Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The air recycler was acting up again.

No matter how many times Spock tinkered with the machinery, it seemed inevitable it would start that maddening ticking sound again every 4.37 solar days.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Like an analog clock that he couldn’t silence by simply removing its power source because this particular clock would suffocate him.

The issue was all due to a miniscule two-centimeter screw consistently coming loose. No matter how tightly he twisted it, no matter how much industrial-grade foaming adhesive he sprayed into the stripped thread housing, it was clear the ticking would persist until he could requisition replacements.

Which meant enduring tick tick tick for another 8.46 months—until the next supply drop—unless he could summon the will to crawl back into the ventilation shaft again and patch it himself.

Really, the whole outpost needed an extensive refurbishment, and his numerous requests may have been approved—had someone else been assigned to it.

Another Vulcan officer likely would’ve gotten the refurbishment. Maybe even a better assignment alltogether.

Not Spock.

Not the half breed with proud, noble Vulcan blood mixed with tainted human red coursing through his veins.

No, they wanted him to rot here. And so, he had.

Three-point-three years was not long for a Vulcan. They were patient creatures, long lived, solitary.

But Spock wasn’t Vulcan. Not entirely. No matter how much he tried to live as one.

Restlessness had begun to gnaw at him.

The day the ticking first began, he immediately got to work diagnosing the problem—crawling through the ventilation shafts of his 2,000-square-foot outpost until he confirmed the recycler was the source of the problem. There he’d proceeded to spend another two hours contorted into a ball of humanoid origami as he searched for the offending screw among the endless panels and wires.

When the sound returned 4.37 days later, he’d climbed back in without hesitation.

The third time, it interrupted his mid-day meditation. He had remained at the viewport, seated cross-legged in stillness, eyes closed, pretending he could ignore it. Human irritation crept up his spine like a rogue spider.

He lasted 34.6 minutes.

This was his duty. What Vulcan had required of him: to monitor the farthest station along the Human–Vulcan Neutral Zone.

Not a post he would have chosen, of course. But still, a duty to be performed with honor.

And maybe he had felt that way upon his arrival. After his first year. But after two years, with only 14.2 minutes of interaction with other sentient beings during his annual resupplies, a ball of human resentment he couldn't logic away began to settle in his stomach.

It was the knowledge that he had been thrown away by his own people—discarded like a defective piece of equipment. That bitterness had begun to sink its teeth into the human emotions he insisted he didn’t experience or understand. But he did, at least to some capacity.

He had lived on Earth once. With his mother. Before the war.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

With a sigh, he stood, abandoning his morning plomeek soup (he was so very tired of plomeek soup), and stripped off his uniform tunic. Left in a thin black thermal and regulation pants—flexible enough for the contortions to come—he crouched before the nearest vent.

He removed the panel, swallowed the flicker of irritation, and began to crawl inside.

***

"Stardate 2436.5. Lieutenant Spock reporting from Neutral Zone Outpost 410.

“All systems are functioning within expected parameters. No unauthorized vessel activity detected within a scan radius of point-three light-years. Atmospheric regulation unit registered a minor fluctuation at zero-six-hundred. Cause: a recurring mechanical instability in the air recycler. Non-critical. Repaired with further maintenance scheduled for thirteen-hundred.

External geological readings on Asteroid CDX remain stable. No deviation in radiation levels. Subspace and biological scans indicate no anomalies. Current supply inventory is sufficient. Resupply expected in 6,173.23 solar hours. No additional requisitions at this time.

Awaiting further instruction. Spock out."

Spock clicked the mic off and relaxed into the straight-backed metal chair in front of his radio station.

Does anyone even listen to these? He found himself wondering. He reported the same thing every twenty-four hours. No change. Not for three-point-three years.

They weren’t even at war anymore. It had ended a year prior.

On that day, in the middle of his usual 0730 run, he had received a communication from Vulcan High Command that caused him to fly off the treadmill so abruptly he’d tripped over his own feet, landing hard on his hands and knees. Scrambling to his feet, he’d rushed to the terminal, where his mouth had fallen open in a rare display of human shock.

Thankfully, no one had been there to witness his lapse in control.

Just like that—fifteen years of fighting: over. Though Vulcan still viewed humans as an imminent threat to galactic peace, a threat they had fought so long to eliminate, the high command had finally conceded that it was illogical to attempt to extinguish an entire species in the name of peace.

At least for now.

Spock wouldn't have been surprised if Vulcan had reneged on the peace agreement within twenty-four hours of signing it.

For a race that claimed to experience no emotions Spock could see the pure hatred Vulcans carried for humans. He’d felt it during his years on Vulcan before being sent to the middle of nowhere.

He gave himself a mental shake. Speculation on past wartimes between his two species served no logical purpose. The end of the war hadn’t changed anything in his life.

Part of the peace discussions had included the agreement to maintain the Neutral Zone. And so, he remained in stasis, continuing his monotonous reports a year later.

Even if there was something to report, his subspace communications wouldn’t reach the nearest Vulcan starbase for another three weeks.

I am wasting my life out here.

The thought was razor sharp, clawing its way to the forefront of his mind and embedding itself between the folds of his logic.

Emotion served no purpose. It was the antithesis of rational thought—a basal instinct Vulcans had long since evolved beyond.

He stood, deciding that twenty minutes of meditation before his 0900 research block would suffice to suppress the unwelcome emotional residue. Leaving the control room, he passed through the living quarters and into the meditation chamber.

The deep gray rock of Asteroid CDX greeted him with its usual indifference—harsh, pebbled terrain lit only by the distant shimmer of Gamma XII, still light-years away. The view was not pleasant, but it was the only window into the space beyond his solitary home—or prison, depending on the day.

Today, it felt more like purgatory: a place so far removed from Vulcan it bordered on the abstract. Perhaps the only locale more distant would be the bottom of an ocean—equally dark, equally cold. A place better described as a living tomb.

Spock climbed onto the makeshift seat he had created beneath the viewport. The outpost had come with a meditation space, but the little floor mat placed in the center of an otherwise empty room had never made sense to him. Why mediate there when the view of endless space lay two feet away, just beyond the glass?

The port window was tall and wide enough to sit at. All the architects had needed to do was increase the depth between glass and interior walls so one could sit and look to the stars.

Rationally he understood the illogical nature of that thought. Nothing would be gained by sitting in front of the window versus next to it… except when he arrived at the outpost, he had found meditating adjacent to his only view to the outside cosmos unsatisfactory.

Now, he perched on the end table he had cut and welded to frame the port, positioning himself on a cushion he had repurposed from the couch in his living quarters. He crossed his legs and gazed into the cold vacuum of space.

Had they forgotten him out here? Would his next resupply date come and go with no communication from his species?

Spock understood how improbable these thoughts were, yet they remained—a persistent itch that could never be scratched.

With a deep breath, he closed his eyes and began to enter the first level of his meditative state.

Breathe in. Breath e out.

Herbosh ish-veh kashek. Empty your mind.

His respiration slowed as he relaxed into the practice. Troubled thoughts falling away like fine desert sand through his fingers.

Through meditation, he could find peace.

Then—static. A crackling hum cut through the quiet hiss of the air recycler. Spock’s eyebrow twitched at the sound, but he remained still, refusing to break his meditative focus.

More static.

“—llo?”

He stiffened, breath caught in his lungs. What was—?

“Hello?”

His eyes snapped open. In an instant, he was off the table, rushing through the open corridors, back to the control center.

“Hellooooo, anyone out there?” The voice called in a singsong tone from the radio. It was male, a baritone with a slight raspy edge.

Spock froze, his finger hovering mere centimeters above the comm button.

This was not a Vulcan.

He withdrew his hand, curiosity warring with his ingrained rationality. The only other beings within close comm range would either be a passing ship or—

“Helloooo,” the voice repeated. Then, more quietly, as if to himself, “Goddamn it, no one’s out there. Why am I even bothering?”

Without thinking, Spock pressed the comm button.

“This channel is reserved for closed communications only. Please refrain from using it unless in an emergency.”

A pause—then the voice exploded through the receiver far too loudly. Spock recoiled, his hand snapping to the volume dial and twisting so hard it nearly broke off.

“Holy shit! Holy shit, no way! Dude, am I hallucinating? There’s no fucking way—”

The voice broke off into a fit of wild, giddy laughter.

Immediate regret washed over Spock. The stranger had clearly been about to move on. Yet—for some inexplicable reason—he had confirmed his presence.

“Okay, okay… sorry,” the voice said between chuckles. “It’s just that—I really thought I was the only one out here, and I was going fucking crazy, man. Crazy enough to just start trying random frequencies.” Another soft laugh. “I don’t believe in luck but—fuck if this isn’t gonna change my tune!”

Spock frowned, parsing the stranger’s idiomatic speech. A theory began to form: this individual was not simply non-Vulcan.

He was human.

Spock should not have answered.

“I repeat: this channel is restricted. Kindly switch to another frequency.”

“Then why’d you answer, man?” The human replied, tone far too casual. “You could’ve just let me think I was talking to dead air.”

Spock had no adequate response. Silence stretched between them.

“Listen, name’s Jim. Jim Kirk. I’m stuck on Neutral Zone outpost 326 and I’m bored outta my gourd, okay? Now, your turn.”

Spock’s eyebrow rose beneath his fringe in confused irritation.

“I do not understand your reference to a vegetable. And again—I request you cease using this frequency.”

“Or what?” Kirk’s voice sharpened slightly, tinged with challenge. “Change frequencies if you don’t wanna to hear me then.”

