real. Someone whose voice, expressions, and touch his mind could conjure with excruciating clarity.

Someone around whom he could build scenes, invent moments, and allow his thoughts to spiral beyond control.

Jim was strong. Warm. Powerful.

A force of nature. Chaos in his otherwise well-ordered world.

He pulsed again as he palmed his length excruciatingly slowly over the fabric of his sleepwear. If he was going to allow himself this moment of illogic, he would at least make it deliberate—savored, not surrendered to.

He summoned the memory of their sparring session, the details surfacing with perfect clarity thanks to his mnemonic recall: every shift of weight, every brush of skin, every glint of sweat on Jim’s brow.

His hand began to move more rhythmically over himself, lifting slightly at the head and then grinding down hard as he reached the base.

Though his quarters were pitch dark he still threw his other arm over his eyes as he worked himself.

When Jim finally bested him—straddling him in triumph, laughter warm against the silence—what would have happened if Spock had fisted both hands in the soft cotton of Jim’s shirt and pulled him down to his awaiting mouth?

He had only shared a few tentative, experimental kisses in his youth—awkward meetings of mouths with Vulcan girls chosen for their quiet tolerance. But in this imagining, Jim’s lips met his without hesitation: soft, pliant, and sure. His tongue was velvet and fire, gliding across Spock’s with a hunger that left no room for restraint.

What would Jim sound like?

Would the combat room echo with the sharp rhythm of heavy exhalations—or would it be quieter, more intimate? Spock decided on the latter. He imagined Jim groaning into his mouth—low, masculine, and quiet. A sound of pleasure buried in the heat of their kiss, soft enough to be meant for him alone.

He let out a sharp exhale as his hand found the waistband of his sleepwear, and slipped beneath the fabric to continue working himself over his underwear.

His imaginary self became impatient, lifting Jim with unshackled Vulcan strength and rolling so their positions were reversed. The captain smiled, eyelids heavy with lust, and gripped Spock’s nape as he forced him back down for another kiss.

Then Jim bucked his hips up to meet Spock’s, and the Vulcan moaned softly into the crook of his arm at the phantom sensation of Jim’s cock pressed against his own.

Despite his desire to savor the vision—this moment of pure human need—he felt the wetness of pre-ejaculate moistening the tip of his length. His fingers wrapped around his girth though the thin fabric as he continued to stroke, hand picking up speed with the urgency of imminent release.

Imaginary Jim rocked into him, moans becoming louder, more echo-y and unrestrained as the human chased his pleasure.

Spock recalled the memory of Jim’s hair beneath his fingers and wove it into the scene—threading his hand through sandy-blond waves, raking his nails lightly across the captain’s scalp. Jim shuddered beneath him. Spock imagined pressing searing kisses to the curve of his neck, to the line of his jaw—reverent and hungry.

He began to feel the familiar build of tension and heat in his lower abdomen.

Harder. Faster. His breath quickened in time with his hand.

Jim was writhing beneath him, grinding into him with unrestrained human voracity.

“Spock. Fuck, Spock I’m going to—”

His vision whited out for a moment as he came, rhythmically pulsing hot release into the awaiting fabric of his underwear. Gasping hot breaths ghosted in the crook of his arm while he stroked himself through his climax.

Slowly, his hand came to a stop, falling to his side as his final throbs of orgasm ebbed away and he began to soften.

Sinking into the mattress, his body finally relaxed—tension draining as logic returned. He didn’t remove the arm draped over his eyes as his breathing slowed, unwilling to face the truth settling over him like a weighted blanket.

A wave of anger and shame crested in his chest, sharp now that desire had ebbed.

This… was becoming a problem.

Chapter Text

“Jim, seriously, what the hell has been goin’ on with you?”

Leonard took a long pull from the beer he’d ordered, grimacing as he set the bottle down. He was already in a foul mood after discovering this bar didn’t serve anything stronger. He knew most of the drinking holes on Starbase 11, and this one certainly wasn’t anyone’s first choice.

Which was exactly why they were here.

Jim raised an eyebrow. “Nothing, Bones. Just been a rough couple of weeks.”

“Nothin’ my ass. First there was Edith. Then you beat the crap out of that Andorian. And this week you’ve been mopin’ around like some hormonal teenager. If I didn’t know you any better, I’d be recommending Starfleet put you on psyche watch.”

The place was quiet—late enough into the night cycle that only five or six other patrons lingered at dimly lit tables. Though technically on shore leave for the next two days, this wasn’t the sort of place crew came to relax. It was a place people came to forget. Engage in less than legal dealings… or, perhaps, to confront their friends about emotional breakdowns far from the eyes of their subordinates.

Jim drained his beer, gestured to the Edosian bar-back for another, and muttered, “I’m fine, Bones. You bring me here just to interrogate me, then?”

Leonard let out a long suffering sigh.

Jim looked rough—even by Leonard’s standards—and he’d seen this man in an inordinate number of less-than-savory situations. His sandy hair was messy and unkempt, the beginnings of dark circles forming under eyes that were usually sharp and bright. And Leonard hadn’t missed the fact that Jim had barely eaten in days, one of the pros of being the ship’s doctor with access to everyone’s meal records.

“You could say that. I’m your friend, Jim. Something’s up, and I intend to find out what.”

Jim opened his mouth to deflect, but Leonard cut him off with a wave of his hand.

“I’m not sayin’ this is related to Spock. But… is it related to Spock?”

Jim fixed him with a hard glare, which Leonard met with an icy one of his own. They sat like that for a moment, a battle of wills sparking across the booth, until Jim’s third beer was placed lightly on the table by a tentative orange hand. Finally, Jim broke eye contact with a resigned sigh.

A smug smile slid across Leonard’s face. Jim couldn’t out-stubborn him.

The captain raked a hand through his hair before bringing his hands to cradle the bottle, condensation rolling over his knuckles. “You… probably already know, don’t you?” He finally said, softly.

Leonard’s eyes widened a degree, and suddenly he was desperately wishing he’d chosen a bar that served liquor. He’d honestly expected Jim to keep dodging, not just… dive straight into the confession that had been simmering for over a year.

Which—yes—of course Leonard had known. He’d specialized in psychology, specifically the kind shaped by years in deep space, long before he was ever assigned to the Enterprise. It was natural for shipmates to form bonds that would, in any other context, be considered unnatural.

“I want you to say it.”

Jim glanced up at him, eyes full of exhausted resentment. “Really?”

Leonard sat back in the booth with a raise of his eyebrows, waiting expectantly.

With a loud thunk, Jim set the bottle back on the table.

“Fine. Yes, it’s about Spock. And yes, I—” He faltered. The fire in his hazel eyes dimmed, shuttered behind caution. He worried at the corner of his lip. “I’ve been trying to ignore these feelings, Bones. I really have. I’ve tried to… to feel something for other people—or none at all.”

He groaned and dragged a hand down his face.

“These past weeks have been hell. I tried with Edith—which was stupid in and of itself, I know—but goddammit, even she could read the writing on the wall! And when that goddamn bug,” he spat the word like poison, “stabbed Spock—I just cracked. I don’t even remember going after him.”

He took a long drink while Leonard watched him in silence.

“I don’t know what I’m doing. I feel like I’m coming apart at the seams. And—I know I can—but I’m gonna ask anyway: can I be totally honest with you?”

Leonard smiled, warm and tired. He reached across the table and patted Jim’s shoulder. “Of course, Jimmy-boy.”

Jim hesitated. Then: “If I didn’t know any better… I’d almost say I’ve been getting—I don’t know—signs from Spock?”

Leonard didn’t blink.

“Look, I’d like to think I’m a decent judge of when someone’s interested. But it’s Spock. There’s no way. Right?” He exhaled sharply, running a hand roughly through his hair again. “It’s been driving me crazy. I’ve been beating myself up over everything that’s happened these past few months, and then I catch myself hoping for something that isn’t there. Tell me I’m crazy. Please.”

No, he didn’t think Jim was crazy. He’d seen the subtle changes in the Vulcan around his captain—the way Spock tolerated more casual touches from Jim, maybe even craved them. The way those remarkably human eyes would track him across the bridge with an intensity they hadn’t held before.

For all Jim’s brilliance, he could be woefully dense when it came to Spock.

But not Leonard.

He also knew it had started after their return from Vulcan. After that event. After Spock’s… biological requirement. And even though something had changed, even though Leonard had caught glimpses of it too, he wouldn’t allow himself to believe that Spock could ever feel much of anything, especially what Jim wanted.

He wasn’t about to encourage a connection that could only exist in Jim’s heart.

“Jim—” Leonard polished off his beer with an audible gulp, “You are absolutely, positively insane.”

***

Spock scrubbed his hands until the sensitive nerve endings in his fingertips screamed for relief from the icy water. It was the third time this week. The only method, it seemed, that could silence his mind long enough to sleep.

What had become of his famed Vulcan control?

He had meditated. Extensively. He had summoned every discipline forged over a lifetime—had bent his will to focus, to suppress, to contain.

And yet.

They were barely a week out from the assassination attempt, and again he found his hand down his pants, imagining Jim engaging in a series of increasingly salacious acts with him.

All it had taken was one moment of weakness. One lapse. One indulgence in base instinct—and now he was reduced to this: picturing a litany of crude, utterly human fantasies starring his commanding officer.

He could hardly look at Jim over the past few days without seeing bright hazel eyes looking up from between his legs, those plump, smirking lips panting in a state of perpetual pleasure, combed and styled golden locks thoroughly debauched, slick with sweat and… other fluids.

In truth, he’d been grateful for the shore leave on Starbase 11, if only for the reprieve of Jim’s absence. A temporary end to the daily torment.

The guilt gnawed at him, growing sharper with each passing night, each wanton fantasy. It wasn’t as though he could tell Jim, of course—nor anyone else. He just needed to recenter himself.

He needed… in truth, he wasn’t certain what he needed.

Time away from Jim might have been the logical solution. But it was also the most unpleasant to even consider. He’d tried that after Ni’Var, and it had left them both rather miserable after a month of pointed avoidance.

Spock could tolerate misery. He could compartmentalize it—control it, like he did all other emotions.

(Never mind how that had been going lately.)

But what he could not abide was the thought of hurting Jim again. This was his burden to carry. His to resolve. Jim considered him a friend—his best friend—and Spock refused to endanger that with these… indelicate feelings.

Which left him back at the same question: what to do? How to regain control?

He finally allowed himself a glance in the small bathroom mirror. His skin was 4.78% lighter than his baseline tone. His hair, normally straight and perfectly aligned even after sleep, was in complete disarray.

He dried his hands and stepped out of the washroom, shoulders slumped in quiet, shameful defeat.

He was coming undone—and had no idea how to put himself back together.

***

“Did you have a restful shore leave, Captain?” Spock asked, approaching the command chair.

Jim gave him a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Spock tilted his head. His friend looked even more worn than before the break—hair slightly mussed, eyes red-rimmed and tired. Most tellingly, his uniform was unpressed.

That would make two of them.

“Can’t complain,” Jim replied with a yawn.

An obvious lie. Spock made a mental note to consult Dr. McCoy.

“And you?” Jim’s eyes turned on him—less green today, more chestnut.

“Did you enjoy having the ship to yourself?”

“Yes, Captain. With fewer duties and no social interruptions, I was able to increase my research productivity by 46.2%.”

Jim’s mouth quirked. “So, without us annoying humans around, you actually got some work done?”

Spock raised a brow. “In your words, Captain: ‘I cannot complain.’”

Jim chuckled, and warmth flickered in Spock’s chest. He turned back toward the viewscreen.

“Well, back to exploring the galaxy, I suppose. Mr. Sulu, plot a course to the Beta Quadrant. Starfleet’s lost contact with multiple colonies in the area—they want us to check it out. Mr. Spock?”

Spock was already at the science station.

“Analyze our last reports from that region. Look for any pattern in the silence. Lieutenant Uhura, monitor for signals from any of the colonies as we approach.”

A chorus of ‘Aye, Captain’ rippled across the bridge as the crew settled into familiar routines.

Except Spock. Despite himself, he glanced back to the command chair—only to find Jim watching him.

A beat passed—nameless, unreadable—before Jim looked away.

And Spock did the same.

***

As they approached the Beta Quadrant, Spock identified a troubling pattern in the data from surrounding colonies.

It began with Levinius V—reports of mass insanity two years prior, followed by total radio silence. Colonists attacking one another without cause. Pilots flying vessels into stars. Waves of suicides.

Then Theta Cygni XII. Then Ingraham B. Each with similar signs of breakdown, each eventually falling silent. The pattern, Spock noted, was not random.

It followed a line.

And now the planet Deneva was next.

When he reported the findings to Jim, the captain’s expression turned grim.

“Uhura, any communications from Deneva? Anything at all?” Jim’s voice was tight with urgency.

“No, sir,” she replied, scanning her board. “Records show nothing from Deneva in nearly a year. I’m not picking up any signals.”

Spock’s hands tightened on his knees at his science station. The knot in his stomach drew taut at Jim’s reaction. He didn’t like being unsure of what was happening inside Jim’s mind—and clearly, something had struck a personal chord.

He wasn’t the only one who noticed. The bridge had fallen into a tense hush, eyes flicking between their captain and the comms panel.

Jim came to stand by her, hushed desperation in his voice as he asked:

“Try private trasmitter code: GSK 783.”

Uhura keyed in the code and listened intently, graceful manicured fingers pressing the earpiece tightly to her ear.

“… Yes, Captain! I have something.”

“Play it on speaker.”

A woman’s voice—desperate, strained—cut through the silence of the bridge.

“—help us. Please! I don’t know how much time we have.”

Jim inhaled sharply. “Aurelan. This is Jim, aboard the Enterprise. Repeat your message.”

Uhura’s hands danced over the controls. Her brow furrowed.

“Contact broken, sir,” she said gently.

“Re-establish.”

She tried again, then withdrew her hands with a breath of regret. “I’m sorry, sir—”

“I’m not interested in excuses, Lieutenant. Re-establish contact.” Jim’s tone cracked like a whip.