Spock exhaled, a sharp breath through his nose. He couldn’t change frequencies—not without submitting a formal request to Starbase Six, and that would take weeks. And the longer this conversation continued, the more risk there was of revealing classified information to an enemy of Vulcan.

“I will inform your superiors of this breach in protocol. I assume you have not been instructed to broadcast your name and station to unidentified recipients over unsecured subspace channels?”

Kirk laughed in response to his threat.

“Okay, dickhead, go ahead and file your report. Meanwhile I’ll keep talking, since it’s pretty damn clear you only responded because you’re bored out of your mind too.”

Spock’s hand curled into a fist at his side. It was deeply dishonorable for a Vulcan to lie—but only the human would hear it.

“I am switching frequencies and will be sure to inform the proper authorities of your breach in conduct. Good day, Mr. Kirk.”

He flicked off the comm just as the human began to protest—then launched into a litany of increasingly creative obscenities as the signal went dead.

Spock sat back in his radio chair, listening to Kirk’s muffled curses with what he would later insist was not amusement. A self-satisfied smile tugged at the corners of his mouth nonetheless.

Finally, after 5.7 minutes, the human tired of shouting into what he now believed was empty space. Silence returned to the control room.

Spock rose and stretched his arms overhead, content—until his gaze drifted back to the comm station.

The silence, once comforting, now pressed in on him.

The conversation hadn’t been enjoyable. Not exactly. But… it had been something. His first real contact in months. Not the formal, one-sided itemizations from his Vulcan resupply crew—who listed their cargo, unloaded it, and left without a word more.

Kirk had been chaotic. Annoying. Entirely illogical.

And Spock found himself… yearning for more.

He turned, intending to return to his meditation chamber. But he didn’t move. Couldn’t. His feet remained planted. After a long moment, he turned back to the console.

Perhaps Kirk was still listening. Still waiting to call his bluff.

He reached for the comm button slowly, logic and human curiosity clashing beneath his skin.

And then—music exploded through the speakers.

Loud. Chaotic. Distorted.

A gravelly stringed instrument thrashed beneath a thudding drumbeat. A sharper, tenor instrument joined in, plucking frenetically. Then, a voice—a human voice—screamed rather than sang over the clamor.

Spock recoiled. His hand snapped to the volume dial, turning it down as far as it could go, so hard the knob protested.

To think he had been moments from initiating contact with this savage of a human.

His brows drew together, frustration simmering beneath his usually composed expression.

It was against regulations to keep the communications channel muted. But he couldn’t listen to that.

He began pacing the control room, recalling what he knew of humans from his childhood.

They were impatient. Easily distracted.

If Kirk still believed Spock was on this frequency—and it appeared he did—then Spock would wait him out. He would keep the channel muted for precisely three hours. Surely that would be enough to convince the human of his bluff.

Surely.

***

From 0900 to 1200, he performed his scheduled scientific research. This included reviewing long-term sensor data from the Neutral Zone—an effort to detect anomalies, though he had only ever recorded four naturally occurring phenomena during his tenure—and a secondary task of his choosing.

Today, that task was running gravitational drift simulations on Asteroid CDX.

With the asteroid so far removed from any significant planetary bodies, its drift away from the Neutral Zone was slow, nearly imperceptible. The models projected it would remain within the necessary quadrant for another 469.8 solar years.

He had chosen this task primarily because it demanded very little critical thought. And he was… distracted.

Three-point-three years of isolation had refined his imagination to an almost alarming degree. Now, despite his better judgment, he found himself trying to picture what Kirk might look like. His height. His age. His point of origin. The timbre of his voice had suggested youth, confidence, perhaps even a hint of recklessness. But Spock could not be certain.

The questions burned in his mind with such persistence that he stopped trying to suppress them.

Having something else—something new— to think about was like coming up for air after diving to the bottom of a trench.

It was not logical, but there was no one here to judge his indulgence but himself.

Throughout the morning, his gaze flicked repeatedly between his computer station and the radio at his right.

How long had Kirk sat there before finally giving up? Had he moved on to another frequency? Or abandoned the effort entirely?

Was he also—completely, totally— alone ?

***

Finally, 1200 arrived—his scheduled hour for his midday meal and meditation. But more importantly: it was time to check the radio.

He ignored the strange twisting sensation in his stomach—the quiet, persistent flicker of hope that Kirk hadn’t abandoned the channel.

He should not want Kirk to remain. Continued communication would constitute a breach of no fewer than six Vulcan Command regulations. That didn’t even account for whatever protocols Kirk had violated by broadcasting in the first place.

Logically, when he unmuted the channel, he should desire silence.

He did not.

With a measured breath, he clicked the volume knob back up.

Instantly, a cacophony of distorted Terran music blared through the speakers. The same song. The same grating, toneless assault of drums and screaming he had muted hours earlier.

Kirk had left it on repeat.

Of course.

Spock exhaled through his nose, jaw tight. He was now faced with a new dilemma.

It was apparent the human had no intention of abandoning this frequency. And Spock could not continue muting the channel indefinitely—doing so would prevent him from receiving official communications, should any arrive. Realistically, reporting Kirk to Human Command was also impractical; the complaint would have to pass through so many layers of Terran military hierarchy that it would be weeks before any action was taken—if it was taken at all.

Which left only one option. The least desirable one.

Admit the human had called his bluff.

Spock gritted his teeth, ignoring the sharp, unwanted thrill in his chest. He had not felt so… mentally stimulated in years. It was infuriating.

He would keep the channel muted for another four hours. That would take him to the end of his workday, to his evening study period.

He would outwait Kirk.

He had nothing but time.

***

Spock was not even surprised by the assault of blaring Terran music when he un-muted the radio again at 1600 hours. After spending the past three hours crawling through narrow maintenance shafts and repairing outdated systems, he found himself almost… welcoming the sound.

It was strangely cathartic in a way he could not fully explain. As if the musicians were voicing a storm of frustrations he had long since trained himself not to feel.

He allowed the song to play through to completion, insisting to himself that it was for the purpose of research—a deeper understanding of the human he was about to contact once again.

When the final distorted guitar riff died out and a moment of silence passed before the song began anew, Spock clicked the comm on.

“Mr. Kirk. Come in, Mr. Kirk. This is a closed channel. I am again requesting that you change frequencies.”

The music continued, unbothered.

Spock waited 1.5 minutes, then repeated his message, forcing himself to ignore the faint uptick in his heart rate.

What if he didn’t respond?

Then, suddenly, the music faded. There was the sound of rustling plastic and papers, followed by Kirk’s voice, smug and unhurried, cutting through like sunlight through cloud cover.

“Well, well, well. Look who came crawling back. I guess someone can’t just switch frequencies on a dime, huh?”

A flash of irritation flickered beneath Spock’s skin.

“Please change your frequency.”

“Did you like it?”

Spock blinked. “Like what?”

“The song, man.” Kirk’s voice was laced with amusement. “Figured you couldn’t keep the channel muted forever, so I waited you out. You’re surprisingly impatient—for a Vulcan.”

Spock froze.

He had not disclosed his species.

Kirk must have sensed the shift in silence because he added, casually, “Yeah, it’s pretty obvious. The way you talk—like a goddamn computer. Also, full disclosure, I may have a shit assignment, but I’m, like, kind of a genius.”

This was dangerous.

“Genius” might be a gross exaggeration, but clearly, the human was… sharp.

“So,” Kirk continued, “did you report me or what?”

Spock hesitated.

“Come on, dude! Look, it’s just the two of us out here, stuck on these sad little outposts. I’m not asking you to share state secrets or anything, I just…” Kirk sighed, the kind of sigh that felt too heavy for a casual conversation. “This is probably the worst assignment I’ve ever had. I’m not built for solitude. I need engagement, a challenge, anything. It’s been three months, and I’m legitimately starting to worry I might lose my mind if I can’t talk to someone.”

Another pause, then softer—earnest: “Please.”

Spock took a breath. “I did not report you.”

“Damn right you didn’t.” Kirk paused, then added brightly, “And you didn’t deny it either, so I’m guessing I was right—you’re stationed on the Vulcan outpost, huh?”

“…Correct.”

“See? Isn’t this nice?” Kirk’s tone was triumphant. “God, it’s been forever since I’ve had a proper conversation. So what’s your name? How’d you get stuck all the way out here?”

“That is classified information.”

Kirk laughed.

It was strange—how such a foreign sound could feel so familiar. Spock hadn’t been around humans in two decades, yet that laugh carried a warmth like coming home to a place he barely remembered.

“I have a feeling I’m gonna be hearing that a lot,” Kirk said. “If you don’t start talking, you’re getting the song again.”

Spock did not reply.

Kirk groaned. “Fuck, you Vulcans are stuffy. Alright, fine—what about the question game? We take turns asking each other questions. It’s a great ice breaker at bars.”

Spock frowned. “How does a verbal game possess sufficient force to fracture ice?”

“Is that your first question?”

Spock grit his teeth, suppressing the unfamiliar flicker of amusement threatening to rise in his throat. The giddiness—yes, giddiness—of engaging in an interesting conversation for the first time in years.

He chose to ignore it.

“Why were you assigned to Outpost 326?” he asked instead.

Kirk let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Insubordination. Punched the crap out of my commanding officer.”

Spock stiffened.

“But,” Kirk continued, voice sharpening, “he was making a shit call. Like, the kind of shit call that gets thousands of refugees killed.”

The laughter was gone now, replaced by something brittle and burning beneath the words.

“They already had nothing. And this asshole had the nerve to suggest cutting their rations. Again. To be honest, I was just looking for an excuse to hit the guy at that point.”

A beat passed.

“And that ,” Kirk finished, “is how a first officer becomes a Lieutenant stationed in bum-fuck nowhere.”

Spock processed Kirk’s words in silence.

It could all be a fabrication—a calculated story meant to lower his defenses, coax him into revealing classified information. That would be the logical assumption.

And yet… he knew it wasn’t.

He didn’t know how he knew. Perhaps this was one of those rare instances where his human half served him well. Vulcans had logic. Precision. Control.

But they lacked intuition.

“That was extremely foolish,” Spock said at last. Then, quieter, almost reluctant: “But commendable.”

“Thanks.” Kirk’s voice softened, a note of genuine gratitude slipping through the comm. “Okay, my turn. Bit of a lame one since you’ve given me nothing so far, but… what’s your name? I can’t keep calling you ‘Stuffy Vulcan.’ Well… unless you want that.”

Spock picked up a pen from his console and began to twirl it absently between his fingers. A thoroughly human habit—his inability to remain completely still when in deep thought.

He calculated quickly. The probability that Kirk might recognize his name? Low—roughly one in ten thousand. His lineage was no secret on either world, given the political circumstances of his conception. But even so, he found he did not want to lie. Not about this. Not again.

“…Spock.”

A beat of silence followed. He waited, breath held.

“What, no last name?”

Spock exhaled slowly, the smallest flicker of relief loosening his shoulders. Either Kirk did not recognize the name, or he was lying about it. In either case, it was a win.

“I believe it is my turn.”

Kirk laughed. “Damn, didn’t know Vulcans could be funny. Alright—fire away.”

***

They spoke for thirty-two minutes, and Spock never did answer Kirk’s question about his last name. The only equivalent would be his Vulcan name—an identity he would not divulge, even if the human had the capacity to pronounce it.

But he learned about Kirk.

The human had a tendency to give multiple answers to a single prompt, often diverging completely from the original question.

“What was your academic focus at the Academy?” devolved into a rambling story about how Kirk once submitted a twenty-four-page paper on humanity’s first attempt at interstellar travel—written entirely in Klingon, simply to prove to himself he could.

He failed the assignment.

“How long do you believe you will remain assigned to Outpost 326?” somehow became a rapid-fire monologue about the dozens of Terran music discs Kirk had smuggled into his pack before leaving Earth.

In contrast, Spock’s answers were precise. Measured. Dry. The longest of them was only twelve words.

And yet… Kirk didn’t seem to mind.

He laughed at everything. Cursed liberally, even while discussing positive topics. His speech was quick, open, and unapologetically earnest. It should have been off-putting. Instead, it was—

Disarming.

Their conversation ended abruptly when Kirk interrupted himself mid-sentence.

“Oh crap! It’s already after 1630—shit, I forgot to record my dailies. Hey, I gotta bounce—that is, I gotta sign off.”

Spock felt a flicker of unfamiliar warmth at the realization that Kirk had explained the idiom for his sake. It was a conscious accommodation. A small, deliberate kindness.

Fascinating.

That warmth was immediately chased by a flash of panic.

Would this be the last time they spoke?

An affirmative would be logical. Expected. Preferred.

But the thought of never hearing Kirk’s voice again made Spock’s throat tighten, as if the air recycler had finally failed and he was suffocating on his own breath.

“What time do you wanna talk tomorrow?” Kirk added lightly.

Suddenly the warmth that had flickered moments ago ignited—burst through him like a shockwave of phaser fire. His eyes widened. The pen he’d been absently twirling stilled in his hand.

Kirk not only wished to speak to him again—he had assumed they would.

Spock willed his heart rate to return to baseline, taking two deliberate breaths before responding in, what he hoped, was an even tone.

“My thirty-minute morning meal occurs at 0545.”

“Damn, you’re up at five A.M. even out here?!”

Spock raised an eyebrow—though Kirk could not see it.

“I see no reason to alter my schedule for the sake of comfort, regardless of assignment.”

A dramatic groan echoed through the comm.

“…But we may speak during my research period at 0900, if that would better suit you,” Spock added, softly.

“That’s more like it. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Spock.”

A quiet click. Then silence.

But this silence was different. It was colder. Lonelier. Yet somehow, in the center of it, there remained a spark of warmth in his chest—a small candle. A flickering glow of… something that couldn’t quite be extinguished.

An illogical excitement for the next day.

Chapter Text

After that first day’s conversation, Spock’s routine began to shift.

His research block from 0900 to 1200 was shortened to 1000 to 1200—its first hour now quietly, deliberately dedicated to speaking with Kirk.

Or Jim, if Spock chose to honor the human’s request to use his given name.

He did not.

Later, he adjusted his personal research and reading time as well, reducing it to a mere thirty minutes so he could speak to Kirk again between 1600 and 1700.

Two hours of conversation per solar day should have exhausted their topics quickly… but it did not. Every time Spock believed he had come to understand Kirk’s rhythms, his tone, his peculiar logic, the human would surprise him again. And again.

And if he was honest—which he tried, in private moments, to be—he did not understand why Kirk wished to speak with him at all.

Spock was not insecure. No Vulcan was. But his childhood—spent in part on Earth—had taught him how humans perceived him.

Dull. Cold. Uninteresting.

He caught himself wondering, often, after their calls had ended or while lying awake in the dark: Did Kirk actually want to speak to him? Or was he simply so starved for contact that even a Vulcan would suffice?

He would shake the questions off. Tell himself they were irrelevant. Tell himself he was speaking with Kirk for reasons of intellectual stimulation, or diplomatic reconnaissance—after all, understanding one’s former enemy had its merits.

But he knew those justifications were lies.

He sat at his radio console each day at precisely 0900 and again at 1600 not out of duty—but because he wanted to. Because he looked forward to it. Because he enjoyed it.

It was an illogical use of time. It served no formal purpose.

And yet—he made the conscious decision to disregard logic in this one area of his life.

He had realized, with some astonishment, that he had been living in a fog for the past 3.3 years. Isolation and repetition had worn him down so slowly, so imperceptibly, that he had not noticed what was missing.

Now, suddenly, he could breathe again.

His morning plomeek soup didn’t taste quite so bitter.

When he crawled back into the ventilation shaft to adjust the air recycler’s screw every 4.7 days, he didn’t much mind the task.

He was…

Happy.

***

“Hey, so I was wondering…” Kirk paused.

Spock quirked an eyebrow at the receiver.

It was their afternoon conversation—one Spock had been particularly eager to begin, if only to distract himself from the day’s earlier maintenance task: the decontamination and sterilization cycle of his environmental systems.

He had completed it 33.1 minutes ago and was still coughing from the fumes of disinfectant.

Today also marked the thirty-sixth day of their contact. Long enough for him to know that Kirk rarely faltered in speech. His words came fast and full of momentum, like a stone that had already rolled halfway down a mountainside.

“What—ah, what do you look like?”

Spock frowned, a barely-there crease forming between his brows.

“That information is irrelevant.”

“It’s not to me. I wanna try to put a face to the voice. Come on—indulge an illogical human.”

Spock picked up the pen he’d grown accustomed to twirling during their conversations. Long, dexterous fingers spun the stylus deftly as he considered the question.

Why did Kirk want this information?

The reminder surfaced—unbidden—that he was still, technically, speaking to an enemy of Vulcan. A fact that had lingered uneasily in the corners of his mind since their first conversation. He had dismissed it then. And yet…

Logically, he should consider the possibility of deception. It was entirely plausible that his desire for contact—his human instinct toward companionship—was clouding his Vulcan judgment.

But this was Kirk.

Jim Kirk.

The man he had spoken with two hours a day for over a month. The human who cursed when he was happy and explained his idioms without being asked. Who never seemed to mind Spock’s silences or clipped replies. Who called him funny.

He did not believe this was part of some elaborate ruse. He refused to believe it. No matter how logical the doubt might be.

And, in any case, he concluded that his physical appearance was of little strategic value. If this was espionage, it was a particularly-inefficient method of obtaining information.

“I am of average Vulcan appearance,” he said at last, flatly.

Kirk chuckled. “Wow, way to give me absolutely nothing. Look, I’ll describe myself, and then you follow my lead. ’Kay?”

“…Affirmative.”

“Alright.” Kirk inhaled audibly, as if preparing for something serious. “Imagine the most attractive human you can possibly picture—”

“You are not that attractive,” Spock interrupted dryly.

“Shut up. Picture the most attractive guy ever. He’s got wavy, luscious sandy-blonde hair. Pale, but, like, sun-kissed. Like he grew up on a beach and not a farm in Iowa. And the most piercing blue eyes you’ve ever seen. Like looking into a perfect summer sky.”

The image was… not unpleasant. Though Spock would certainly never admit that to Kirk.

“Your turn.”

Spock considered. “My hair is black. Straight. My skin tone is pale—approximately Hex code: A07C57. My eyes are brown—Hex code: 2A1000. I am six feet, one inch tall.”

“ Jesus Christ, dude…” Kirk muttered. In the background, Spock detected the soft rustle of paper.

“Was my answer unsatisfactory?”

“I mean, you’re really not giving me much to go on here…” The faint sound of scribbling filtered through the receiver.

Spock hesitated—then curiosity overcame him. “Are you writing something?”

A warm laugh. “Drawing something.”

Spock frowned slightly.

“What kind of haircut do you have?”

The Vulcan glanced to his reflection in the dark of the computer monitor on his left.

“I still do not understand the relevance of—”

“For the love of—just answer the damn question, man!” Kirk groaned, theatrical and exasperated.

“…Short,” Spock replied at last. “I have a fringe. Straight across my forehead. Above the eyebrows.”

“Thank you,” Kirk said wryly.