Uhura set her jaw, the soft lilt of her voice turning icy. “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Captain. They broke contact. They are not responding to my hails.”

Jim turned back to his captain’s chair, fingers flexing anxiously, “Keep trying. Mr. Sulu, assume orbit around Deneva Prime. We’ll send a landing party to the surface.”

Spock hesitated, then crossed the bridge to Jim’s side. His voice was low, meant for Jim alone.

“Captain. You recognized that voice.”

Jim’s eyes flicked toward him, then quickly away to the forward screen.

“My brother’s wife,” he said, voice tight.

Spock waited, but no elaboration followed. Just silence.

“I see,” he said softly. “Captain, I request to join the landing party.”

Jim looked up at him, a sad, familiar smile pulling at his mouth.

“Yes—I had a feeling you would.”

***

As Spock stepped onto the transporter pad beside Jim, he exchanged a brief look with McCoy. The doctor’s jaw was set, face lined with quiet concern. He had known Jim since their academy days—knew better than Spock the kind of bond Jim had with his brother.

Spock found himself wishing he possessed the same depth of knowledge about Jim’s past.

Then golden light flared around him, and a heartbeat later, he materialized on the planet’s surface.

Warm sunlight pressed against his back. The scents of cut grass and chemically treated water filled his senses.

The colony was well established—over two centuries old—and the research park they had beamed into reflected that legacy. Surrounding them were multi-story buildings of dark glass and steel, their sleek façades softened by manicured lawns, decorative ponds, and scattered scientific instruments. If Spock ever entertained the idea of shore leave, he might have found this place... agreeable.

But he had other priorities.

They moved through the quiet campus, following Jim’s lead. After several minutes, the captain halted and turned to them, eyes narrowing.

“There are nearly a million people on Deneva. A hundred thousand in this city alone. So where is everyone?”

Spock adjusted his tricorder. “There are life signs within the buildings, but none outside.”

Jim bit his lower lip, thinking, then pointed toward a white-columned structure in the near distance. “My brother’s lab is that way. They sent one transmission—maybe someone’s still there.”

They crossed the lawn, but before they could reach the entrance, a woman’s scream shattered the silence.

Jim drew his phaser immediately. The rest followed suit as they sprinted for the lab.

Inside was chaos.

Two bodies—a man and a child—lay at the feet of a woman who clutched her head, wailing in agony.

“They’re here!” she sobbed, even as Jim holstered his phaser and pulled her into his arms.

Spock stood frozen for a moment, helpless, as Jim whispered soothing words, fingers gentle in the woman’s hair.

“Aurelan. It’s me. It’s Jim.”

She only wept and struggled in his arms until Jim called for McCoy to sedate her.

Finally Spock tore his eyes from the scene and continued scanning the rest of the lab. The room beyond was devoid of personnel. Data terminals blinked idly beside half-completed analyses and abandoned experiments. According to his tricorder, there were still life signs in the adjoining rooms.

Then he heard McCoy’s voice—muted but unmistakably grim.

“Is this your brother, Jim?”

Spock froze.

His breath hitched as he listened. The very air of the room seemed to close in around him. Suffocating him, pressing against his chest like an invisible weight.

Unbidden he found himself pleading to anything—gods, luck, probabilities—that it wasn’t Jim’s brother.

Let it not be Sam. Let it be a technician, a stranger—anyone else.

Silence. Then Jim’s voice, hoarse and barely audible.

“Oh…” A single whisper that carried the weight of a thousand emotions.

“Sam.”

Spock’s grip on his tricorder tightened until the casing strained beneath his fingers.

“It is my brother.” A pause. “Was my brother.”

Spock wanted to go to him. To offer comfort. Reach out, hold him. Kiss him.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he took a steadying breath and resumed his scans, even as he kept his focus trained on the voices from the other room.

McCoy again: “I’m sorry, Jim. The boy’s unconscious, but alive. His nervous system’s in chaos—it’s like his body’s on fire. I need to get him and the mother back to the ship. I can’t do anything for them here.”

There was something in McCoy’s voice—an open tenderness Spock rarely heard. It made Spock’s own sense of inadequacy twist deep in his chest.

How could he ever match that kind of empathy? What could he possibly offer Jim that would help?

Hearing McCoy requesting a beam up, Spock finally took one more breath, schooled his expression to one of calm, and pushed the roiling emotions aside as he rounded the corner.

Jim stood with his back to Sam’s body, leaning against the wall, head bowed.

Spock opened his mouth—to offer condolences, to give his report, to say something—but the words died on his lips the moment he saw Jim’s face.

The captain’s features were raw, unguarded, devastated.

For one long moment, Jim didn’t move. Then he lifted his head, and Spock watched him visibly push the grief down, wrestle it into silence. His breath hitched; his eyes shone

Spock didn’t know what was worse: watching Jim’s heart break… or watching him hide it.

He clenched his fist at his side, trying to resist the instinct to reach out.

What does he need from me? he thought, frustrated. Why can I not see it?

At last, he tried.

“Captain, I understand how you—”

“Yes.” Jim’s voice was flat. His eyes, dulled to a lifeless hazel, didn’t meet Spock’s.

“Yes, Mr. Spock.”

And with that, Jim straightened. The grief vanished behind the mask of command.

“You heard what Aurelan said. ‘They’re here.’ Your analysis?”

Spock’s heart sank. Jim didn’t want comfort. He wanted duty.

Very well. Spock could give him that.

“They attempted to seal the lab’s ventilation system, Captain. It appears they were trying to keep something out. They did not succeed.”

Jim frowned. “We detected no hostile lifeforms. Nothing registered on approach.”

“Correct. I am, for the moment, at a loss.”

McCoy stepped between them then.

“Ready to beam up. Jim, I want you to be there when Aurelan wakes.”

Jim nodded, ordered Spock to take charge of the landing party, and departed silently with McCoy.

Spock remained, staring after him—an unshakable unease coiling tight in his chest.

***

An hour later, Jim returned to the planet’s surface, his expression grim as he approached the landing party.

“Report?” he asked, voice flat.

“Nothing, Captain,” Spock replied. “The streets remain deserted. We encountered more Denevans further inside the labs, but they were strangely hostile toward us. They warned us to ‘get away’ while moving to attack. We had no choice but to stun them.”

Jim nodded grimly.

“We were about to follow a peculiar buzzing sound that appeared moments ago.”

“Alright. Let’s find out what it is. Maximum phaser settings—we’re dealing with something lethal. We’ve already seen what it can do.”

The security team began moving ahead, but Spock reached out, laying a quick hand on Jim’s forearm.

“Did you speak with your sister-in-law?” he asked, voice low.

Jim’s gaze drifted toward the direction the others had gone. His face tightened, sorrow drawn across every line.

“For a little while,” Jim said quietly. “She was in terrible pain, Spock. She could barely speak. But she mentioned something—creatures brought from Ingraham VII by colonists. Not willingly. She said the things… they force people to build ships. They’re spreading. Like a virus.”

Was.

The word cut through Spock like a blade. Not one, but two deaths that Jim was now grieving for, then.

“We will find the source, Jim,” he said softly.

Jim looked at him then—really looked at him. His eyes were glassy, haunted, full of the weight of everything he couldn’t yet allow himself to feel.

“Only Peter is left, Spock,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “We have to save my nephew. I… I can’t—”

His voice broke. He shook his head, cutting himself off.

Spock wanted to say something. Anything.

But Jim had already turned away.

“Let’s get moving,” he said.

***

They followed the sound into a small courtyard.

The buzzing was faint—a soft hiss, like air leaking from an unseen vent. The space was quiet and enclosed, flanked by tall walls and scattered shadows. They advanced cautiously, phasers drawn, eyes scanning every corner.

“Spock,” Jim hissed behind him.

Spock turned. The captain’s gaze was fixed on a point beneath the stone archway overhead.

There—flattened against the concrete—was a creature. Its body was pressed flush to the wall, its form eerily pancaked as though trying to camouflage itself. The skin was thin and membranous, nearly translucent, threaded with pulsating red veins. It reminded Spock, unsettlingly, of a magnified amoeba.

Then came a rush of movement.

More of them—dozens—dropped from the dim recesses above. The air filled with a clumsy, chaotic swarm of flapping, slithering shapes.

“Form a ring!” Jim shouted as they dove to the ground, dodging the swooping creatures.

Phasers fired, but the aliens were fast—and strange. The attack lasted only seconds, but it felt much longer before the swarm scattered and vanished as quickly as it had come.

Jim rose to a crouch and fired at one of the stragglers still clinging to the wall. The shot hit squarely. The creature froze and fell to the grass with a wet thud.

Spock approached it, tricorder in hand.

“Incredible,” he murmured. “Not only was it barely affected by our phasers at full setting, it doesn’t register on my tricorder at all. It is not life as we understand it. Captain, I suggest we risk bringing it aboard.”

Jim gave a tense nod. “Agreed. Let’s regroup on the Enterprise. Move out.”

They turned and began heading toward the courtyard exit when Spock caught the sound.

A soft buzz.

Then blinding pain.

Something struck him hard between the shoulder blades—searing, excruciating, like a lightning bolt igniting every nerve at once. He stumbled, collapsed back down the stone steps, and hit the ground hard.

The agony consumed everything. A firestorm ripping through his nervous system, collapsing thought and breath and movement into a single shriek of sensation.

He was vaguely aware of shouting. Jim’s voice. Hands gripping his wrists, trying to haul him upright.

Spock rolled to his side, choking on a breath, fingers scrabbling at the source of pain—seeking the thing burrowing into his flesh.

It was as if his back had been flayed open and packed with salt and flame. He couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

Then—relief.

Hands found the creature. Tore it away. The pain, once centered and blinding, ebbed into something larger—duller. A radiant burning growing throughout every inch of him.

“It’s gone,” Jim was saying, arms wrapping around him—one at his chest, the other under his arm, pulling him upright. “Spock—can you stand?”

Spock tried to answer but the words wouldn’t come. The pain was too vast.

“Spock? Are you alright?!” Jim’s voice cracked.

Spock’s vision swam.

The last thing he felt before the world went black was the warmth of Jim’s arms around him.

Chapter Text

Jim tapped his foot impatiently at the base of his command chair, a simmering restlessness building beneath his skin.

Bones had promised he’d be up the moment Spock’s surgery was complete—that Jim would be the first to know the results. But the urge to sprint down to sickbay and see for himself was overwhelming. Unshakable.

He barely registered the report a yeoman handed him, scrawling his signature blindly. His mind was too occupied with the two lives hanging in the balance below deck—Peter, the last remnant of his brother’s family, and Spock…

Spock.

Why hadn’t he seen the creature before it attacked? Why hadn’t he noticed?

A wave of guilt crashed over him, cold and merciless.

Just a week ago, Spock had thrown himself into the path of an assassin to save Jim’s life. And Jim hadn’t even managed to return the favor.

It should be him down there, in surgery. Not Spock.

But somehow—always—whenever danger found them, it was Spock who bled for him.

The hiss of the turbolift doors snapped him out of his thoughts, and McCoy came to stand by his chair, a specimen jar in hand and a somber expression on his face.

“How is he?” Jim asked, poorly concealed panic lacing his voice.

Bones sighed heavily, his voice low and despairing.

“To be very frank, Jim... I don’t know if there’s anything I can do. For Spock or for your nephew.”

Jim’s chest tightened.

McCoy lifted the jar slightly. Inside floated a mass of quivering tissue—organic, unnatural. Alive.

“This—this is a piece of what I pulled from Aurelan. Spock’s body is full of the same stuff.”

Jim’s grip tightened on the arms of his chair. “You operated in time?”

McCoy shook his head. “No. He’s riddled with it, Jim. Whatever this is, it’s spreading through his entire nervous system. I can’t remove it—not with our current tech. Same goes for Peter. When the creature attacks, it leaves behind some kind of stinger. The tissue takes root and spreads fast. Too fast. I’m sorry. I wish I had better news.”

His voice softened. He reached out and laid a hand on Jim’s shoulder.

Jim’s throat worked to swallow as he absorbed the facts.

Sam and Aurelan had died in agony—suffering he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemies. And now Peter.

Peter, who was only ten. Who had just lost his parents. Who wanted to be a starship captain like his Uncle Jim.

And Spock.

Spock, who was… everything. His compass. His anchor. The only person who had ever truly seen him—all of him—and never turned away.

He couldn’t allow them to suffer in this way. And, if he was being honest, Jim didn’t think he could handle the death of another loved one today. Or ever again.

“Can I see him?” he asked, voice low and uneven.

Bones gave him a long look—sad and knowing. Of everyone aboard, McCoy likely understood best how deeply Jim was hurting. How close he was to breaking.

He gave a single nod.

And led Jim toward the medbay.

***

The medical room was quiet, save for the steady beeping of the biobed monitors.

Peter lay still, mercifully unconscious. But when Jim’s eyes shifted to the adjacent bed, his chest tightened.

Spock.

His face—usually calm, reserved, composed—was twisted in pain. His head twitched restlessly against the pillow, soft, involuntary whimpers slipping past clenched lips.

For one fleeting, monstrous second, Jim wondered if it might have been kinder for Spock to have died the moment the creature struck him—rather than endure a torment that might leave scars deeper than any physical wound.

McCoy approached the monitors and pointed to one of the gauges above the bed. It was hovering around the highest reading.

“This tracks pain levels,” Bones said quietly. “It’s been maxed out since we brought him back. No wonder the poor devils go mad.”

Only then did Jim notice the restraints around Spock’s wrists and ankles.

“Ah,” McCoy said, following his gaze. “Yeah. After surgery, he tried to get to the bridge. Started insisting he needed to assume command. We had to sedate him—restrain him.”

As if in response, Spock convulsed. Then slowly, his eyes opened, dark and glassy, scanning the room before finding the two humans beside him.

“Dr. McCoy. Captain,” he rasped.

Jim clasped his hands tightly behind his back to save himself from acting on instinct—to reach for Spock, wipe the sweat from his brow, caress his face.

“Spock,” he said quietly.

“These restraints are no longer necessary,” Spock ground out, his breath shallow. “I simply did not understand. When I attempted to take control of the ship... I apologize for that earlier weakness.”

Bones raised an eyebrow. “What’s to understand, Spock?”

“I am a Vulcan, Doctor. Pain is a thing of the mind. The mind can be controlled.”

Despite everything, Jim felt a faint smile pull at the corners of his mouth.

Even now, Spock found a way to astonish him.

“And what about your human half?” Jim asked softly. “That’s the part I’m worried about.”

Spock twitched again, his jaw tightening before he answered.

“It is proving... inconvenient. But it is manageable.”

Jim could’ve almost laughed at Spock’s ability to invoke his famously dry humor into a situation as dire as this.

Could anything shake that iron will?

“Even now the creature, with it’s thousands of parts, is pressuring me to take control… but I am resisting.”

Jim watched as the pain indicator flew up past the highest level as Spock spoke, then turned to McCoy. “Can he control it the way he says?”

The Georgian only shrugged, defeated. “Who knows, Jim. I know the level of pain the creature can inflict on him. Whether he can control it hour to hour—”

“I have my own will, Captain,” Spock interrupted, chest rising sharply.

“Let me help.”

Jim met his eyes—and in them, saw pain he could barely comprehend, agony held at bay by sheer force of discipline.

Even now, in the depths of suffering, Spock looked beautiful.

Jim swallowed.

“I need you, Spock,” he said at last.

“Jim, if he loses control again—” Bones began, but Jim laid a hand on his shoulder as he turned toward the door.

“Untie him, Bones,” he said. “We—I need him.”

He didn’t look back.

Spock’s quiet, restrained whimpers followed him out.

***

Having retrieved a sample creature from the planet’s surface—which, of course, had required no small amount of persuasion on Spock’s part—he now sat in the lab, analyzing his find.

Convincing Jim to allow him to beam down had been no easy task. Spock had argued—logically—that since he was already infected, no additional harm was likely to befall him. Jim had not been pleased with the reasoning, but had ultimately relented.

"Your logic is as flawless as ever, Mr. Spock," he’d said, offering a melancholic smile as Spock stepped onto the transporter pad.

Spock had cataloged that smile—filed it away as one of his favorites.

An expression laced with such deep affection that, for a moment, he could almost believe Jim felt the same kind of emotions Spock harbored for him.

Almost.

The creature behaved like a neuron—single-celled, yet connected, operating independently while clearly part of a larger whole. A hive mind. Spock theorized it may have originated from the far reaches of the galaxy, its biological makeup unlike anything in their known classifications of life.

No matter what method they used—radiation, chemical agents, energy pulses—the organism refused to die. Isolated, it was immune. Detached from the hive, it persisted.

Now seated across from Jim in the ready room, with Dr. McCoy slouched beside them, Spock recited his findings, fighting to contain the tremors that rippled through his frame.

He was managing the pain, yes—but that did not mean he wasn’t feeling it. Every moment was laced with searing, unrelenting agony.

More than Vulcan discipline, the one thing that seemed to grant him any reprieve—any sliver of calm—was Jim. Jim’s presence, his warmth, the quiet cadence of his voice. The way his golden lashes framed those brown-green eyes, luminous even when shadowed by fatigue.

“Jim, we’ve tried everything. The damn thing won’t die,” McCoy said, rubbing his face with both hands, voice frayed with exhaustion.

The doctor had been awake for over twenty hours, but had waved off any suggestion Spock made that he rest.

“You’re the one who needs rest, goddammit. I don’t like my patients pretending they’re fine when they’re burning from the inside out.” McCoy had snapped earlier.

Spock had not brought it up again.

“I agree with the doctor, Captain,” Spock said now, voice composed despite the spasm he had to suppress mid-sentence. Only a slight twitch of his head betrayed the pain. “I request permission for myself and your nephew to return to the surface.”

“Request denied,” Jim said immediately, not looking up.

Spock hesitated. “Captain… I do not make this request lightly. But the only viable solution may be to destroy the humanoid hosts. And… I do not know how much longer I can control the pain.”

He said the last part quietly, his pride bending under the weight of truth.

“Request denied,” Jim repeated, more forcefully.

McCoy exhaled sharply. “Jim, I know how much you care about Spock. I know Peter is all you have left of your brother. But you need to be rational. There’s nothing more we can do!”

Jim slammed a hand onto the table and surged to his feet.

“I won’t accept that, Bones!” he shouted. “Look at the pattern—the previous colonies, the way these things spread. Study their behavior. We’ve got fourteen science labs on this ship. Use them!”

Without waiting for a response, Jim stormed out, a whirlwind of helpless fury in his wake.

McCoy turned to Spock, his look a mix of exasperation and reluctant pity.

“He has lost much in the past day, Doctor,” Spock said quietly. “Do not judge him too harshly.”

McCoy snorted. “Jesus. You’re just as emotionally compromised as he is, aren’t you?”

Spock raised a brow, opening his mouth to ask for clarification—but the doctor was already on his feet, heading for the door.

“I’ll be in Lab Three,” he muttered, “doing more useless testing. And do me a favor—don’t suggest I get some sleep, or I will restrain you again.”

***

More hours of testing came and went.

Still, the creature persisted.

As did the pain.

Spock could feel his mental resolve beginning to fracture. Slowly, steadily, the barriers he had built to contain the worst of the agony were wearing thin—eroded by the constant, blinding current of sensation threatening to overwhelm him again.

When the lab doors slid open with a quiet whoosh, well into Gamma shift, Spock was hunched at the science station, fingers digging into his knees as he breathed through a particularly savage wave of pain.

A warm hand settled gently on his shoulder.

He opened his eyes to find Jim standing beside him, eyes shadowed, unreadable—but unmistakably present.

“You doing alright?” Jim asked softly.

A gentle trickle of the human’s state of mind seeped through the contact— grief, deep and raw. Concern, sharp and focused. And beneath it all, a bone-deep exhaustion that clung to the captain like a second skin.

Spock turned his eyes to the buzzing specimen, still pulsing contentedly in its containment. Untouched. Unbothered. Unbeaten.

“I... will confess that the pain is becoming increasingly difficult to manage.”

Jim withdrew his hand, and Spock mourned the loss of contact almost instantly. Another shudder tore through him, and Jim pulled a chair closer, lowering himself beside Spock.

“Captain,” Spock said between shallow breaths. “Your assistance is unnecessary. You should rest.”

Jim gave him a tired smile. “I can’t rest knowing you’re suffering, Spock. And not just you—Peter, the Denevans... a million people, maybe more.”

He sighed, ragged and heavy, his gaze distant and fatigued.

“Tell me what you’ve got so far. Anything in the data from the other colonies that gives us a lead?”

Spock leaned back slightly, accepting that Jim could not be persuaded to leave. Not now.

“The only potential pattern I’ve found is that victims on multiple afflicted worlds piloted shuttlecrafts directly into their system’s star.”

Jim’s eyes widened, “Suicide by flying into a star?” He asked incredulously. “Seems a little dramatic.”

“Yes,” Spock said, tone measured. “It is—highly illogical behavior. My current theory is that there may be some correlation between the creature and solar radiation. However, none of my tests have yielded conclusive results.”

He looked bitterly toward the containment unit. The alien inside drifted lazily, seemingly impervious to every method they had tried—radiation, heat, gravity.

Nothing worked.

Jim rubbed his chin, frowning in thought.

Spock’s attention flicked toward him—and only then did he realize how close they were sitting. Their knees nearly touched beneath the table. He could feel the faint warmth radiating from Jim’s body, just shy of contact.

Just one inch more...

He forced his gaze back to the creature.

“…Have you tried light?” Jim asked suddenly.

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Light, Captain?”

Jim shrugged. “All the creatures we saw on the surface were under cover, the infected Denevans were indoors, and apparently others were busy throwing themselves into suns. Maybe it’s not radiation or heat. Maybe it’s just… light.”

The other eyebrow raised to join the first as Spock nodded an affirmative.

Spock’s other eyebrow rose to meet the first. He inclined his head.

“A logical assumption, Captain. There is a containment chamber in Lab One capable of sustaining an extreme light environment. While not equivalent to the sun, it will suffice for a controlled test.”

Jim’s face lit up. He grinned and clapped Spock on the back.

“That’s what I’m talking about, Mr. Spock!”

Snatching up the containment cylinder with renewed energy, Jim turned and practically sprinted from the lab.

Spock followed—steady, aching, but just a little lighter.

***

Jim shook McCoy awake from where the doctor had dozed off at his desk. Spock winced at the abruptness—clearly, sleep had finally overtaken the exhausted CMO, only for Jim to jolt him back to life with an animated explanation of their latest hypothesis.

McCoy groaned, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands as he sat up, muttering that he was getting too old for this “nonsense.”

But one strong cup of coffee later, the specimen had been secured in the testing room. As McCoy handed Jim and Spock a pair of protective goggles, he launched into the procedure.

“Alright. No surprise here—it’s going to be bright,” the doctor said, donning his own dark lenses. “Light concentration’s the equivalent of a thousand candles per square inch. If this doesn’t kill it...” He glanced at Spock.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

He placed a hand on the switch. “Three… two… one… clear!”

Even through the sealed door, the flood of light was blinding—painfully so despite the darkened lenses. Spock shut his eyes and raised an arm to shield his face, enduring the five seconds of brilliance until McCoy cut the power.

Jim was already at the door, wrenching it open and stepping into the room. Spock and McCoy followed, flanking him as they approached the containment cylinder.

The creature no longer moved or buzzed. In fact, it looked as though it had partially liquefied—its body collapsed into a translucent pool of veined gelatin at the base of the tube.

Jim’s eyes darted to Spock, then McCoy, an eager grin spreading across his face. “Looks like we found its weakness, eh, Bones?”

But McCoy didn’t return the smile. His frown only deepened.

“Concentrated light might be its weakness,” he said, “but we’ve got no idea how it’ll affect someone already infected. And we sure as hell can’t reproduce these conditions on a planetary scale.”

Jim’s grin faded slightly.

Spock stepped forward.

“The next phase of testing should be on an infected host, Doctor. And I am volunteering.”

They stepped out of the chamber doorway. McCoy turned on him, the frown turning into a full-on glare.

“Are you outta your Vulcan mind?! Do you know what that level of light will do to your optic nerves?”

Spock tilted his head. “Do you have a better suggestion?”

McCoy opened his mouth to snap a reply, but Jim stopped him with a hand to the shoulder.

“Bones… he’s right. We can’t test this on Peter. And Spock is volunteering.” He turned to Spock, jaw tight, voice low. “I’m not thrilled about this, obviously. But your damned logic can’t be questioned.”

He nodded toward the chamber. “Get in there.”

Spock inclined his head, swallowing down the pain as he handed the defeated specimen off to Chapel for testing, and eased into the reclined examination chair, now rigged with rows of high-intensity bulbs just above.

At the doorway, Jim gave him one last look—nervous, quiet, something almost like a prayer in his eyes.

“This better work,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

Spock simply nodded, the anticipation of fresh agony leaving him briefly speechless.

The door sealed.

He breathed, focusing on the cool press of leather against his back. The slight scratch of cotton uniform fabric rising and falling with each inhale.

In. Out. In. Out.

Then—light.

Blinding. Overwhelming.

He gasped, eyes squeezing shut.

The pain tore through him—shattering every mental barrier he had painstakingly erected over the past forty-eight hours. It invaded every nerve, flooded every synapse.

He was burning alive.

His blood froze in his veins.

He was dissolving in acid.

And then—nothing.

In. Out. In. Out.

Though he’d only endured the infection for two days, the absence of pain felt alien. The silence in his nerves was so complete, it was almost disorienting. Strange, how a sensation—once imprinted deeply enough—could linger in its absence.

The door hissed open.

“Did it work?” McCoy’s voice called.

Spock nodded. “Yes, Doctor. The pain is gone.”

He stood and stepped through the doorway—only to bump hard into the corner of a nearby desk.

He paused. Something was wrong.

His eyes were open.

And yet—nothing.

No light. No shadows. No outlines. No shapes. Only void.

“Oh,” he said calmly. “And it would appear I am completely blind.”

***

The worst part about the blindness wasn’t the darkness itself.

It was the helplessness.

He could no longer assist in the lab—could no longer analyze, test, hypothesize. He lay on a biobed while Nurse Chapel took fresh readings of his now-cured body. The alien tissue remained, still entwined around his nervous system, though inert. Harmless. Chapel theorized his body would eventually reject it naturally.

A fair trade, Spock decided.

Meanwhile, McCoy and the rest of the medical staff worked in the adjacent lab, analyzing the remains of the creature they’d finally managed to destroy. He could hear them—voices low and focused, instruments clicking, footsteps brisk—and it only deepened the ache of his uselessness.

Logically, he understood. There was nothing more he could do but offer data from his own body. Still… logic had its limits.

And Jim was nowhere to be found.

Since Spock’s announcement—his calm declaration that he was blind—Jim had simply… left. And without his sight, Spock had no sense of his captain’s reaction. No ability to read his expression, his posture, his silences.

He could not deny a flicker of resentment. Not quite anger—but something tight in his chest, something heavy and unresolved. It was irrational, and he knew it. Jim was the captain of a starship navigating a planetary crisis. He could not be expected to sit at Spock’s bedside and bear witness to the aftermath of his sacrifice.

But still...

All Jim had said was “Oh.” Quiet. Distant. Perhaps he'd exchanged a glance with McCoy—Spock wouldn’t know. All he had was the sound of retreating footsteps.

Then nothing.

He exhaled and closed his eyes—not that it made a difference. He forced himself to push the thought away. It was not important. More than anything, he was worried.

Jim had lost his brother. His sister-in-law. And he was still in the middle of trying to save an entire planet from infection. The burden on him must have been immeasurable.

Spock only wished...

He really wished he could have seen Jim’s face.

***

The soft beep of his door comm drew Spock’s attention to the entrance—out of habit, more than anything. His eyes no longer functioned, of course.

He’d been seated at his desk, reprogramming his computer’s interface through vocal commands to accommodate his new limitations.

“Come,” he said.

The door whooshed open. Soft footfalls followed—quiet, measured.