There was a pause.

“Okay, I think that’s… done!”

“What is ‘done?’”

“My portrait of you! It’s probably way off—you weren’t exactly descriptive—but at least now I can put a face to the name. You’re a good-looking guy, if I do say so myself.”

Kirk laughed brightly.

Spock felt something twist in his gut. Like his balance had shifted, as if he’d missed a step walking down a set of stairs.

“Although that’s probably just an artist’s bias,” Kirk continued.

Spock sat in silence, trying to parse the strange, unquantifiable reaction swirling in his chest.

“Why did you attempt to draw me?” he asked softly.

There was a pause.

“Because you’re my friend, Spock. And if we never meet in person, I want to at least have some kind of visual to remember you by… even if it’s totally inaccurate.”

Friend.

Spock could not recall ever having one of those.

Was Kirk his?

“…Thank you,” he said quietly. “Jim.”

He hesitated, then added quickly, feeling the pressing need to redirect whatever had just passed between them:

“Though I believe there is no reliable method by which to assess the attractiveness of my appearance through verbal description alone.”

“Eh,” Kirk replied breezily, “you sound hot. Call it human intuition.”

Spock felt the unmistakable warmth rise beneath his skin; his cheeks tinged faintly green. Embarrassment bloomed, quiet but persistent.

He had spent time among humans before. He knew how prone they were to undisciplined speech. But this felt different. Not human, specifically Jim.

He willed the flush away. Focused. Recentered.

“What research have you been conducting today?” he asked, hoping to return to a subject he could navigate with confidence.

Jim laughed again, but it sounded different. Forced. Awkward.

“Um… yeah—research. Well, today I actually spent most of the day tinkering with the replicator so it'll make booze.”

And with that, the subject was changed. Jim launched into a winding, animated explanation of the technical process—how he’d bypassed both the physical restrictions and computer-coded blocks the outpost had in place to prevent replication of alcohol.

Had Spock been paying full attention, he could have easily followed the process. Jim was clearly a gifted engineer.

Yet his mind still was on their previous conversation. Jim’s teasing, open warmth. Being called a friend. Most distractingly, the unfamiliar feelings searing complicated, confusing patterns just underneath his skin.

After they signed off for the evening, Spock completed his meal and final systems checks 57% faster than usual.

Then, with quiet urgency, he climbed onto his meditation table.

He needed time. Time to analyze, to sort, to contain whatever disconcerting human emotions were still brimming at the edge of his consciousness.

He had a growing suspicion that his standard forty-five-minute practice would not be sufficient.

Taking a deep breath—and one final glance at the cold, gray landscape of CDX—he closed his eyes and began.

***

With one final snip, Spock inspected the evenness of his haircut in the tiny washroom mirror.
He didn’t look any different—but the fact that he’d allowed his hair to grow long enough to graze his eyebrows spoke volumes.

No longer did habit and routine govern his entire life, or serve as the sole reason he rose each morning.

Did Jim also cut his own hair? Spock could imagine the human taking a buzzer to the unruly blonde Spock imagined him to have—if only to avoid the patience and precision required by scissors.

Thoughts like these came more frequently these days. The first few times he’d caught himself wondering about Jim away from the radio, he’d been alarmed.

Distraction could compromise his duties. Unacceptable.

Now, months later, he allowed the thoughts to fully form. He even leaned into the fantasy: Jim running a hand through too-long strands with mounting frustration, before marching to the bathroom—and the inevitable buzz of clippers soon following.

His performance had not fallen outside regulation parameters simply from imagining what his friend’s days might look like—but the satisfaction he found in the thought was undeniable.

He had never been able to fully understand the emotion he’d tried so desperately to categorize the first day Jim had called him a friend. In the end, the only conclusion he could reach was that the feeling was pleasant—and there were no other Vulcans present to judge him for the lack of quantifiable reasoning behind it. Except, of course, himself.

“Hey, Spock! You there?”

The voice floated distantly through the corridors of the outpost, reaching even the enclosed washroom.

Spock placed the scissors on the side of the sink, not bothering to flush away the hair clippings left in the basin. He quickly strode to the control room.

They still maintained their scheduled daily conversations, but now both men kept their comms open throughout the day.

“Yes, Jim?” Spock said, settling into the radio chair—now padded with a couch cushion for added comfort, a small indulgence from some months back.

“Hey, I—uh, I think something hit one of my sensor satellites outside. Just a bit of debris, probably, but I gotta go out there and make some repairs. Just wanted to let you know in case you call and I don’t answer.”

There was something different in Jim’s tone. A tightness. Nervousness.
Spock considered whether or not to press the issue. There was no logical reason to analyze the shift in inflection—except that he wanted to.
He was concerned for his friend.

“…Are you uncomfortable with space walks?”

Jim sighed, long and unsteady. “Um… yeah, they’re not exactly my favorite thing in the world. It’s the whole ‘thin suit separating me from a vacuum’ thing. Just knowing one tear could mean my lungs explode and my eyes burst out of my head? Not ideal.”

Spock had never minded the few times he had needed to leave the safety of his outpost. It was merely another task to be completed—neither enjoyable nor distressing.
Still, he could understand Jim’s apprehension. It was a rational human response to an inherently dangerous activity.

“Are you able to patch this signal into your helmet?”

A pause.

“Possibly… would you be okay with that, though? I mean—what if I start freaking out or something? Like, have a panic attack out there, and you’re just stuck on the radio listening to me lose it?”

“I will not mind.”

Another pause. This one longer.

“Won’t that mess with your schedule? Don’t you usually do maintenance around now?”

“Jim,” Spock said, firmer now, deliberately using the name. He rarely addressed the human that way unless it was important.

“I will work on my control room maintenance tasks today. That way I will be by the radio. Is that acceptable to you?”

A final moment of hesitation—then:

“Okay. I’d—I’d like that, then. Thanks. I’ll be back once I get this channel patched into the helmet.”

“I will be here.”

***

Spock was elbow-deep in the innards of his computer station when Jim’s voice crackled through the comm, the quality noticeably worse—scratchy and clipped.

“Okay—testing. Spock, do you read?”

“I am reading you,” Spock replied from beneath the desk, continuing to solder thin wires with steady precision.

“Great,” Jim laughed, nervous and bright. “Okay, I’m venting the airlock. Wish me luck.”

“You do not believe in luck.”

“Shut up, man.” The human giggled, and Spock felt a flash of warmth—like someone had blown gently on the flickering candle that had burned in his chest for the five-point-one months of their communication.

“Fuckfuckfuck.” The muttered curse barely registered through the static of the helmet’s mic.

Spock surmised Jim had just exited the airlock. He considered how best to help.

“Tell me about the farm.”

Jim chuckled, a little breathless. “What? Do I sound that bad?”

Spock ignored the question. “Your stories of Earth have mostly been from your time at the Academy. I would like to hear about Iowa.”

“Hate to break it to you, but no one wants to hear about Iowa. But—for your sake—here goes.”

For the next 1.3 hours, Jim described his youth in vivid detail, stories punctuated by occasional muttered curses or frustrated grunts as he worked.
He hadn’t spoken much about his family before—but now, whether due to nerves or the distraction of repairs, he revealed more than ever.

Spock abandoned his own maintenance task, the opened panels still spread across the floor, wires and circuits exposed. Instead, he sat in his radio chair, motionless, listening intently.

Jim had loved the farm. The openness of the endless fields. The constant repairs that he insisted on doing himself rather than replacing parts. The quiet.

“Of course, my home life absolutely sucked ass. My uncle watched Sam n’ me when Mom was off-world and he was one mean son of a bitch. Beat the crap outta us.”

Spock hesitated, his mind snagging on the question he didn’t want to ask. But—as was often the case when it came to Jim—curiosity won out.

“What about your father?”

“Dead. And my mom too, eventually. From the war.”

Spock’s blood ran cold.

Not one, but both of Jim’s parents—lost to the Vulcan-Human conflict.

Shouldn’t the human despise him?

But Jim continued, unaware of Spock’s internal upheaval.

“Yeah, shit sucks. Sorry this story about the farm turned into a bit of a downer. Plus side, I think the dish is fixed! I’m headed back in, thank fuck. I’ll be back in a few.”

“Affirmative.”

The comm clicked off and Spock sat back in the chair, grateful for the silence if only to try and reorder his thoughts.

He was not responsible for the war. His very existence had been a bid for peace.

Still, a gnawing guilt twisted in his gut.

Was Jim speaking to him simply because he was the only voice available out here? Did he harbor some quiet resentment for Spock’s Vulcan heritage? Would that change if he knew Spock was half-human?

Spock's hand twitched against the armrest. No. Revealing his parentage would serve no practical purpose—and could become dangerous in the wrong hands. Even now, caution was imperative.

Jim’s voice suddenly cut through his thoughts—clearer now, the superior comm quality of the human’s radio station a welcome sound.

“Honey, I’m home!” he giggled, relief crackling through the line.

“I am glad the walk was a success.”

“Yeah, I just—I really appreciate you staying on the line. If you hadn’t been listening, I don’t even know… I might’ve seriously hyperventilated out there. It was actually my first time needing to do external repairs.”

“No thanks are necessary.”

Jim laughed again—warm, grounding. Spock felt the tide of guilt recede, leaving quiet embers in its place.

“Shut up and take the damn thanks. Anyway, I’m gonna get a drink and let you get back to whatever maintenance you actually needed to do. Talk at 1600?”

“Affirmative,” Spock replied, rising from the chair.

Originally, his task had been water recycler upkeep. But as he turned to leave the control room, the half-disassembled computer glared up at him like an abandoned puzzle.