He knew, logically, that he would adjust to the blindness. Eventually. But for now, a flicker of irritation coursed beneath his skin—born from the simple fact that he could not identify the visitor by sight. Something that would have been effortless before.

When the silence stretched, the intruder offering no name or greeting, Spock’s voice sharpened.

“Who is it?”

A quiet intake of breath.

“Sorry,” a familiar voice replied at last.

Spock’s posture eased. No name was needed.

“Ah. Captain. I trust the satellite array was successful? The Denevans—and Peter—have been cured?”

He heard the soft, uncomfortable shifting of boots against the carpet.

“Yes,” Jim replied. “After Bones concluded the creatures were only sensitive to UV light, it wasn’t hard to calibrate the satellite network. We were able to saturate the planet.”

Silence settled between them. Uneasy. Fragile. Only the sound of Jim’s weight shifting back and forth filled the space.

Spock hesitated. Then, softly:

“Jim… will you come sit beside me?”

Jim stopped moving.

“It is difficult to fully comprehend the nuances of this conversation in my current state. I am still acclimating to my lack of sight. If you sit closer, I may better understand your emotional state through telepathic proximity.”

A pause. Then footsteps again—closer now.

Spock sensed the warmth before he heard the scrape of a chair being drawn up beside him, placed parallel to the desk. He turned, focusing on the heat of Jim’s presence, the scent of leather and wax, trying not to dwell on the ache of not being able to see him.

“Is this better?” Jim asked, his voice quiet.

“Yes, Captain. Thank you.”

Jim exhaled, slow and heavy. “Spock, I—I’m—” He broke off.

Spock felt began to feel Jim’s emotions trickling through the small gap between them.

Guilt. Frustration. Grief.

“Captain, how may I assist you?” he asked calmly.

The answer came not in words but in a sudden surge—a violent swell of emotion crashing against him like a wave.

“Assist?! Spock, you’ve done enough!” Jim’s voice rang out, louder than necessary. Spock winced, hypersensitive hearing flinching at the force of it.

He raised an eyebrow.

“Jim, I—”

“How many more times am I going to fail you, Spock?” Jim’s voice cracked. “You’ve saved my life more times than I can count—and don’t give me the exact number, please—and I should’ve seen that thing coming. I should’ve saved you this time. And now…”

He trailed off again, his breath catching mid-sentence.

Spock reached out. Slowly, deliberately. He stopped just short of touching Jim’s face, hovering in the space between them. The human’s violent emotions ebbed as soon as they’d come, replaced by a cautious intrigue.

“Jim… I do not wish to initiate a meld. I simply want to see you. May I?”

A pause.

Then:

“Okay.”

Spock reinforced his mental barriers—already growing stronger in the hours since his vision had been lost—before gently placing a hand on the side of Jim’s face.

Beneath his fingers, he felt the familiar scratch of neatly trimmed sideburns, the fine stubble along Jim’s cheek, which grew warmer as Spock’s hand drifted up along his jaw. Subtle ripples of emotion slipped through—embarrassment, mostly—but not the shallow kind born of awkwardness. This felt deeper. Personal.

“Is this uncomfortable for you?” Spock asked softly, fingertips brushing against Jim’s closed eyelid, lashes feather-light beneath his touch.

“It’s… a bit awkward, sure,” Jim admitted, voice low, “but not uncomfortable.”

Another wave of embarrassment. Sharper this time, tinged with regret.

“I just… you didn’t even need to be blinded. If we’d waited a little longer, just for the full test results, we would’ve realized the creature was sensitive to a wavelength of light outside the visible spectrum.”

Spock felt Jim’s brow tighten beneath his hand, the frown deepening.

“Jim, it was not your fault. Nor Dr. McCoy’s. I, too, was impatient. The pain—”

“I’m the captain. I should’ve known better.”

“In truth,” Spock said quietly, “I should have considered relieving you for emotional compromise. These past few days have not been kind to you.”

That silenced Jim.

Spock’s hand moved slowly across the bridge of his nose, then downward—pausing at the softness of Jim’s lips. His breath caught. There was a smile there, half-formed and unmistakable.

“I don’t know how you manage to say ‘you’re unfit for duty’ and make it sound like a compliment,” Jim murmured.

Spock pressed his lips together, brows creasing slightly. He debated whether to speak—whether to shatter the moment hanging delicately between them.

But his hand remained, light against Jim’s mouth. His heart pounded in his side.

And then, he spoke.

“Captain… with my present condition, I do not know if I can continue to serve as first officer aboard the Enterprise.”

Jim drew back sharply, leaving Spock’s hand hovering in empty space. The air between them thickened again, flooded with a fresh wave of anger and disbelief.

“You’ve been blind for five hours and you’re resigning?” Jim snapped. “We haven’t even tried to reverse this yet!”

Spock lowered the hand to his lap, resisting the urge to reach for Jim again—even though he knew what expression Jim wore now. He just wanted to see it.

“Even with our advanced technology, total retinal destruction is irreversible. My sight—”

“Why don’t you leave the medical pronouncements to Dr. McCoy, Mr. Spock?” Jim bit out. “I don’t accept your resignation.”

“Jim,” Spock said, a note of exasperation in his voice. “Please. In my current condition, I—I cannot…”

He trailed off, fighting to maintain his composure. Fighting not to break protocol. Fighting not to fold into Jim’s arms and whisper how terrified he was of a future that no longer included standing at his side.

“Can’t what?” Jim demanded. “Do your work? Spock, our systems can be fully voice-adapted. Hell, I’m pretty sure we already have non-sighted crew members on board!”

“No!” Spock snapped.

The silence after the outburst was immediate, broken only by the quiet click of Jim’s jaw snapping shut.

“No, Captain,” Spock repeated, voice calmer now, though no less strained. “I cannot protect you in my current state.”

Jim huffed angrily.

“Protect me?” He echoed. “I’m not some fair maiden, Spock. I’m the captain of the Enterprise. Besides—” he let out a bitter laugh “—it seems like you’re the one who needs protecting. From me. I’m the damn fool who keeps putting you in danger.”

Spock’s hand drifted unconsciously to the forming scar at his side—the mark left by the Andorian assassin. He bit down against the rising tide of anger.

Anger at Jim’s ignorance to the depth of Spock’s bond.

Anger at his own helplessness.

Anger at himself—for the irrational, illogical decision to rush into a light chamber. For allowing desperation to overtake reason and blinding himself in a moment of panic.

He drew in a shaky breath as the realization struck him like a slap: he was very close to losing control.

“This is not the appropriate time for this conversation,” he said tightly. “I am sorry, Jim. You have just lost your family. I do not wish to add to your burden.”

Jim scoffed—then, without warning, a warm hand closed around his wrist, shaking it roughly with emotion and desperation.

“You stubborn idiot,” Jim growled, voice frayed and hoarse. “Don’t you see? I can’t stop worrying about you!”

Spock’s eyes widened.

The emotional current flooding through Jim’s touch was overwhelming—grief, desperation, guilt, and… something else. Something unnamed, powerful, and burning white hot.

“I—I can’t…” Jim faltered, his voice breaking.

But it was Spock who couldn’t.

He couldn’t imagine a future where he no longer looked up from the chessboard to see Jim’s teasing smile as Spock declared “Check.”

Couldn’t fathom turning at his station and not seeing Jim’s strong, grounded profile in the captain’s chair.

Couldn’t accept a reality where he would no longer see the man he had spent years orbiting, defending, admiring—loving.

He was moving before he realized it, his free hand sliding up along Jim’s jawline once more.

Jim froze beneath the touch, mind gone blank with shock.

Spock leaned forward, his open, unseeing eyes searching for the face he could no longer glimpse—but still knew.

“Jim,” he whispered, voice trembling. “Ashayam. Do you really not understand?”

“What—” Jim started, but the rest of the question dissolved.

Swallowed by the kiss.

Gentle. Brief.

But perfect.

After a moment, Spock drew back. He could hear the quick, uneven rhythm of Jim’s breath, as if he’d just sprinted the length of the ship.

“I don’t—Spock! Goddammit!” Jim burst out. “My brother dies, you go blind, and now you decide to make a move?!”

Spock’s hand slipped away, hesitating in the space between them.

“I apologize—”

Jim caught his wrist before it could fall.

“No—wait. I’m not angry.” A beat. “Well, okay, I’m a little angry. Or confused. Maybe both.”

He let out a shaky breath. “I mean—why now? How long have you felt this way? Are you even attracted to males? After our trip to Ni’Var I’d assumed Vulcans were strictly heterosexual because of, you know, the whole biological imperative thing.”

Spock’s mouth quirked into a smirk he couldn’t quite suppress.

“Captain, I believe it is you who must answer a question first: are you romantically interested in me?”

A laugh bubbled from Jim’s throat, bright and stunned and alive. It warmed the air between them like sunrise.

“Take a guess.”

And then he tugged Spock forward by the hand—abrupt, decisive, joyful—and crushed their mouths together.

This time, the kiss was neither brief nor gentle.

It was hot. Heady. Messy in a way that made Spock’s breath catch and Jim’s laughter spill into the space between them as their hands mapped the territories they’d long imagined.

They scooted forward in their chairs, knees knocking, bodies drawn to each other like gravity. Their chests pressed close. Spock’s fingers threaded through Jim’s curls, trailing down the curve of his spine, mapping the musculature he’d cataloged but never touched.

Jim held him fast, one hand cupping Spock’s jaw, keeping their lips locked together, the other sliding down Spock’s side, wrapping around his lower back to pull him even closer.

It was electric.

When they finally parted, lips swollen and breaths uneven, Jim was no longer the only one gasping for air.

For a long moment, Spock’s mind was entirely, blessedly blank. Then he felt Jim’s head drop heavily against his shoulder.

“You can never make it easy, can you?” Jim murmured, his hand still resting at Spock’s side, thumb tracing slow, soothing circles over the fabric of his uniform.

Spock returned the gesture, his hand absently circling the large expanse of Jim’s upper back, relishing the feel of lungs expanding and contracting beneath his palm.

“I apologize, Jim. It has… been a long day.”

Jim let out a soft huff of laughter, warm against Spock’s neck.

“Your talent for understatement is as impressive as ever, Mr. Spock.”

They lapsed into a comfortable silence—soft and fragile, but not unwelcome—as they both worked to make sense of what had just occurred… and what it meant.

Eventually, Spock spoke again.

“To answer your questions, Captain: this happened now because I was simply too exhausted to continue suppressing my emotions. And as you are aware… Vulcan emotions are considerably stronger than human ones. I lacked the will to stop myself from acting on impulse.”

He paused, drawing in a slow breath.

“As for how long I have felt this way… I began to suspect after Ni’Var. But I believe the connection had been forming long before that.”

He considered Jim’s last question carefully.

In truth, Spock had never fully examined the nature of his sexual attraction toward Jim. It simply… was. And until the inquiry, he had never felt the need to explain it.

“Regarding Vulcan sexuality,” Spock said slowly, “it is true that most Vulcans engage in heterosexual bonds. However, I am aware of homosexual pairings, particularly when the individuals involved are already mentally or emotionally compatible. Given the cultural repression surrounding sex and bonding, I had not thought deeply about my own preferences.”

He hesitated, then added—quietly, but firmly:

“All I know is that I am…” He cleared his throat, the warmth of embarrassment rising up his neck. “Very attracted to you.”

Jim’s breath hitched, and he sat up abruptly, barking out a surprised laugh.

“Clearly.”

Spock raised an eyebrow, confused, before redirecting his mental attention downward—where, indeed, he was achingly hard beneath the thin material of his regulation slacks.

His cheeks flushed deeper. He opened his mouth—perhaps to explain himself, or to scold Jim for laughing, or maybe just to pull him in for another kiss—but Jim caught his hand instead.

Gently, deliberately, he guided it to rest on his inner thigh.

Spock stilled. The warmth. The tension. The invitation was unmistakable.

He slid his fingers up—and found the bulge of a rather prominent erection.

Spock blinked, startled. “Ah. I see.”

Jim laughed again, this time more sheepishly.

“Not just you, Spock,” Jim said, voice low with amusement. “Not by a long shot.”

Spock continued exploring, hand sliding up the length of Jim’s erection to the base. Jim inhaled sharply, his breath stuttering as his arousal pulsed in response—before he gently reached down and guided Spock’s hand away.

“Spock, there’s—erm, nothing I’d like more than to keep going,” he said, voice uneven, “but we’re both wrecked, and you… well, you did go blind a few hours ago. Maybe we should get some rest.”

Spock nodded, turning his face away—still a force of habit, even without sight. Then, more quietly:

“Will you… stay with me, Jim?”

There was a beat of silence, then Spock startled slightly as Jim’s hand slid gently along his jaw.

“Sorry,” Jim whispered, as if reading the reaction. “The blindness is going to take some getting used to. But yes, Spock. I’d love to stay.”

Spock lifted his own hand to cover Jim’s, pressing it softly against his cheek. A quiet smile curved his lips, and he leaned forward for one more kiss—slow, unhurried, full of promise.

Then, together, they made their way to Spock’s bed.

And for the first time in days, Spock allowed himself to rest.

Chapter Text

Spock woke to an unfamiliar scent—a blend of waxy leather and the faint tang of sweat. Disoriented, he tried to catalog his surroundings.

The soft hum of recycled air. The familiar give of his mattress beneath his back. And… another presence. Something heavy draped across his chest. A second set of lungs breathing the air of his quarters.

Jim.

The realization struck just as memories from the past day surged back into his mind.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d slept—alarming, considering his internal clock was typically accurate to the second. But after two days of unrelenting agony and mental strain, it seemed his mind had finally—mercifully—shut down the moment he closed his eyes.

At least, he hoped they’d only slept through the night.

Cautiously, he began to open his eyes, and instead of black nothingness the red velvet curtains of his quarters greeted him.

Blurry at the edges. The colors duller than he remembered. But unmistakably there.

He could see.

He did not know how or why. But he could see.

With no one to witness it, Spock allowed the smile tugging at his lips to fully form. Small, involuntary, and utterly uncontainable.

He turned his head—and his heart stuttered.

There was Jim.

Asleep in Spock’s bed. Curled against him in the same way I-Chaya had slept beside him in childhood—warm and unbothered, as if he belonged there. His breath ghosted softly over Spock’s shoulder and neck. One arm slung lazily across Spock’s chest. One leg hooked possessively between his own, anchoring them together.

Try as he might to control it, Spock felt a flare of arousal—sharp and undeniable.

This might well be the most physical contact he had experienced at once. And it was… exquisite.

Jim’s warmth. His scent. The rhythmic sound of his breath so close to Spock’s sensitive Vulcan ears...

He ought to wake him. They should determine the time. Assess the situation—judging by the lighting in his cabin they were well into the day cycle.

But all Spock could think about was how much he wanted to roll over and explore every inch of Jim’s extraordinary body.

His newly returned vision drank in every millimeter of Jim’s face, now so close, so unguarded.

His lashes were long for a male—fine and pale like the husks of dried wheat. Faint freckles, not noticed previously, spanned the bridge of his nose and cheeks, a likely remnant of a childhood spent outdoors, now softened by years in space.

The beginnings of wrinkles around Jim’s eyes and forehead were beautiful, and Spock felt a bone deep excitement at the prospect of watching them deepen over the coming years.

How had he not seen this before?

How had he ignored what he felt for so long?

Now that he knew, it seemed absurd—inconceivable—that he hadn’t realized he was already lost after their very first chess match. Or perhaps the moment Jim saved the ship from certain doom using nothing but a well-crafted bluff.

There were too many moments to name that could have marked the beginning. But in the end, the timing was irrelevant.

What mattered was that Jim was here.

And that, at least to some degree, Jim felt the same.

That was enough.

Spock lifted his free hand and ran his fingers gently through Jim’s hair, savoring the texture. Then leaned down and pressed a kiss to his golden crown.

Jim hummed, soft and content, pressing his face deeper into Spock’s shoulder. Sleep-laced thoughts trickled across the thin thread of their mental contact.

—smells good—more sleep—kinda turned on—

The last thought was enough to fully harden Spock beneath the covers.

Jim had a singular talent for unsettling him—no matter how tightly he held the reins of his control.

Then Jim shifted, hooking his entire body flush against the Vulcan. His thigh slid between Spock’s, his groin nudging insistently against Spock’s hip. The pressure of Jim’s thickening length against him sent a spike of heat through Spock’s core.

Control yourself. This is not the time.

He tried. He truly did.

But then Jim’s hips rolled—once. Twice. Slow and aimless, still half-asleep, but unmistakably wanting. While Spock wore a soft pair of sleep pants, Jim was dressed only in a thin T-shirt and briefs. The scant fabric separating Jim’s erection from Spock’s body was maddening—barely a barrier at all.

Spock inhaled sharply, his heart pounding his ribcage hard enough to bruise. This was—too much. Too tempting. If he didn’t stop this now, he would lose every last shred of restraint he possessed.

“Jim,” he croaked, voice hoarse with sleep—and desire.

The human only hummed again, his hips nudging once more against Spock’s side. Then, in a sleep-rough voice that very nearly unraveled Spock’s entire sense of being:

“Your voice is really sexy in the morning.”

Spock’s mind went entirely blank.

What was the protocol for this?

Did he want to attempt sexual contact now?

His body cried out yes—his erection throbbed insistently in time with his heartbeat—but the rest of him was… adrift.

The intensity. The depth of emotion. The echo of Jim’s want—raw and unshielded, pressing into him both physically and telepathically.

It was too much.

Wasn’t it?

Would it always be too much?

Finally, Spock arrived at the most logical solution: experimentation.

He was a scientist, after all. And no theory could be confirmed without adequate testing.

In one swift motion, he rolled on top of Jim, pressing their arousals together with a surge of hot, almost overwhelming pressure before bracing his weight on his knees. His hands framed Jim’s face as he hovered above, watching the human’s eyes blink wide in surprise.

“Why, good morning, Mr. Spock,” Jim said, grinning up at him. “How can I help you today?”

Spock faltered. His mouth opened, then closed again.

This type of intimacy was wholly new territory, and suddenly he wasn't sure what was acceptable to voice, and what he should hold back.

Sensing his hesitancy Jim’s hand slipped up between them, fingers curling gently around the back of Spock’s neck. His voice carried a gentle lilt that melted into Spock’s consciousness like butter.

“Hey. You don’t have to rush into anything. I’m perfectly happy just waking up next to you.”

Spock’s eyes fell closed briefly, grounding himself in the warmth of Jim’s palm, the sureness of his emotions.

“I will admit… I feel rather inadequately prepared for contact of this nature. Physically I am aroused—but mentally, I am… uncertain.”

Jim nodded, no hesitation, no judgment.

“Okay. Well, honestly I’m pretty much at your disposal—which sounds a little desperate,” he added with a sheepish chuckle, “but I’ve wanted this for a long time. I can wait, Spock. As long as you need.”

Then he bit his lip—and Spock’s control cracked a little at the edges.

“Although,” Jim continued, cheeks flushed, “if you did want to just… go for it right now, I wouldn’t exactly object.”

He laughed again, nervous this time, as if realizing how close he stood to emotional exposure.

“Ashayam,” Spock whispered, leaning down and pressing a kiss to Jim’s forehead, then his eyes, then each cheek, reverent and unhurried.

“You are so… so incredibly beautiful.”

Jim’s smile faltered. Not from rejection, but from some deeper shift in attention. His gaze sharpened, flicking over Spock’s face with sudden intensity.

Then he frowned.

“You can see, can’t you?”

A pause.

“Yes, Jim.”

Another beat of silence, then Jim groaned and shoved him—shoved him—onto his side and sat up with dramatic exasperation.

“Damn it, Spock! You couldn’t have led with that?!”

Spock blinked. “I did not believe the information was pertinent at the moment.”

Jim let out a strangled noise halfway between a laugh and a growl, scrubbing a hand down his face. Then, suddenly, he collapsed against Spock again, wrapping him in a tight hug and pressing a kiss to the pointed tip of his ear.

“You are the most infuriating person I’ve ever had the honor of sharing a bed with, you know that?”

Spock, still processing the whiplash of emotional states, merely returned the embrace, reassured by Jim’s affection more than his words.

Then Jim pulled back, eyes sparkling with excitement. “Come on, we’ve got to go see Bones ASAP.”

The idea of more medical examination—particularly by Dr. McCoy—was hardly appealing. But the moment for intimacy, it seemed, had passed.

Suppressing a quiet pang of disappointment, Spock discreetly adjusted the uncomfortable bulge in his sleepwear and rose to prepare for the day—with Jim at his side.

***

“Well,” McCoy began, straightening from where he’d been examining Spock’s eyes for the past 12.4 minutes, “it would seem your sight has returned.”

“Yes, Doctor. As always, your medical insight is invaluable,” Spock replied dryly.

McCoy shot him a withering look.

“Wish you’d gone mute instead of blind,” he muttered, turning to open a channel to the bridge, where Jim had resumed his normal duties.

They had, unfortunately, slept through half of Alpha shift—a fact Spock found deeply embarrassing. However, given the chaos of the past few days, the crew appeared to understand the senior staff’s need for rest.

“McCoy to bridge.”

“Go ahead, Bones,” came Jim’s voice, bright and crackling through the comm.

“Seems Mr. Spock here’s got a second eyelid—a part of Vulcan anatomy neither of us thought he had, considering his eyes are physiologically human. It closed during the procedure, blocked the worst of the radiation. That, plus a healing trance he must’ve slipped into last night, means his vision’s mostly back to normal. Might not ever be perfect again, but by human standards? Practically twenty-twenty.”

“Excellent! Cleared for duty then? I’d appreciate it if he could take over for a bit—I want to check in on Peter.”

McCoy cast Spock a sideways look, then sighed.

“Yeah, yeah, he’s annoyingly good at bouncing back, as per usual. So, get your ass down here.”

He turned back to Spock and jerked his head toward the door.

“Well? Go on then.”

Spock rose smoothly, adjusting his uniform and folding his hands neatly behind his back. But just as he reached the threshold, McCoy spoke again—quieter this time.

“Might’ve been one of the dumber things you’ve done—but I’m glad you’re okay, Spock. Now stay that way. I can’t deal with Jim’s worryin’, ya hear?”

Spock paused, turning to meet the doctor’s gaze. He gave a nod.

“Yes, Doctor. I hear.”

***

Jim found himself in a strange mental space as he made his way to see his nephew.

On one hand, he was still very much grieving the loss of Sam and Aurelan—and if he was being honest, the full weight of their deaths hadn’t even hit him yet.

But on the other hand, he was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. Feeling lighter than air because the man he’d been quietly, stubbornly obsessed with for years had just confessed to him. Out of the blue.

The guilt of feeling happy only days after losing his brother and sister-in-law sat heavy and sour in his gut. But even so—he wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Okay—calling his mental state strange was a massive understatement.

He passed Spock in the corridor on the way to McCoy’s office and was immediately struck by a completely inappropriate urge to smack the Vulcan’s perfect ass.

Instead, he settled for a friendly clap on the shoulder and a too-casual: “Good morning, Mr. Spock.”

Totally natural. Just two senior officers greeting each other. Perfectly professional.

At least, that was what he hoped. He wasn’t about to give the pre-existing rumors any more oxygen than they already had.

When he finally stepped into Sickbay, he forced down the ridiculous grin still pulling at the corners of his mouth and replaced it with something gentler. Warmer. Fatherly.

Peter was awake now, sitting upright and watching something on a PADD. His eyes—Sam’s eyes—were red and swollen from crying.

Jim hadn’t really had the chance to sit with him the day before. Not properly. He’d been too shell-shocked, too exhausted after waking and learning about his parent’s fate. But now, with Peter rested and the news having had some time to settle in, Jim crossed to the bedside and sat down slowly beside him.

He offered his nephew a quiet, steady smile.

“How’re you holding up, kid?”

Peter shrugged, eyes still glued to the PADD in his lap.

Jim cursed himself inwardly. He should have thought this through—had a plan, something more substantial to say. But how did you prepare for a conversation like this? There wasn’t a script for helping a child grieve both parents at once.

He tried again.

“Dr. McCoy and Nurse Chapel treating you okay?”

Peter gave a small nod. “Gave me lots of ice cream.”

“That’s good.”

Silence.

Peter kept staring at the screen. Jim sat beside him, feeling helpless.

What could he say? Ask Peter what he wanted? What his plans were? The kid was ten.

Ten years old. And now… an orphan. The word echoed hollow in Jim’s mind.

And Sam was gone.

The grief hit him suddenly, sharp and hot, a lump catching in his throat. His eyes stung.

Get it together, he ordered himself. He couldn’t break—not here. Not in front of Peter. He took a slow, steadying breath and reached out, placing a hand gently on his nephew’s wrist.

“If I can convince the doctor to let you up,” he said softly, “you wanna see the ship’s botanical garden?”

Finally, Peter looked up. His eyes—so much like Sam’s—were still dull with sorrow, but something flickered behind them.

A spark of interest.

He nodded.

***

Bones hadn’t exactly been amenable to the idea of his young patient walking around so soon after being comatose from extreme pain, but considering the boy’s mental state, he begrudgingly allowed it. Not without warning, though.

“If he so much as sneezes too hard, or you’ve taken him anywhere besides the gardens, I’ll reset your next broken bone manually,” McCoy had grumbled.

Jim had nodded with a sly smile and gently led his nephew out of Sickbay.

“I’m trying to remember—but I don’t think you’ve ever been on the Enterprise, have you, Peter?” he asked casually as they strolled the corridor.

“No. ‘S a lot of people,” Peter replied, shuffling closer to Jim as they passed crew members going about their routines.

“Yes, a crew of over four hundred, actually. It’s a big ship.”

Jim caught the wide-eyed wonder on Peter’s face and smiled. In that moment, the boy looked so much like Sam had at that age, it knocked the wind out of him.

They stepped into the turbolift and Jim requested Deck 18.

“You mean you’re the boss of all these people?” Peter asked, awe creeping into his voice.

Jim chuckled. “I suppose so. Though I’ve got a lot of help. Being a captain’s hard work.”

“You like it, though, right?”

The lift doors opened with a soft hiss, and Jim led Peter down the corridor to a simple door on the right.

“I love it. Exploring’s always been a passion of mine.”

As the doors to the botanical garden opened, Peter inhaled sharply—before exploding with “Wow”s.

The room was expansive, especially for starship where space was a precious commodity, stretching over 250 square feet, with a conical ceiling that soared nearly 30 feet high. The air inside was different—fresh and alive. Smells of rich soil and vegetation cut through the stale tang of recycled atmosphere like a breath of an alien world.

Peter darted inside without hesitation, running toward the massive central planter—a ring of trees and foliage framed by a circular path, flanked on all sides by vibrant beds of flora from across the Alpha and Beta Quadrants.

Jim smiled as he watched his nephew move from flower to shrub to tree, pointing, naming, cataloging—curiosity blooming even in the face of grief. The kid reminded him so much of himself it was unsettling. A curious mind that couldn’t be dimmed.

He also had a startling knowledge about plant-life. Though, considering Sam had been a biologist, and Aurelan a botanist, that shouldn’t have been surprising.

“Oh, oh! This must be a desert planter, right Uncle Jim?” Peter called, bouncing in front of a cluster of succulents.

“That’s a Vulcan Karanji cactus,” Peter said proudly, then pointed again, “Ooh! And that’s a Cardassian Caroci flower!”

Jim chuckled. “Yep. Our science division works hard to maintain the garden’s diversity—it’s vital for experimentation and morale.”

Peter beamed up at him, then ran ahead—only to stop abruptly.

“Wooooah.”

He’d found the viewport.

It stretched floor to ceiling—the largest on the ship. Through it, the stars wheeled silently past, an endless spray of light in a sea of black.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” Jim asked, coming to stand behind him and wrapping a comforting arm around his shoulders.

They were silent for a moment as they gazed into the vast emptiness of the cosmos, before Jim suddenly heard a quiet hic and felt a shudder of Peter’s small shoulders beneath his touch.