With a quiet sigh, Spock sat down again and began to rebuild.

***

A quiet but persistent worry had begun to build in Spock’s mind over the past week, ever since Jim’s confession that both his parents had been killed in the war.

Jim had not mentioned how long he was assigned to the outpost. Perhaps he did not know. But considering the human had already been stationed there for 8.7 Terran months, it was possible he would be up for reassignment at the end of his first year.

If that were the case… would Jim still want to remain in contact with Spock?

Setting aside the viability of such an arrangement—Spock had never inquired about regulations on contacting civilians—he questioned whether Jim would even want to maintain their friendship once duty no longer bound them.

He wanted to ask. Desperately.

But what if the answer wasn’t the one he hoped for? What if voicing that fear fractured what they had?

His conversations with Jim were, arguably, the most important aspect of his life.

He had tried to ignore the anxiety. To set it aside, to meditate on it, to accept it. Yet twenty-eight years of Vulcan discipline had proven woefully ineffective.

Spock could tell himself he was not insecure. That the friendship served only as a means of distraction from the monotony of isolation.

But that would be a lie. He knew the truth.

He wanted Jim to like him—as much as he liked the human.

“You ever play chess?” Jim asked, voice slightly muffled around a mouthful of food.

They had taken to eating their dinners together over the comm these past few days.

“I have not. There is a Vulcan equivalent called kal-toh I have played—though I would argue it is far more challenging than the Terran version.”

Jim let out a soft laugh. “You think everything Terran is inferior to Vulcan.”

“That is typically the truth.”

“You wanna play or not?” Jim snapped, light-heartedly.

“I do not have a set.”

“Try programming it into the computer?”

“That would be a waste of resources with no logical purpose.”

Jim didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice had taken on a sly drawl.

“Oh, my mistake, Mr. Spock. I completely understand. The concept of losing a game to a lesser human like myself is, indeed, undesirable.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “You are baiting me by suggesting that I would lose.”

“Not at all! It’s only natural that you’d want to avoid potential embarrassment.”

Spock considered him, the flame in his chest flickering a bit brighter at the banter.

“Very well. It should take approximately twenty-three minutes.”

Jim chuckled. “You and your ‘approximations’.”

Exactly 23.7 minutes later, Spock had constructed a rudimentary chess program on his console, modeled after the rules Jim had provided.

His bowl of pok-tar sat at the radio station to his right—half-eaten, long cold, abandoned. He told himself he had become prematurely full. But the portions had been carefully calibrated for his nutritional needs.

In truth, he’d simply been too engrossed in the task. Too eager.

“I believe the program is complete.”

“Hell yeah! I’ll grab my set. Prepare yourself, my friend—I was chess club leader at the Academy.”

Spock blamed his first loss on learning the rules of the game, though in truth they were nearly identical to kal-toh.
The second loss, he blamed on Jim’s insistence they play while listening to the loud cacophony of sounds he called music.

By their third game, they had long overstepped his designated dinner hour—now well into the time he typically set aside for nightly system checks.

“Check,” Jim announced proudly—for the fourth time that game.

Spock exhaled sharply through his nose.

Jim was simply too unpredictable. He was unlike any Vulcan opponent Spock had ever faced.

Vulcans relied on a single strategy: flawlessly logical, efficient, and predictable. Once learned, that strategy could be anticipated. Countered.

Jim, on the other hand… Jim changed strategies nearly every turn.

He bluffed. He gambled. He played with no discernable logic—and yet he had beaten Spock nearly three times in a row.

As ever, the human was endlessly, painfully fascinating.

“Do you enjoy my company?”

The question escaped before Spock could fully consider the consequences—and immediately, he felt the heat of embarrassment crawl up his spine, sinking claws of fear into the base of his neck.

“Huh?” Jim sounded caught off guard. “Why are you suddenly asking that?”

Spock internally cursed his lapse in control. How could he explain that he did not understand why Jim didn’t hate him, simply for what he was?

“My apologies. Please disregard my previous question. Knight to level two, delta-six.”

“I’m not ignoring that.” Jim’s voice was quiet now. Steady. “Are you—have you been worried I don’t like you?”

Spock remained silent, the sound of his heart pounding against his ribs like a trapped creature.

“Spock… we’ve been talking to each other for hours a day. For months.”

“5.1 months.”

Jim groaned, exasperated. “Yes. 5.1 months.” He paused. “Have I ever given you the impression I don’t want to talk to you or something?”

There was no accusation. No frustration. Only concern.

Spock’s heart beat hard against the side of his ribs, threatening to break free of its biological restraints.

“I am… poor company by human standards.”

Jim scoffed. “And how would you know? You’re a Vulcan. I doubt you’ve spent much time among humans. Now, I know I’m a special case even among my own—but Spock? You’re awesome. Even the most logic-hating, irrational human could see your flaws and strengths.”

“Vulcans do not have flaws.”

Jim laughed openly at that. “Says the man who’s worried I don’t like him.”

He paused, tone shifting. Thoughtful.

“Is—” he cut himself off with a frustrated sigh. “Is this because of what I told you… about my parents?”

Spock didn’t answer. He didn’t know how to answer.

“Right. I forget that technically, we’re supposed to be enemies. I mean, that’s the whole fucking reason we’re out here.”

“Correct,” Spock murmured softly.

“I—I don’t, ugh!” A dull thud came over the comm as Jim smacked the table. “I’m sorry. I’m just really shit at talking about this stuff. I don’t hate you for being Vulcan, Spock. In fact, I like you. A lot. And I think I’d still like you even if you weren’t the only person I could talk to for literal light-years. The way my parents died—I don’t blame you. I could never blame you.”

He stopped, taking a long, deep inhale, as if trying to steady something unraveling inside himself.

Spock’s eyes were wide. His hand had slowly clenched around the pen he often fidgeted with, knuckles now pale and bloodless. His heart thundered wildly at his side as a strange torrent of emotion swirled and eddied and broke against the barriers of his control.

“I don’t even blame Vulcans, really. I just… I’m so fucking tired of all this, you know? This stupid Neutral Zone. The anger we’ve been told to carry. Here we are, with the literal endless expanse of space at our fingertips—and yet we’re infighting between our tiny, insignificant solar systems. Don’t you want to explore, Spock? See what the cosmos have to offer?”

Spock finally exhaled the shaky breath he’d been holding in. A brief flash of a life with Jim where they could simply travel and learn and discover skittered through his mind. The thought was endlessly warm, spreading like sunlight over calm water.

“Yes. I am also… tired.” Spock answered softly. “If I could explore anywhere I think I would like to start with Bajor. The geographical and hydrological environments have always fascinated me.”

“I’ll take you there,” Jim said after a beat—hesitant, unsure if it was the right thing to say.

But it was exactly the right thing.

Spock let the pen fall from his grasp. It hit the console with a soft clatter as the foreign emotions finally surged free.

A small, unguarded smile pulled at his lips.

He wondered if Jim could hear it in his next words.

“I would like that.”

Chapter Text

It was late into the night when Spock awoke with a sharp inhale.

Highly irregular. He rarely woke without cause.

Something felt wrong.

He rose and slipped on a pair of soft pants before padding to the environmental controls. The lights came on with a soft hum as he scanned the room, suspicious.

He paced the length of the outpost, methodically checking every corridor.
Sensor readings appeared nominal.
No anomalies. No intrusions. Nothing out of place.

Yet something gnawed at the edge of his perception.

He ended his search in the control room, standing still for a long moment, trying to recall what had woken him.

A sound? A feeling?

…Jim?

Surely not. There was no rational explanation for forming a mental link with a human stationed approximately 0.00678 light-years away. It was impossible.

Yet he felt as if his mind was screaming.

Tentatively he leaned over his radio station and unmuted his comm.

“Jim?” he called softly.

Only silence greeted him. He tried once more, slightly louder. “Jim?”

Only the hum of the air recycler filled the room.

He straightened with a sigh, finally deciding the reasoning for wakefulness had eluded him, and turned to return to his living quarters.

Three steps from the door, a strained voice crackled through the receiver: “Spock?”

He was in the radio chair instantly. “Jim, is everything alright?”

He fought to keep the concern from his voice.

A laugh. But it was wrong. Warped. Slurred around the edges.

“What’re you doin’ up so late, huh?”

The question was logical. The delivery was not. Spock’s hand clenched into a fist beneath the console.

“Are you alright?”

“Pssh, I’m fine!” More laughter. Looser now. Sloppy.

Spock's stomach dropped.

“Have you been drinking?”

“Yessir!”

Spock’s brow drew together into a deep frown.

Jim had modified the replicator to produce alcohol months ago, but he’d never been drunk. An occasional drink after a long day. A small glass during their nightly chess matches. Never like this.

“Why are you inebriated at 0345 in the morning?”

“Oh, shit, is that the time?!” More laughter, sharp and jagged. “Don’t think I’m gonna be up early enough to make my report.”

The laughter faltered. Then stopped altogether. A silence bloomed. So long, so heavy, Spock began to fear Jim had passed out.

Then, softly: “M’brother’s dead.”

It was as though ice water had been poured over him.

Jim’s last living family member—gone. Alone now, truly.
Alone in the middle of nowhere.

Spock swallowed hard.

“How did he die?”

“Some kinda virus.” Jim gave a bitter, broken laugh. “Got his wife and kid too. Happened weeks ago. Just got the message earlier.”

Eight hours ago, Jim had been laughing. Bragging about chess. Talking about the book he was reading.

Now—he was shattered. Drowning in grief. Alone in a steel tomb with nothing but silence and synthetic air.

A quiet, choked sound cracked through the silence.

“We—weren’t close, really, but… fuck—I wasn’t even at the funeral. I was out here. In this shit box!”

A heavy thud slammed through the receiver, followed by a ragged, stuttering inhale.

“I fucking HATE it here!!”

Spock’s mind reeled, spinning in place, grasping for logical solutions and finding none.

There were no logical solutions to this.

Only grief.

Soft, faltering breaths—sniffling, shuddering—filtered through the speaker as Jim cried.

“I—I’m sorry, Spock. God, I’m fucking shit company, right? You should just request switching to a different frequency already.”

He laughed, dry and humorless.

“You are not ‘shit company,’” Spock said quietly.

A real laugh broke through then—small and wet, but genuine. “Oh my god, did you just curse? I’m gonna be pissed if I forget that tomorrow.”

Spock hesitated, then took a breath.

A thought rose—something he had considered sharing for months. Perhaps from the moment they first met. The same lack of logical reasoning to divulge the information again surfaced at the forefront of his mind, but he justified it—however poorly—as necessary.

Something to anchor Jim. Something real.

“Would you like to hear about my mother?”

“I don’t know if hearing about a perfect, logical Vulcan is gonna improve my mood,” Jim laughed weakly.

Spock hesitated.

Just one more moment.

One final breath before he crossed a threshold he couldn’t uncross. Before he offered up the one truth he’d kept sealed from everyone out here—even Jim.

“My mother was human.”

“...Huh?”

“My mother was a human. I lived on Earth as a child—before the war.”

Jim stuttered, his alcohol-impaired brain trying to piece together the weight of the words.

“So… does that mean your mom was—”

“Amanda Grayson, yes. And my father was Sarek of Vulcan.”

“Wait, wait, wait. Wait. So you’re the kid from that stupid fuckin’ ‘marry off important people and maybe we won’t want to kill each other anymore’ plan?”

Spock felt a flash of irritation at the crude oversimplification but suppressed it, reminding himself that Jim was not currently of sound mind.

“Correct.”

Silence fell—long enough that Spock could practically hear Jim’s thoughts straining to assemble the pieces.

“Why the actual fuck are you stuck out here then?”

“That is an… unpleasant story. Perhaps better suited for another time. But if you’d like, I can tell you a bit about my mother—and my childhood on Earth.”

“Shit, man. Shoot,” Jim said, his voice stunned, still processing who exactly he’d been speaking to all these months.

Spock drew in a breath.

“I spent my first twelve years on Earth. I didn’t see my father much. Or other Vulcans. It was… lonely. Earlier—when you said I wouldn’t know what kind of company I was around humans—I do know. Intimately. Humans did not like me. Partly because of my race, yes. But also the way I acted. The logic with which I approached the world. But… my mother understood.”

He relaxed into the chair, eyes drifting shut for a moment at the memory of her:

Her scent—warm vanilla and nutmeg.

Her smile—gentle, unwavering, loving despite everything he was.

“Even though I was the product of a relationship she did not choose, she never hated me for it. She was a teacher. Patient. Kind. Even when she grew angry—lashed out with those painfully human emotions—she always apologized. Always told me she loved me, even though I never said it back.”

“She sounds like an amazing woman,” Jim said softly.

“She was. I do not know if she’s still alive. When the war began, I was on Vulcan. Visiting my father to perform a… traditional ritual all children undergo. I remained there. And he… sought to purge the human influence from me. To turn me into a textbook Vulcan. But my mother’s influence remained—though I have tried, for many years, to ignore it. To control it.”

He glanced down at his hands, folded loosely in his lap.

A memory surfaced, unbidden.

He and his mother, kneading bread dough after a particularly difficult day.

He’d been hiding the bullying for months—bruises, stolen school supplies—but she had caught him in the bathroom, stemming a bloodied nose.

She’d cried when he refused to explain. Then, instead of pressing further, she’d spent the rest of the afternoon baking with him. He’d chosen savory peppered filling. She chose cinnamon sugar. They ate it warm with dinner, fresh from the oven.

The memory surrounded him now like a blanket—familiar, comforting. Untouched by distance or time.

“No matter how much time passes… how far away you might feel—your brother will always be with you, Jim. The memories may dim, but they will never fade completely.”

He paused, then added—so softly it barely crossed the line:

“S'ti th'laktra.”

More sniffles and choked breaths filtered through the comm.

“What—hic—what’s that mean?”

“I grieve with thee.”

A heavy silence settled between them.

Then, after what felt like hours, Jim’s voice broke through—quiet, raw.

“Will you stay on the line with me? Talk more about your mom?”

Spock closed his eyes. A sad, gentle smile ghosting over his lips.

“Of course.”

***

Spock wasn’t sure how it had happened, exactly.

It had been a day like any other, indistinguishable in the sea of endless monotony that shaped their lives—separate, but always together.

It was their shared leisure hour before sleep.

Over the past months, both men had subtly adjusted their schedules, each compromising to create a daily rhythm that left ample time to talk.

Or, in tonight’s case, simply to sit in silence. Companionable. Comfortable.

Jim was reading one of his fictional novels. Softer music than usual filtered quietly through the speakers—gentle, ambient, unintrusive.

Spock was working on his replicator’s code. Like most equipment in the outpost, the device was outdated, capable of producing only fifteen meal variations rather than the more modern 150.

Theoretically, it could be reprogrammed to expand its offerings. And after nearly four years of the same fifteen meals, Spock’s palate was desperate for change.

Then—Jim’s soft, filtered laughter broke the stillness.

He was still not quite back to his usual self in the weeks since his brother’s passing, but the human’s laughter had been returning—slowly, unevenly—to the easy way it once flowed.

Spock was glad for the sound.

“Is your novel amusing? I thought you said it was a dramatic romance.”

“It is!” Jim replied, still chuckling. “It’s just… this line made me think of you.”

He cleared his throat with exaggerated drama.

“‘Let me help,’ he said to her, extending a slender hand as she stepped out of the vehicle. She’d heard those words a thousand times from him by now, and suddenly the weight of them—of the truth—bore down upon her with a crushing realization.
This whole time what he had really been saying was I love you.’”

Jim gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. “That’s totally how you’d tell someone you loved them, amirite?”

And that was all it took.

The realization that knocked the breath from his lungs as if he’d been physically thrown into the wall. Hit with phaser fire. Sucked into the breathless vacuum of space.

He was in love with James T. Kirk.

Completely.

Desperately.

His hands fell from the computer’s keyboard, code forgotten, as his lungs struggled to inhale. The air suddenly felt impossibly thick—heavy with revelation.

When? How?

His gaze fell to his lap, fingers now gripping his knees with unnecessary force, as if grounding himself might dull the burning ache building in his chest.

It hurt.

It hurt—how deeply he felt for Jim.

The candle that had been burning within him for eight-point-two months was now a raging wildfire. Searing his nerves. Permanently imprinting the truth into his very marrow.

“Spock?”

The Vulcan gasped for air, willing his lungs to expand.

His heart thundered—so rapid, so violent—that a wild, flashing fear tore through him: that it might simply fail under the strain.

“Spock, you good?” Jim’s voice was sharp now, edged with real concern.

Spock inhaled again—desperately, greedily—and forced his muscles to release, one by one.

“Rata’tash,” he whispered.

Calm yourself.

His voice was steadier when he finally spoke again. “Apologies, Jim. I had to check on the replicator.”

He held his breath in the silence that followed, praying—furiously—that Jim would accept the lie.

“…Sure, man. Everything good?”

“Yes.”

He grasped at the first technical fact that came to mind. “I believe the code—combined with some physical modifications—should result in an additional twenty-four meal options.”

There was a pause.

“Awesome,” Jim replied.

But there was something else in his tone. Something Spock couldn’t quite identify.

He chose to ignore it. Instead diving back into his code—his hands moving too quickly, his mind refusing to pause.

Anything to drown out the inferno he’d just named.

***

The annual supply drop was today.

In past years, Spock had looked forward to the event, even though the conversations—if they could even be called that—were cold. Clinical. A simple recitation of cargo manifests and the status of his requisition requests.

Still, any interaction—even between other Vulcans that considered him inferior—had once been an event worth anticipating. A momentary break in the crushing silence.

But not anymore.

Now Spock had someone he truly enjoyed speaking with. Someone he treasured.

Someone waiting for him just on the other end of a radio frequency.

He just wanted the supply drop to come and go. To confirm the all-clear. To tell Jim it was safe to resume contact.

They hadn’t spoken in three days.

Spock had calculated the ship’s arrival window and deemed any radio communication during that time too risky. The chance of their signals being picked up by the supply vessel was small, but not negligible.

He dared not take any chances that any other Vulcan hear he’d been speaking to Jim—and revoke that privilege.

No. Not a privilege.

A need.

In the weeks since his revelation about his attachment to Jim, Spock had tried to deny it.

To meditate on it.

To ignore the nearly imperceptible thread of mental connection that had formed between them—One he hadn’t even noticed until it was already there.

Now, it felt more like a highway. A direct line.

Obvious.

At least, to him.

He told himself it was unnecessary to confirm whether Jim also sensed the link.

But, as with most of his thoughts concerning the human, his reluctance was not rooted in logic.

It was fear.

Fear that Jim didn’t feel it. Or worse—that he did, and the attachment was unwelcome.

And if that were the case—if the bond had formed one-sided and unsanctioned—then the only remedy would be separation.

Even temporarily.

Spock was not about to suggest such a heinous idea.

Jim had become his lifeline.