Looking down he saw tears quietly streaming down his nephew’s face.

“Oh, Peter…”

Jim dropped to his knees, pulling the boy into his arms as he began to sob in earnest. Peter clutched at his uniform, face pressed into Jim’s shoulder, shaking with grief.

He pet the youth’s ginger hair as Peter gripped the back of his shirt so tightly Jim didn’t know if he could extricate himself even if he wanted to.

He took a deep breath, pushing down his own tears that threatened to overflow.

“I’m so sorry, Peter,” he murmured, voice thick.

“Not fair!” The youth wailed into Jim’s shoulder.

Jim bit the inside of his cheek hard.

“I know. I know it’s not fair.”

They stayed like that for some minutes. Jim watched the stars whirl overhead, the endless churn of blackest space around this tiny metal box, as Peter cried himself into eventual silence.

Was Sam out there, watching? Jim never really thought much of what came after death, but he hoped his brother could see just how much he was missed. How much he’d been loved.

Finally, Peter pulled away, muttering an apology at the stain of tears now punctuating the shoulder of Jim’s uniform.

“It’s okay,” Jim said softly, brushing the tears from Peter’s freckled cheeks.

Then a thought came to him, and he made a show of glancing around the garden, as if looking for hidden spies, before turning back to Peter with a mischievous grin:

“Wanna see the bridge?”

***

Jim decided it might’ve been his best idea all day—even if it earned him a thorough lashing from Bones upon returning Peter to Sickbay.

“You goddamn fool, what did I say?!” McCoy bellowed the moment Jim stepped through the doors. “You should know by now a CMO has eyes and ears everywhere.”

Peter looked nervously between them, wide-eyed at the confrontation, but Jim only laughed and clapped McCoy on the shoulder.

“Then you should also know better than to ever trust me, Bones.”

McCoy grumbled something about no one ever listening to him as he led Peter back to the biobed and Jim slipped out with a wink and a thumbs up aimed at his nephew, who managed a small smile in return.

Peter had loved the bridge.

He visited every station, soaking up information like a sponge, each crew member offering patient, thorough explanations. But it was Spock who’d truly captured his attention—speaking in meticulous, technically dense monologues about each sensor, computer, and console.

Jim had watched with something like awe—and something dangerously close to love—the feeling thick like his chest cavity had been stuffed with cotton. Spock, ever the scientist, had explained the equipment with excruciating precision, and Peter had hung on every word, eyes wide, brow furrowed with concentration.

Jim had placed a hand on Spock’s shoulder at some point, standing behind the two most important people in his life, and something about the image had warmed him from the inside out.

He’d even let himself wonder—for just a second—if Spock would ever want children.

Then, with a sharp jolt of embarrassment, he remembered: Spock could probably hear that thought. Even through his uniform.

Jim had quickly snatched his hand away and ushered Peter over to the captain’s chair, giving him a proud little speech about command and responsibility. He didn’t look back at Spock again until they were safely back in the turbolift.

Only then did he steal a glance—and caught the faintest, poorly concealed smile tugging at Spock’s lips as he studied his console.

Who would’ve thought a Vulcan could be just as sappy as me? Jim had thought with a snort.

With Peter safely returned to Sickbay, and seeming to be doing better than expected given the circumstances, Jim finally made the call he’d been dreading. He contacted Aurelan’s sister—Peter’s godmother.

She’d already received word of her sister’s passing, so when Jim reached out, she understood immediately why he was calling. She didn’t hesitate for a moment in accepting guardianship.

Jim knew Peter would be in good hands. His aunt was not only a mother herself but also a psychologist. Better yet, she lived on Earth—which meant Jim could visit more frequently than he could’ve if Peter had stayed on Deneva.

When the call ended, Jim sat in silence for a moment, staring at nothing.

He understood loneliness. It came with the captain’s chair, with the five-year mission, with the kind of ambition that took you far from home. He’d always been independent—Tarsus had made sure of that.

But still, the knowledge that his family had just been cut in half left a wound he didn’t quite know how to mend.

Even with everything he’d worked for—with the Enterprise, with the stars within reach—true happiness always seemed to hover just out of reach.

He sighed, shaking the thought away. Maybe Spock would never be able to feel the depth of connection Jim felt for him. But the Vulcan was in his life, in some capacity. And for now, that was enough.

He held on to that thought like a buoy in a deep and endless sea as he left his quarters and headed for the bridge.

Chapter Text

With Jim’s nephew left with his aunt on Earth, the Enterprise returned to its five-year mission.

Over the next month, Spock observed that while Jim continued to perform within expected efficiency parameters as captain, he remained deeply affected by recent events. During their chess matches, he would often drift into silence, staring off into the void, his smile fading faster than it formed. One particularly bleak moment came during a sparring match, when Jim made an offhanded comment about finally understanding Sam’s frustration—how he could never beat his younger brother at wrestling, no matter how hard he tried.

Spock wasn’t entirely sure what Jim needed from him—and Jim likely didn’t know either.

The way humans could be so deeply emotional yet struggle to understand or process those same emotions remained one of their most confusing contradictions to Spock (though he, too, had experienced that very paradox on numerous occasions). So instead of seeking answers, he made a silent vow to simply remain at Jim’s side—to observe, and to step in whenever he sensed he was needed.

Of course, Spock already did this in his duties aboard the Enterprise, so the most notable change in his routine was that he now slept beside Jim most evenings—an arrangement he admitted was not solely for the captain’s benefit.

Spock loved falling into meditation, or even full sleep, to the sound of Jim’s soft breathing. The comforting weight of the man’s body within reach—sometimes curled up beside him, other times nestled in his arms—brought a peace he had never thought to desire.

There was also the added convenience of already sharing a refresher with the captain—no need for any awkward “walk of shame” in the mornings, as Jim had once put it with a sly grin. And in any case, neither of them wanted the relationship to become public knowledge just yet—if ever—at least not aboard the ship.

While the Federation did not explicitly forbid relationships among crew, such arrangements were certainly not encouraged—especially between senior officers.

Still, as the weeks passed, Spock found himself beginning to understand more and more why humans sought intimacy so readily.

It was… indescribably satisfying to have another’s presence woven into the private rhythms of his life. To know he was appreciated. Valued. Desired—for all that he was, and all that he was not.

The physical intimacy, however, was still a complex matter.

Spock had grown quite comfortable with human kissing, and had even introduced Jim to the Vulcan equivalent—through their fingertips.

That had been an illuminating evening.

They were in Jim’s quarters, lying quietly side by side on his bed, each absorbed in their own world—Jim with one of his rare paper-bound tomes, and Spock reviewing black hole analyses on his PADD.

The captain was reading A Tale of Two Cities, the same copy Spock had given him years ago. Its spine was worn, its pages dog-eared—a detail Spock noticed with quiet fondness.

He happened to glance over just as Jim raised a finger to his lips and… licked it, before turning the page. The sight sent a jolt of arousal straight through him, and Spock’s mouth parted slightly, eyes widening.

Sensing he was being watched, Jim looked over with a curious tilt of his head and a hum of inquiry.

“Ah—apologies, Jim,” Spock said, struggling to compose himself. “I was… not expecting the gesture.”

Jim frowned in confusion before breaking into an innocent smile.

“Oh! Yeah, quirk of reading physical books—sometimes the pages stick together. Moisture helps separate them.”

“I see…”

Jim kept watching him, now intrigued.

“It is simply that… Vulcan hands are very sensitive,” Spock explained, voice lower than before. “They are considered erogenous zones.”

That earned Spock Jim’s full attention. The captain set the book in his lap and grinned, eyes glinting with curiosity and something more. Emboldened by the warmth pooling in his stomach, Spock continued.

“Are you aware of the Vulcan practice of finger-touching?”

Jim shook his head, still smiling expectantly.

“It could be considered the Vulcan equivalent of a kiss. The contact is both mentally and physically stimulating.”

“Would you like to try it?” Jim asked, his voice a slow, honeyed invitation.

In response, Spock extended his index and middle fingers. Jim mirrored the gesture, slowly reaching until their fingertips were a breath apart.

A glance at Jim revealed a flicker of nervous anticipation. Then—contact.

Jim inhaled sharply, as if he'd touched a live wire. Through the touch, emotions and thoughts flowed freely, and Spock immediately perceived the anxiety behind Jim’s eyes—concern about his inexperience with telepathy.

“You have nothing to worry about, Jim,” Spock said gently. “Given that I am the less experienced party when it comes to romance, I would be quite hypocritical to judge you.”

Tentative relief rippled through the link, and Jim began gently massaging the pads of Spock’s fingers, drawing a gasp from them both.

“That’s such a strange feeling,” Jim murmured. “I think I can feel your arousal… Is this what happens with others? The transference, I mean?”

Spock tried to focus on the words, but it became increasingly difficult as Jim’s fingers began trailing delicately down the length of his own.

“It is not quite so intense,” he managed. “Vulcans have strong mental barriers to block out unwanted thoughts. But yes… it is similar.”

Jim continued his exploration with reverent curiosity, both of them growing visibly aroused, until the evening devolved into a tangled, breathless tangle of both human and Vulcan kisses and uncomfortably persistent erections.

Spock had felt the echo of Jim’s disappointment when he pulled away again. But the captain only kissed his forehead with gentle care and smiled.

Spock, on the other hand, felt only frustration.

Why did he keep holding back, even when he wanted so desperately to act?

That question still lingered in his mind as the Enterprise arrived at Sigma Iotia II a few days later.

The Federation had received a belated communique from the Horizon, a vessel lost more than a century ago. Due to its primitive radio systems, the message had taken a decades to reach them. According to the transmission, the Horizon had made contact with the Iotians during the planet’s early industrial era—long before the Prime Directive had been enacted.

Now, the Enterprise had been dispatched to assess just how deeply that contact had influenced the native culture—particularly given the Iotians’ high intelligence and noted tendency toward mimicry.

What they found was… unexpected.

Upon beaming directly into the office of one Bela Oxmyx—who had introduced himself over subspace as The Boss—Spock, Jim, and McCoy were immediately met with the barrels of antique Terran firearms.

Their wielders were dressed in odd but clearly coordinated fashion: pinstripe suits, leather shoes, fedoras. As Spock took in the office decor, he noted its striking resemblance to early 20th-century Earth. The room was richly paneled in dark wood, furnished with leather couches and heavy oak doors. At its center sat a curious green-felted table with small painted balls and wooden cues.

“Okay, you three—let’s see you petrify,” said one of the armed men in a sharp brown suit.

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Sir, would you mind clarifying that statement?”

“I said,” the man replied, accent thick and stylized, “put ya hands ov’a your head—or ya ain’t gonna have a head to do it to. Now, empty ya pockets. Slowly.”

Spock glanced to Jim, who looked to McCoy, then back again with a resigned sigh. They began producing their equipment—phasers, communicators—setting them down in compliance.

Once disarmed, an older Iotian rose from behind the ornate desk and sauntered toward them, a toothpick lodged between his teeth and a smug grin on his face. He wore an even sharper suit than the others.

“Mr. Oxmyx, I presume?” Jim asked.

“That’s me, pal.” Oxmyx picked up one of the wooden sticks leveled it parallel to the table and, with a confident crack, sent the balls scattering. “Pick up a cue, Captain. And put the chopper down, Kalo—these guys are our guests!”

The gunman lowered his weapon. Jim warily took one of the cues, eyeing it like it might explode.

“You called yourself a ‘Boss’ when we spoke,” Jim said, carefully. “Boss of what, exactly?”

“My territory, a’course,” Oxmyx replied, as if the answer were obvious. “Biggest on the planet. Trouble is, some punk’s always lookin’ to cut in. You know how it is, Captain.”

“You’re the government, then?” McCoy asked, clearly unconvinced.

“What government?” Oxmyx barked a laugh, lining up another shot on the table. “I got the territory—I run it. That’s all.”

Spock stepped toward a wide window, observing the street beyond. The resemblance to Earth’s early 20^th century was uncanny: flapper dresses, antique cars, and civilians roaming the sidewalks, all curiously armed he noted. And then, inside the office, something caught his eye—a display case set prominently near the desk.

There, resting upright on a polished stand, was a book: Chicago Mobs of the Twenties.

“Captain,” Spock called, gesturing for Jim and McCoy. “I believe we’ve found the source of the cultural contamination. Published in 1992. Fascinating. It seems the Iotians modeled their society entirely on this.”

“Jeez,” McCoy muttered. “Horizon must’ve left it. You said they were imitative, but this—”

“Hey,” Oxmyx cut in, clearly irritated. “That’s enough about the Book. I didn’t bring you here to play librarian—I need your help.”

He stepped closer to Jim and placed a hand on his shoulder, guiding him back toward the desk.

Spock’s jaw tensed. His hands clasped tighter behind his back at the unsolicited touch.

“You supply me with some of them fancy heaters you brought,” Oxmyx said smoothly, “and I’ll tell ya whatever you wanna know. Just enough to knock off the punks threatenin’ my turf—then you’ll only have to deal with me. How ’bout it, huh?”

Jim’s shoulders sagged. His posture slackened under the weight of exasperation.

“So let me get this straight,” he said, voice taut. “You want us to arm you, so you can wage a turf war against your rivals? Listen, my orders are—”

“I don’t care about your orders,” Oxmyx cut in sharply, the grin gone from his face. He snapped his fingers.

In an instant, the guns were up again—cold metal aimed squarely at the landing party.

“You’ve got two hours to give me what I want,” he said, jabbing a ringed finger square into Jim’s chest. “And I’ll warn you, Captain—I usually get what I want.”

Before anyone could respond, the landing party was roughly guided out of the office at gunpoint.

***

They were herded into a vehicle and subsequently driven to a warehouse on the other side of the city. Its interior was decorated with what Spock could only describe as a comically stylized homage to 1920s mobster culture. Wooden barrels marked with crude black Xs littered the dusty floor, alongside old pinball machines, a looming furnace, and piles of ancient-looking crates.

Their escorts shoved them inside and—evidently confident they weren’t going anywhere—pulled up a few chairs and started a casual card game.