He could not return to the crushing solitude that had defined the years before Jim. It would be like seeing the sun for the first time—only to be sealed back inside the coffin he’d been buried in since leaving Earth.

Since leaving her.

Spock paced in front of the radio console, unable to sit—unable to remain still.

The supply vessel was scheduled to arrive at 1230, and all morning he had been restless.

His morning run had stretched an unprecedented 1.15 hours.

His breakfast—barely touched.

His 0900 to 1200 research block—abandoned after only one hour, when concentration proved impossible.

So when the familiar ticking of the air recycler returned, Spock had almost welcomed it.

A problem. A task.

A distraction.

He had nearly smiled as he stripped down to his base layer and crawled into the all-too-familiar ventilation shaft, grateful for something to do with his hands and mind.

But now—without a new problem to solve—he found himself pacing again, wearing a silent rut into the metal flooring beneath his feet.

Human impatience.

Twenty-three minutes.

They would arrive in twenty-three minutes.

Stay for twenty-seven.

Then, in three solar days, he would speak to Jim again.

Was Jim faring any better?

Did he crave their conversations as Spock did?

Did he need them—need Spock—the way Spock needed oxygen?

He stopped pacing. Closed his eyes. Drew in a steady, measured breath.

“K’etwel.”

Patience.

Twenty-one minutes to go.

***

The Vulcan—Stonn—greeted him with the ta’al and a cold, clipped:
“Spock of Vulcan. I come to serve.”

Spock returned the salute.
“I thank and accept your service, Stonn.”

Stonn nodded once. “I shall unload the cargo first. Then you may verify the manifest.”

Without another word, he turned and began climbing the rungs of the built-in ladder on the adjacent bulkhead, disappearing through the opened roof airlock and back into the supply vessel.

Spock remained at perfect attention, the only sign of his unease the way his hands were clasped—too tightly—behind his back.

Several minutes passed in near-silence, save for the muted rustling from above.

Then:
“I will begin lowering the cargo now,” came Stonn’s voice.

Spock gave no reply, simply waited as the first large bin descended through the airlock in a thin harness.

With a soft thud, the container touched down. Spock stepped forward, unfastened it with practiced ease, and moved it aside.

Three more bins followed.

Stonn returned moments later, descending into the outpost with a PADD in hand, and began listing the inventory aloud:

Medical supplies.
Replacement filters.
Power cell backups.
Fresh uniform sets.

Each item delivered with identical, emotionless cadence.

Spock realized—with quiet clarity—how much he preferred Terran speech patterns.

The subtle inflections. The emotional undercurrents. The way humans seemed to imbue meaning into every gesture, every phrase, every breath.

Suddenly, he understood why the children on Earth hadn’t liked him—not just because of his ears or his name, but because he had sounded like this.

Like Stonn.
Like static.
Like silence, wrapped in words.

Jim—by contrast—was vibrant. Dynamic. Alive.

“Your requisitions for replacement air recycler parts and memory chips were approved,” Stonn continued flatly.
“The spices and hydroponic unit were denied. They serve no purpose.”

Spock’s mind had drifted—but that line snapped him back.

“Understood.”

“There is one more thing.”
Stonn’s eyes flicked up, cool and appraising.
“Vulcan High Command has been informed of transmissions you have been making to an unknown party.”
A beat of silence.
“Please explain.”

Spock stiffened, blood turning icy cold.

“Yes… The Terran Neutral Zone outpost was experiencing an emergency and happened to broadcast on my frequency. I responded, as per Regulation 6, Section 15a of the Vulcan-Terran Peace Treaty, in order to assist.”

Stonn’s eyes narrowed.

“What was the nature of the emergency—and why was this not recorded in your daily report?”

Spock set his jaw, forcing the rising panic from his voice.

“They suffered a critical systems failure in their computer network. I was able to walk them through a reboot sequence, having specialized in computer engineering at the Science Academy.”

Stonn remained impassive.

“And the omission from your report?” he asked, after a pause in which Spock did not immediately reply.

Spock hesitated.

The excuse he had prepared would be believable. But humiliating.

He decided it was worth the shame.

“It was an error on my part,” he said at last. “I… forgot.”

Stonn raised a single eyebrow.

“Understood. That is not an unexpected oversight for you.”

The words were calm. Surgical.
And they tore into Spock’s pride like a blade.

“I will inform High Command of your lapse.”

Stonn raised his hand in the ta’al.
“Live long and prosper.”

Spock mirrored the gesture, stiffly.
“Peace and long life.”

And just like that, Stonn was gone.

The airlock sealed with a hiss, followed by the low clunk of disengaging clamps. The soft venting of atmosphere whispered through the corridor.

Spock turned to the stack of supply bins now littering his hall.

He said nothing.

He simply bent down and began to unload.

Chapter Text

“Spock to Jim. Do you read? Resupply has been completed. This frequency should now be out of range.”

Precious seconds passed. Spock sat completely still, every muscle tensed in anticipation.

Six days had never felt so long.

Just as he reached for the receiver to try again, Jim’s voice burst through the speakers—

Too loud. Too fast.

Spock did not lower the volume.

“Fucking finally! Damn, I seriously don’t know how I made it those first few months. Six days and I was already thinking about just throwin’ the airlock open and ending it all.”

Warmth bloomed in Spock’s chest at the sound of his voice. The excitement. The humor.

“Somehow, I am not surprised by your incredibly human lack of patience.”

Never mind that Spock had spent the last hour buffing away the scuff marks he’d worn into the floor from pacing.

Jim laughed. “Like you didn’t miss me.”

“That would be a human emotion I am unfamiliar with.”

More laughter. “God, you’re insufferable.”

Then, quiet.

A pause. A softness.

“Well, if you won’t say it, I will. I missed you.” Jim’s voice had lost its bravado—gentle now, sincere.

Spock willed away the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Eh k'etwel nam-tor etek svi'wak.” He replied softly.

A beat.

“What’s that mean?”

“I am afraid translating that would be against protocol.” Spock replied dryly.

Jim scoffed. “You asshole. Just wait until I get my hands on a book of Vulcan translations. It’ll be game over for you.”

“To my benefit, I do not believe you will have access to such a book out here.”

Silence. Just for a moment. But it twisted something in Spock’s chest.

“Jim?”

“Ah—yeah, I’m here.” But the tone had shifted. Uneasy. Hesitant.

“So, listen. Um… while we were out of contact, I got a message from Terran Command. You remember—I’m coming up on a year out here.”

Spock felt his stomach drop. He swallowed thickly.

“I am aware.”

“Yeah. Well… I’m being reassigned. Back home. Desk job. Still hell on Earth for me, but—well, on Earth this time.”

The floor seemed to vanish beneath him.

Spock quickly placed both palms on the desk, grounding himself with deliberate precision. He closed his eyes and focused.

The cool metal beneath his hands.

The unyielding solidity of the chair under him.

Anchor yourself. Breathe.

“…I see.”

Silence bloomed—thick, suffocating, heavy with everything unspoken.

Jim’s voice broke it.

“How much longer are you gonna be out here?”

Spock considered lying. The truth, of course, was likely until death.

Death from environmental exposure. System failure. Or—more likely—from the physiological torment of Pon Farr, isolated and untreated.

T’Pring had eagerly requested the severance of their bond upon his reassignment to Outpost 410.

“Unknown,” he said quietly.

“You can’t request another assignment? Haven’t you been out here for, like… years at this point?” Jim’s voice was rising, strained.

“And you still never told me why someone as important as you are is stuck way out here. Surely it wasn’t from punching another Vulcan.”

He laughed—sharp. Brittle. Not real.

“That information is… classified,” Spock managed, breath tight in his chest.

“Don’t give me that shit. Talk to me, Spock. I—I can’t see you. I can’t see what you’re thinking.”

Spock’s eyes flicked to the clock, searching for an out.

“Excuse me, Jim. I believe I have afternoon systems checks to perform. We may reconvene during our evening meal.”

A sigh filtered through the channel—exasperated, then deflated. “Yeah. Sure.”

Spock muted his comm. Pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes.

He had known this day would come.

Of course he had.

Humans were not Vulcans. They did not tolerate open-ended exile. They were protected by their regulations—by reason, by empathy.

Spock should be grateful.

He had been given months. Nearly nine months of laughter. Music. Companionship. Understanding.

But now that the time had come, he was woefully unprepared.

He remembered the moment Jim had drawn his portrait—‘if we never meet in person, I want to at least have a visual to remember you by’.

And Spock had known then. Even then. That they would never meet.

Jim had probably known, too. So why had he said it?

Why had they both allowed this connection to grow—knowing full well it would end like this?

It was illogical. The definition of it.

To invest so much of himself in a voice on a frequency. To build a bond he could not keep.

Because you wanted companionship.

And now? That irrational desire had given birth to pain. Frustration. Grief. Anger.

Anger at Jim.

At himself.

At the circumstances.

Spock stood abruptly and shook his head.

He needed to look forward now. To a near future where Jim would no longer be present.

He had allowed himself to grow too open. Too unguarded. Too human.

He would rein it in. Reestablish control. And by the time Jim was gone—he would be ready.

Ready to face isolation once more.

***

Spock did not answer Jim’s questions later that evening.

And as the remaining weeks before the human’s departure ticked steadily away, he found his meditations growing shorter—and his physical conditioning hour longer.

By the time he entered his severely undersized gym room, after his morning meal and equipment checks, he was brimming with unspent energy.

But no amount of running—even with the artificial gravity set to maximum—no bodyweight repetitions, no perfectly executed Vulcan martial forms, could dislodge the unease that had rooted itself inside him.

A slow, simmering anger floated just beneath the surface of his skin. Not explosive. Not violent.