The landing party settled on some nearby crates, doing their best to make themselves comfortable.

“Amazin’ that one book on the gangs of Chicago did all this’.” McCoy murmured, glancing around as they huddled together.

Spock noted, with mild interest, that Jim had chosen to sit just slightly closer to him—shoulder nearly brushing his own. A strange, quiet pride settled in his chest.

“Indeed. Evidently, they seized on that one book as the blueprint for an entire society.”

Jim rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Yes… in old Chicago conventional government almost broke down. The gangs nearly took over.”

“Your Earth history is as violent as ever,” Spock observed dryly.

“Says the man who strangled me to ‘death’ a few months ago,” Jim shot back with a smirk.

Spock did not share the humor.

“Captain, you know those circumstances were vastly different and not comparable.”

Before Jim could retort, McCoy cut in. “Yeah, well—this Oxmyx fella seems like the worst of the bunch.”

“True, yet his goal is, essentially, the correct one.” Spock replied. “If the Iotians are not united under a proper governmental body the society will degenerate into total anarchy.”

Jim suddenly stood.

“Well, it would seem that the Horizon’s influence—and by association—the Federation, is responsible for this mess. Clearly, we have a moral obligation to address this. Fortunately…” His expression shifted into a devilish grin. “I have an idea.”

He sauntered toward the gangsters at the card table, leaving Spock and McCoy to exchange a long, exasperated look.

“Here we go again,” McCoy muttered as they stood to follow.

Jim approached the table with disarming charm—voice smooth, posture relaxed, the very picture of harmless confidence, even with the gangster’s guns already trained on him. It sent an odd shiver down Spock’s spine.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Jim began. “This game? This is child’s play.”

“Who’s askin’ ya?” one of the mobsters growled, his pistol practically brushing Jim’s jaw.

Jim played nonchalant.

“Listen, on Beta Antares IV, they play a real game. Of course, it’s probably a little beyond you—requires intelligence.”

McCoy’s eyes went wide, he looked to Spock who rose his eyebrow in confusion.

The mobster bristled, offended.

“Anything you can play, I can play better. Show us this fancy game.”

He slapped his gun on the table and gathered up the cards while another gangster offered his chair to Jim.

Spock stepped closer, murmuring: “Captain, I am familiar with the culture on Beta Antares IV. I am not aware of any such game—”

“Spock, Spock...” Jim quickly cut him off in a hushed voice, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Ah. A bluff, Spock realized, as Jim seamlessly slid back into his confident performance.

Then, sitting at the table, Jim launched into the most convoluted, nonsensical card game Spock had ever heard. At one point, the rules changed depending on whether it was Tuesday or nighttime. A glance at McCoy confirmed it was not an obscure Terran pastime—the doctor looked like he was on the verge of a coronary from suppressing laughter.

The Iotians stared with laser focus, trying to follow Jim’s deliberately chaotic explanation.

“—and what are the odds of drawing a royal fizzbin, Spock?” Jim asked, eyes sparkling with mischief.

Spock tilted his head at the absurdity of the question

“I’ve never computed them, Captain.”

“Well, they’re astronomical,” Jim declared, waving his hands theatrically. As he did so, he “accidentally” dropped a card from his hand.

When one of the gangsters bent to retrieve it, Jim shot Spock and McCoy a sharp look and suddenly flipped the table, sending it crashing into the gangsters. In the same instant, Spock darted forward and delivered a precise nerve pinch to the nearest Iotian. McCoy landed a solid punch to another, and Jim quickly disarmed a third with a blow to the jaw.

The warehouse fell into silence. The Iotians lay unconscious on the floor—clearly more skilled in gunplay than trained for hand-to-hand combat.

McCoy groaned as Jim retrieved one of the Tommy guns, grinning like a child with a new toy.

“That was your plan?! What was the point of playing that stupid game if you were just gonna deck ’em?”

Jim only shrugged.

“Clearly, Doctor, you don’t know the rules of fizzbin.” He winked.

McCoy rolled his eyes.

“How the hell you don’t get us killed every other week is beyond me.” He grumbled. “Now, what’s the plan? Did ya even have one beyond knockin’ out a couple thugs?”

Jim clapped his hand to his chest in mock offense.

“Bones! I always have a plan,” He said dramatically. Then he tossed McCoy one of their confiscated communicators he’d just retrieved from a fallen gangster, pocketing the other as he began to undress him.

“Jim, what the hell—” McCoy began to ask, but Jim waved him off.

“Go back to the ship. Fill them in on what’s happening. Mr. Spock and I have a few... conversations to conduct—this time in a language these mobsters can understand.”

McCoy sighed the sigh of a man resigned to chaos.

“I ain’t responsible if you two end up full of lead.” He activated the communicator. “Good luck, then I s’pose.”

“Luck is my middle name!” Jim called as McCoy vanished in a flurry of transporter shimmer.

With the doctor gone, Spock turned to him.

“I assume you do intend to inform me of this plan, Captain?”

Jim grinned and shoved the bundle of clothing into his hands—a cream shirt, brown pleated trousers, and a matching blazer.

“Put these on.”

“That’s not an answer,” Spock replied, eyeing the outfit.

“Spock, enough questions. Just trust me,” Jim said with a laugh.

Spock exhaled softly and began removing his science tunic.

“As you wish, Captain.” Then he paused, a subtle curve at his mouth. “And Jim... may I point out that your middle name is Tiberius.”

Jim winced.

“God, don’t remind me.”

***

“Goodness, Mr. Spock—you clean up rather nicely,” Jim said as Spock finished buttoning the jacket, smoothing the creases from the borrowed suit. Even Spock had to admit the deep brown fabric complemented the saffron undertones of his skin rather well.

Jim sauntered over and brushed a bit of dust from Spock’s shoulder before placing a matching fedora on his head.

“I think we’ll make a gangster of you yet.”

“I should hope not, Captain.”

Jim chuckled, then stepped back and gave himself a dramatic little spin.

“Alright—and what about me? I’d say we lucked out in the disguise department.”

Spock swallowed.

There was absolutely no logical reason for Jim to look that good in early 20th-century Earth formalwear. And yet—he did. The suit, a deep navy pinstripe, fit him like it had been custom-made: broad padded shoulders, a trim waist, and pants that—regrettably—accentuated his form a bit too well. The color made his hazel eyes appear almost golden in the dim warehouse light.

Spock gave a slow nod.

“A very… acceptable look, Captain.”

Jim grinned and handed him one of the confiscated Tommy guns.

“Let’s go, Spock, baby,” he said, adopting a mobster drawl.

Spock did his best to ignore the way that voice made his stomach flip as he followed Jim out into the street.

***

Exiting the building, Jim pointed to a parked vehicle with an all-too-excited grin.

“Captain, this is obviously someone’s personal vehicle,” Spock said flatly, watching as Jim rounded the driver’s side and climbed in, looking at him expectantly.

“Spock!” Jim whined when the Vulcan merely raised an eyebrow. “We’re gangsters today!”

With a long-suffering sigh, Spock slid into the passenger seat. Jim handed him the comically large gun before turning his full attention to the vehicle, eyes sparkling with childlike glee.

“Wheels, Mr. Spock!”

“Yes. An antique, to be sure, Captain.”

After a few moments of trial and error—more error than trial—Jim finally managed to start the engine. He threw it into gear with a triumphant smile.

“I kind of like this. I may get one myself.”

He hit the gas—and the car immediately lurched backwards into the vehicle parked behind them with a loud crunch.

Spock’s hand flew to the dashboard, gripping hard, as Jim muttered and fiddled with the gears. The engine backfired, and with a violent jerk they shot forward, careening into the street and narrowly missing a passing car.

“Captain,” Spock ground out, clutching the edge of his seat as the Tommy gun wedged awkwardly between his knees (he really should have stored the gun with the barrel facing the floor), “perhaps we should walk.”

“Afraid—screech—of cars, Mr. Spock?” Jim asked with a laugh as they rattled down the cobbled streets, surrounded by a cacophony of honking and shouted curses.

“Not at all—bang—Captain. It is your driving that alarms me.”

Jim cackled. “I haven’t the faintest clue what you mean!” he shouted over the din.

After 17.56 harrowing minutes of lurching, stalling, and near-collisions, the car finally jerked to a halt. Spock pitched forward, then slammed back into the seat, momentarily winded.

“Thank God for that memory of yours, Mr. Spock,” Jim said, catching his breath as he grabbed one of the guns from Spock’s lap. “Otherwise we’d be circling the city all day trying to find this place again.”

Spock swallowed down a wave of nausea at the thought.

“Alright,” Jim said brightly, slipping back into character. “Let’s go be mobsters, huh?”

With a playful grin and an exaggerated swagger, he strutted toward the building, Spock trailing behind—silent, composed, and desperately trying to suppress his enjoyment of the entire situation.

***

Luckily, the building appeared unguarded from the outside—likely because the would-be sentries were still unconscious back at the warehouse. Jim and Spock slipped inside without resistance.

They dispatched a few more surprised mobsters in the hallway—quick, clean takedowns—before throwing open the massive, richly carved doors that led into Oxmyx’s grand office.

The boss and two other Iotians around his desk shot to their feet, hands twitching toward their weapons—only to freeze as Jim and Spock leveled their Tommy guns squarely at them.

“Miss me, Bela?” Jim asked, flashing a wicked grin. “We’re gonna have ourselves a little talk, ya see? Weapons on the ground, now.”

The Iotians threw their guns to the ground, reluctantly kicking them away.

“What the hell do ya think you’re playin’ at, Captain?” Oxmyx barked, storming around the desk.

Jim didn’t flinch. He strode forward, grabbed Oxmyx roughly by the lapels, and shoved him back into the plush leather chair.

“Why don’t ya take a seat there, Oxmyx. Cover him, Spocko.”

Spock moved around the desk, weapon raised. He did his best to ignore the flutter in his chest as Jim loomed over the mob boss with gleeful dominance.

“Listen, sweetheart,” Jim drawled, snatching a toothpick from a glass on the desk and slipping it between his teeth, “the Federation’s movin’ in. We’re takin’ over. You play ball, we cut you in for a piece of the profit.”

He leaned in slightly, gaze narrowing.

“If you don’t, you’re out. All the way out. Know what I mean?”

Oxmyx blinked, flustered by the sudden power reversal. He laughed nervously.

“W—Why didn’t you say so in the first place? All you hadta do was explain it to me!”

“Good, good,” Jim said, patting the man’s shoulder with mock affection. “You’re gonna make some calls for me.”

He flipped open his communicator.

“Scotty, sweetheart—this is Kirk, ya read?”

“Uh... Scott here, sir,” came Scotty’s confused reply.

“Sawbones fill you in on everythin’ down here?”

“…Sawbones, sir?”

Jim turned slightly away, lowering his voice.

“McCoy.”

“Ah! Yes, Captain.”

“Alright, Scotty, we’re gonna make some old-style phone calls from this locale. You locate the man on the other end of the blower and give him a ride to this flop.”

Spock—Spocko, apparently—raised an eyebrow at the increasingly convoluted jargon.

“What??” Scotty asked, thoroughly bewildered.

Jim nearly sighed, then covered his mouth with his hand and said in a low, strained tone: “Find whoever’s on the other end of the telephone, and beam him here. Can do, sweetheart?”

A beat of silence.

“…Can do, Captain.”

***

With every mob boss on the planet now beamed into Oxmyx’s office, the room filled with a cacophony of overlapping voices. Spock sat in the luxurious leather chair behind the desk, legs casually propped up—a distinctly human posture, yet strangely comfortable.

Meanwhile, Jim paced in front of the gathered gangsters, who stood clustered in a loose semi-circle around the pool table, arguing bitterly over territory lines, long-standing rivalries, and undercutting each other’s profits.

To Spock, it sounded like metal scraping on metal. If only the Horizon had left a book on modern Vulcan society instead.

Finally, Jim snapped. He vaulted onto the pool table, standing high above the crowd, pistol raised.

“Alright. Alright!” he barked in a thick mobster accent that—once again—tightened something in Spock’s chest.

The bosses fell silent.

“Now listen. The Federation’s takin’ over, whether you like it or not. You people been runnin’ this planet like a piecework factory.”

He paced the table with intoxicating swagger, he face painted with a fierce, charismatic expression that had Spock tensing in his chair.

“From now on, it’s all under one roof. You’re gonna run this planet like a business, got it? And I’m cuttin’ the Federation in for forty percent.”

One of the mobsters stepped forward. “Ey, all I’m hearin’ is a lotta talk! You say you got some big ol’ ship up there, but all I see is the two of yous.”

Jim crouched low in front of the man, balancing his gun lazily across one knee, eyes gleaming with something between menace and amusement.

Spock couldn’t look away.

There was something so commanding about him like this—something deeply compelling. The focus in his eyes, the flare of control in his body language. Spock felt a faint flush rise to his cheeks and quickly suppressed it.

“You think I’m bluffin’?” Jim asked, voice low and lethal.

The mobster hesitated, shrinking slightly—until another jumped in. Then suddenly they were all yelling again.

“Yeah, yeah! Where’s this so-called Federation, huh?!”

Jim straightened slowly, his expression hard—but Spock recognized the glint of mischief in his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but a burst of gunfire outside cut him off.

The entire room rushed to the windows.

“Krako!” Oxmyx bellowed, grabbing another gangster by the collar. “You really tryin’ to hit me right now?! I recognize your guys down there!”

Jim stepped between them, holstering his weapon and grabbing both men by the shoulders.
“Now wait a minute—wait a minute!” he yelled.

“You two, shut your traps. Spocko, baby—why don’t you show ’em we mean business?”

He tossed Spock the communicator. He caught it, raising a confused eyebrow.

Jim rolled his head with a groan and hissed, “Tell Scotty to stun everyone on the block!”

Understanding dawned. Spock nodded, opened the channel, and made the request.

Then, turning back to the room of now-quiet gangsters, he said flatly, “I suggest yous all keep your eyes on the street.”

Jim grinned—ecstatic, almost glowing—before remembering to slip back into character.

Spock shifted, uneasy.

Outside the window, a brief flash of green swept the block, followed by total stillness as the Iotians collapsed in the street, unconscious.

“Well… that’s some trick,” one of the mobsters muttered.

Order—if one could call it that—returned swiftly. With renewed respect (or at least fear), the bosses began working with Jim on how best to move forward.

“Now, you understand—the Federation can’t get too involved in a small-time operation like this,” Jim said, voice smooth as velvet. “I was thinkin’ you, Bela, would be the top boss. Krako, you’d be his lieutenant. And the rest of yous make up the cabinet. Run the planet together, ya hear?”

Spock stepped up beside him, leaving his gun by the wall and folding his arms.

“And if yous give us any trouble,” he said evenly, “you’ll be answering to the Federation.”

Jim turned to him with a grin, eyes glittering, and clapped a hand to his shoulder. The contact was electric, even through the suit jacket.

“That’s exactly right, Spocko. The Feds’ll be back every year to collect our cut. You boys got that?”

Nods all around. No one questioned it now.

With a flourish, Oxmyx grabbed a bottle of liquor and poured a round for a toast—to the new Syndicate, as they were already calling it.

After a drink and a few more minutes of allowing Jim to bask in his mob persona, Spock placed a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Captain, we really must be going.”

Jim nodded, just a touch reluctantly. Moments later, they dissolved into shimmering transporter light as the bosses lifted their glasses in a raucous farewell.

***

As Spock and Jim stepped into the crew refresher to shed their costumes and return to their Starfleet attire, Spock caught Jim’s hands mid-motion at the buttons of his pinstripe blazer.

Jim met his gaze, brows lifting.

“…Yes, Spock?”

The room was empty—no other crew had been on the surface, and it was unlikely anyone would disturb them. Still, Spock gripped Jim’s wrist with enough force to bruise and abruptly pulled him into one of the sonic shower stalls, backing him hard against the brushed metal wall.

“Hey, what the—” Jim began, but his protest was swallowed by Spock’s mouth as the Vulcan pressed flush against him, tongue demanding entrance with a heat Spock hadn’t known he possessed.

Jim gasped, momentarily stunned, hands hovering in the air as Spock kissed him with a sudden, ravenous hunger. Finally, Jim found Spock’s shoulders and pushed him back slightly. Spock let out a low, involuntary growl at the loss of contact.

“What the hell’s gotten into you?” Jim asked, though the faint smirk at his lips betrayed any real concern.

“Jim,” Spock rasped, arms winding around Jim’s waist, drawing him in again until there was no space left between them. “I don’t know if it was your demeanor on that planet… or the clothing. But the entire time—”

He shuddered as he slotted one leg between Jim’s, the friction of Jim’s thigh brushing his aching arousal sending a spike of heat down his spine.

Jim’s eyes widened.

“You mean to tell me… the whole time we were down there, you were—” He broke off, gaze flicking down, “…hard?”

“Uncomfortably so.”

Jim’s mouth fell open and from the tentative mental transference through their clothes, Spock could hear Jim trying—failing—to calm himself.

“I don’t want you to calm,” Spock murmured aloud, voice gravelly with restrained need.

He pressed his erection more firmly against Jim’s thigh and leaned into the curve of his neck, inhaling a heady mix of sweat, hair product, and leather. It should have been unpleasant. Instead, it overwhelmed him—desire and safety braided into one undeniable feeling.

Familiar. Warm. His.

“Jesus Christ,” Jim whispered, almost to himself. “You really want our first time to be in a refresher, Spock?”

But his voice cracked under the weight of desire as Spock pressed searing kisses up the captain’s neck and jaw, before finally recapturing those sinfully delectable lips.

“Right now, Jim,” Spock murmured between kisses, “absolutely.”

Jim moaned into his mouth, hips grinding against Spock’s leg as he opened himself fully to the onslaught. The reality of touching Jim like this—tasting him—made every fantasy pale in comparison.

And Jim didn’t just yield—he responded. Fiercely. He knocked the ridiculous fedora from Spock’s head, tangling his fingers in the stubbornly straight Vulcan hair, hitching one leg around his waist to pull him even closer.

Through the contact, Spock felt flashes of raw, chaotic thought. Unfiltered want. A depth of desire Jim wasn’t sure he’d ever felt before.

And his conclusion was clear: No—no one else had ever made him feel like this.

Then Jim’s hands were between them, unbuttoning Spock’s jacket with lethal efficiency.

“Goddamn mobsters wear too many clothes,” he muttered against Spock’s mouth.

And then Spock felt the frantic pull of his tie being undone, and not to be outdone, moved to reciprocate—hands leaving Jim’s waist to undo his blazer—only for his wrists to be caught in a firm grip.

With a wicked grin, Jim shoved off the wall with one foot, slamming Spock back against the opposite side of the stall with a thud.

Spock barely had time to recover before Jim descended on him again, lips and teeth and hands demanding. Pawing at the buttons of his shirt, nipping at his bottom lip, huffing greedily into Spock’s mouth. The human was all wild, unshackled need—riding the wave of lust with abandon.

Spock envied that freedom.

He wanted to let go, to sink fully into feeling—but, as always, the creeping shame of Vulcan discipline clawed at him. His control—hard-earned, precious—frayed at the edges. He began to slow, torn between giving in and holding back.

Jim seemed to sense the shift. He stilled, hands paused at the half-opened buttons of Spock’s shirt.

“Too much?”

Spock took a breath. “I am… still finding it difficult to reconcile my arousal with my need for control.”

Jim nodded, without judgment, without frustration—just quiet, familiar understanding.

“In other words, you’re scared of allowing yourself to enjoy this?”

Spock gave a slow, silent nod.

As always, Jim cut directly to the truth.

“If you’d still like to continue… can I just focus on you for today?” Jim asked, fingers still fisted in the fabric of Spock’s shirt.

Spock closed his eyes. Breathed. Enough. Enough waiting, enough restraint. He wanted this. Jim wanted him. It would be logical to continue, would it not?

He nodded.

When he opened his eyes, Jim was looking at him like he was something sacred. And it made Spock feel entirely undone.

“I’m going to break through that damnable, amazing logic of yours, Mr. Spock,” Jim said with a crooked smile, then added, softer:

“Which waves in every raven tress, or softly lightens o’er her face; where thoughts serenely sweet express, how pure, how dear their dwelling-place.”

Spock raised a brow. “Byron, Captain?”

Jim laughed, warm and low. “I think by now you know how corny I am, Spock. I’m nothing—” he kissed one cheek, then the other, “—if not a romantic.”

He kissed Spock again, slowly, tongue lazily sliding over Spock’s, and suddenly something within the Vulcan shifted. Want and connection no longer at odds. Desire made rational.

And then his shirt was open and Jim’s hands were spayed across his bare torso, sliding their way up to his chest before making their way down to his naval. The kiss increased in intensity.

The human was all fire and velvet touches, rough yet exceedingly gentle. Spock whimpered into Jim’s mouth as he heard the belt of his pants being undone.

“We’re really gonna have a hard time explaining this if someone walks in,” Jim laughed, just as fabric hit the floor.

Spock’s trousers pooled at his feet, the air of the refresher cool against the heat of his skin. He was panting now, his briefs tight and damp with arousal as Jim moved closer, pressing a leg to his length and nosing against his ear.

“Do you know how badly I’ve wanted this, Spock?” Jim whispered, tracing idle circles across his stomach with one hand.

“I—” Spock began, only to moan as Jim suddenly cupped his erection through the thin cotton.

“A year, Spock. Maybe longer. I’ve wanted to see you come apart for me for so—” his voice dropped, rough and low, “—so fucking long.”

Spock gasped, bucking into Jim’s hand at the words—at the expletive, rarely spoken from the captain’s mouth and never in a tone so raw, so wanting.

Jim’s breathy laugh brushed against Spock’s skin as he pulled back, locking eyes with him once more. And then—slowly, excruciatingly—Jim began to sink to his knees, gaze never wavering. The sheer reverence of it made Spock throb, a shamefully slick pulse of arousal soaking through his already clinging briefs. He was panting, body trembling, despite having barely been touched.

James T. Kirk—captain of the Enterprise, pride of the Federation—was now prostrated before him on the refresher floor, grinning like he’d just declared Check, still perfectly in control, while Spock felt utterly undone.

And the worst part?

Jim was still dressed.

Spock wanted to tear off that jacket. He should have insisted. Yet… the sight of Jim in that absurdly flattering suit, the deep navy blue sharp against the gold of his skin, only made it worse. Perhaps even more unbearable than if Jim had been fully stripped.

He leaned back against a sonic shower wall, half-naked, chest heaving, hair mussed beyond redemption, as his commanding officer teased the elastic of his underwear with maddeningly warm fingertips.

If only the contemptuous Science Academy board of directors could see him now. They would have begged for his rejection of admission rather than judged him for it.

His fingers scrabbled at the metal behind him, searching for purchase before one hand fisted against the wall and the other tangled tightly in Jim’s hair.

Jim hummed in approval, lips brushing the skin just beneath Spock’s navel. Then lower, feathering kisses just along the edges of his length. Spock let out a sound, barely muffled—a choked moan of pressure, of need.

How was Jim this composed? This patient? Was he not just as desperate? Were the insides of his own pants just as soaked, just as tight?

Spock squeezed his eyes shut, overwhelmed as Jim moved further down, kissing the hollow of his hips, fingers still teasing but not yet pulling.

“Spock,” Jim murmured against him, the vibration like fire in his veins.

Spock nearly lost it—nearly—his control hinging on a trembling mental barrier hastily erected between pleasure and explosion.

“Y-Yes, Captain?” he managed, his voice pitifully shaky.

Jim giggled, warm breath fanning across Spock’s hips.

“Look at me.”

Spock swallowed thickly, before opening his eyes.

Jim stared up at him unblinking, hazel irises almost fully eclipsed by his pupils as he hooked his thumbs under the waistband of Spock’s briefs and—slowly, maddeningly slowly—slid them down.

The fabric hit the floor with a soft whisper.

Spock let out a ragged breath. He was fully exposed now—arousal flushed pale green, heavy and twitching in time with his heartbeat, a bead of fluid trailing from the tip. He had never felt more vulnerable. Never more wanted.

Jim’s voice came out as a near whisper, awed.

“Oh my god.”

Then, meeting Spock’s gaze again:

“May I?”

Spock hesitated.

“Jim… if you do, I fear I will orgasm.”

Jim let out a shaky breath and huffed a laugh. “Yeah, Spock, that’s usually the goal.”

“Immediately,” Spock clarified, voice tight with urgency.

Jim’s eyes widened. His whole body shivered.

“You’re going to kill me.”

And then he leaned forward and gradually wrapped one hand around the base as his mouth teased the tip.

Spock’s hand clenched harder in Jim’s hair than intended, and he tried—tried—to breathe, to steady himself. Pressed back against the cold metal wall he looked to the ceiling, mentally scrambling for a thought to ground himself.

Half-finished analyses waiting at his station. The next orders from Starfleet. The theoretical equation for time travel through the mixing of matters.

But then Jim was on him—warm mouth, perfect pressure, the tip of his tongue just—

Spock gasped.

And came.

Climax tore through him like a wild animal, cracking up his vertebrae and splitting his skull in what felt like an eternity of sensation.

There was nothing before or after this moment.

No thoughts. No words. Only the rush of blood in his ears and the white-hot fire consuming his body.

It was everything and nothing all at once. To call the feeling electric would have been the understatement of the millennium.

It was… indescribable.

After an aeon of blinding, pulsing thrill, Spock gradually began to return to himself. The world filtered back in pieces—the cold bite of the metal wall at his back, the warmth of Jim’s mouth still around his now overly-sensitive length, the subtle flex of his throat as he swallowed.

With a full-body shudder, Spock gently guided Jim away, sliding trembling fingers from the captain’s hair as he sagged against the sonic stall wall, utterly and completely ruined.

He closed his eyes and inhaled, drawing breath with intention. He needed to reassemble himself. Rebuild the fractured walls of his mental discipline.

No wonder Vulcans did not encourage casual intimacy—this had shattered him. Beautifully, blissfully—but completely.

He took another breath. Then opened his eyes.

Jim stood before him now, casually wiping his thumb along his bottom lip like he'd just finished a sandwich in the mess hall instead of… what he had actually done.

He grinned.

“Enjoy yourself, I hope? Haven’t done that since the Academy.”

Spock blinked. Then, in a low and measured voice:

“Your response, Jim, I believe, would have been… holy shit.”

The captain burst into wild laughter at that.

“God, I love it when you curse. I swear, I’m going to instill some very bad habits in you, Mr. Spock.”

Finally feeling like his legs could support him again, Spock reached down to pull his underwear back up—then paused. They were… thoroughly compromised. With a flicker of logic and disdain, he instead stripped fully, stepping out of the soiled garments.

“O—oh.” Jim’s voice cracked, as Spock straightened before him, completely naked.

Jim stared openly, his breath still coming quick, face flushing an impressive shade of pink. A glance downward confirmed he was still exceedingly aroused and Spock, in all his overwhelmed inexperience, had completely overlooked the fact that Jim hadn’t climaxed.

Mortification hit like a wave. He opened his mouth, intent on offering reciprocal… assistance—

But Jim beat him to it.

“I’m gonna—uh—take a quick shower,” he said, eyes darting with a lopsided smile. “If you catch my drift. I’ll join you on the bridge soon.”

Spock raised a brow.

Jim laughed, stepping forward to press a kiss to his cheek.

“I wanted to focus on you, Spock. I can take care of myself—literally.”

Spock offered a soft, reluctant nod, the corners of his mouth twitching into a small smile. He stepped out of the stall, located a fresh uniform, and redressed with practiced efficiency.

He’d intended to ask Jim about that line—cutting the Federation in on Iotian profits. It was, after all, a flagrant violation of regulation. But somehow… he had become rather distracted since their return to the ship. He made a mental note to inquire once Jim was back in uniform.

By the time he made his way to the bridge, he was composed, groomed, and—most startlingly—relaxed.

Utterly and completely at peace.