Just constant.

Buzzing like a damaged power cell.

So when the ticking started up again—midway through his shared research block with Jim—Spock let out a sharp breath.

The sound cut through the radio silence like a blade.

A small chuckle filtered through the speakers. “Uh oh. Daddy’s angry.”

“I do not experience anger,” Spock replied—sharper than he intended.

A pause.

Spock inhaled, steadying himself.

“My apologies, Jim. The screws I requisitioned for my faulty air recycler have proven ineffective. I will need to cut our research time short to investigate.”

Jim hummed thoughtfully.

“Wow, yeah, that would piss me off too. Maybe you’re fixing the wrong thing? Why don’t you take me with you? Talk me through what you’re seeing. You know I’m a better engineer than you.”

Spock ignored both the implication of being ‘pissed off’ and the assertion of Jim’s superiority in engineering.

“It is the screw. Possibly the housing. I will tighten it for now and consider a more permanent solution during my maintenance block later.”

Jim groaned. “Don’t be so stubborn! Just set up an open communicator at your radio and take the other receiver in with you. Come on, man. Let me help.”

Let me help.

The words struck him like a blade to the chest—simple, devastating.

“…Very well. I will agree, if only to demonstrate that this is an excellent exercise in human irrationality.”

Jim giggled, triumphant.

“I expect an apology when I prove you wrong, you stubborn Vulcan.”

***

“Wow, it must be a really tight squeeze. I’ve never heard you make such un-Vulcan noises.”

Jim’s voice—staticky through the ancient communicator Spock had unearthed from the bottom of a supply bin—echoed through the narrow air shaft.

Spock grunted an “Indeed” as he maneuvered himself into position before the air recycler, not particularly in the mood to calculate just how small the space truly was.

“I am at the recycler. As I have stated previously, the issue is a screw from the filter bay cover. Confirming it has come loose again.”

Jim chuckled. “Alright, well—humor me. Is the ticking constant or does it fluctuate with air pressure cycles?”

“It occurs intermittently, aligning roughly with vent rotation intervals—2.8-second cadence.”

“Mmhmm,” Jim hummed knowingly. “See, that’s not a housing issue. The screw’s just a symptom. Sounds like you’ve got a loose relay or a vibration from airflow resonance. Check the bracket near the main propeller.”

“I have inspected the unit during previous maintenance hours already.”

“Oh my god, Spock. Did you seriously bring me in here just to say ‘No’ to everything I suggest? Just do what I say.” He laughed at the end, exasperated and amused.

A flash of warmth sparked in Spock’s chest at the sound—Jim’s uncanny ability to be both frustrated and fond at the same time.

“I am visually inspecting the relay mount. It appears aligned. I will confirm torque values on the fastenings.”

“Thank you,” Jim replied with a huff. “Now, while you’re in there, check the thermal coupler. If it’s even slightly off its mount, it’ll hum like hell and sound like it’s coming from somewhere else.”

Spock adjusted his position, reached inside the housing—and froze.

“…The coupler’s alignment tab is sheared. The left end is vibrating against the housing.”

Jim’s triumphant laughter filled the shaft. “Boom. There’s your noise.”

“Indeed,” Spock replied softly.

“All right—you’ll need to wedge something non-conductive until you can replace the part. See if your dampener strips are still usable?”

Spock rummaged through the pouch at his waist, fingers closing around one of the rubber vibration strips.

“Affirmative. I will apply one now.”

Jim waited quietly while Spock secured the strip, pressed it into the crevice, and reinstalled the relay bracket’s paneling.

With the repairs complete Spock waited for a moment for the ticking to resume.

It did not.

“How’s that?” Jim asked at last, his voice slightly distorted, but unmistakably pleased.

“…It would appear the repairs were successful.”

“You’re welcome,” Jim said, smugness dripping from every syllable.

Spock felt an unwelcome smile threaten his composure as he began crawling back toward the shaft’s entrance.

“You were… correct.” He grunted, emerging from the vent panel and stretching long arms overhead with a relieved sigh.

“Wait, hold up. Can you repeat that? I wanna savor it.”

“I will not.”

Jim laughed. “That’s okay. I’ll just listen to it on my own time.”

Spock raised an eyebrow, but Jim was already answering the question before it was voiced.

“Oh yes, Mr. Spock. I was recording this conversation.”

Spock flushed. “You will delete that recording.”

“I will not. In fact, I’m going to listen to you saying I was right on repeat when I go to bed tonight. Like a lullaby.”

The smile that was threatening to reveal itself finally broke through his control. Spock huffed a quiet laugh before composing himself again.

“I have kept you from your duties. We will reconvene at 1600.”

“See you there,” Jim said—and his voice was so warm, so easy, so home-like that Spock almost said it.

Almost.

I love you.

I will miss you in ways you cannot possibly imagine.

I’m terrified of being alone out here again.

Don’t leave me.

Please.

***

Six more days.

Spock could no longer meditate at his window seat.

The harsh gray rock of CDX looked more uninviting than ever—a jagged, lifeless reminder of his circumstances.

A reflection of the nothingness that awaited him when Jim was gone.

***

Four more days.

He was barely eating.

The spreadsheet he used to log his physical statistics highlighted his caloric intake in red.

Insufficient.

He ignored the warning.

***

Two more days.

Jim had insisted he didn’t care if his transport team intercepted the signal—that they could continue speaking right up until he was docked, packed, and whisked away.

But Spock refused.

Today would be the last day of their contact.

“Knight from B2 to A1, top tier,” Jim called.

As usual the move was risky. Unexpected.

“Rook climbs to top board, corner square.”

Jim chuckled. “You always have a plan, don’t you?”

“I believe that is the thesis of a strategy game.”

“Queen to C4, upper board—that’s check Mr. Spock.”

“And it would seem you never have a plan,” Spock retorted, shifting his king to claim Jim’s bishop—punishment for the human’s failed gamble.

“Hey, I have a plan! It just… sorta changes every turn.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “That is the antithesis of a plan.”

Jim laughed, but the sound faded quickly, leaving silence in its wake. He didn’t make another move for one-point-seven minutes.

“Jim?”

“I’m gonna miss this so fucking much.” Jim said, voice gut-wrenchingly soft.

“…Will you?”

Spock stiffened.

“To ‘miss’ someone is a human emotion. One I do not experience.”

Jim scoffed—sharp, not playful. Frustrated.

“You seriously can’t admit that you’ll miss me? Not even now? On our last night together?”

He drew a breath.

“Look, I like our whole thing—your ‘I don’t experience human emotions’ bit. It’s your version of flirting and it’s fucking adorable.”

Spock’s eyes widened at the implication, breath catching faintly.

“But I need you to be sincere right now, Spock. I just... I need to know. God, I just want to hear you say that I mean as much to you as you do to me.”

“…I do not understa—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Jim exploded.

There was a loud clatter as the chessboard overturned—pieces scattering across his radio console.

“You stubborn asshole!” Jim barked. “We’ve spent nearly every waking minute together out here, in the middle of fucking nowhere, and you can’t admit that you like me? That you’ll miss me? There’s no Vulcans out here to judge you, man. Just one lonely human…”

His voice thinned—strained with emotion, warbling at the edges.

Silence settled like gravity, crushing and immovable on Spock’s shoulders.

“What would you have me say?” he asked at last, voice barely above a whisper. “What I feel makes no difference. You will return to Earth, and I will remain here.”

“You don’t have to stay out here, Spock!” Jim’s voice rose in disbelief. “This doesn’t have to be a prison. Resign your post. We could go to Bajor—hell, anywhere. We’re skilled guys. We could get jobs, start over. Build a life together. I—”

Finally, his voice cracked, raw and unguarded.

Spock felt it—all of it—like a wave breaking across the distance between them. A torrent through the thread of connection they had forged, however distant.

“I have nothing back home,” Jim said, the words low and trembling. “Don’t you understand? My whole world is out here. Is with you.”

Spock clenched his fists beneath the table. His lungs worked to draw in air, but it felt thick—heavy with emotion—constricting his throat like a vise.

“I cannot simply resign,” he said at last. “I would shame my father. My family name. You may not have anyone back home, but I do. I have a responsibility to my people.”

“Oh yeah, sure,” Jim snapped. “A responsibility to waste away out here because you’re a half-breed. Yeah, my mistake.”

Spock flinched, anger surfacing at the back of his throat like bile.

“And what did Sarek say to his only son when he handed down this assignment, huh? Did he even tell you in person, or just shoot you a fucking memo? Spock—top of his class at the Vulcan Science Academy—sent to an outpost they wouldn’t even give a goddamn cadet.”

Jim’s voice was cold—cold and devastatingly sharp.

“What would your mom say, Spock?” he asked bitterly. “Oh, right—you don’t even know if she’s fucking alive.”

“Enough, Jim.”

Spock’s voice was quiet, but it rang like struck metal—cold and final.

His knuckles were white, fists driven into his thighs so tightly he could no longer feel his own skin.

“I’m in love with you,” Jim said suddenly.

A silence. Then—

“Say you love me too.”

Spock’s mouth went dry. His heart thundered against his ribs, wild and uneven. He could feel the control slipping, emotion fracturing his carefully constructed calm.

“Say it.”

“… I cannot.”

The words barely made it out. A broken whisper.

Jim laughed—sharp, bitter. Then, clear as if he had leaned in and spoken straight into the mic:

“Fuck. You.”

A click.

And then—silence.

Chapter Text

Spock never heard Jim’s voice over the radio again.

Had his outpost always been this silent?

The quiet pressed in on him—crushing, complete. He found himself even missing the ticking.

So he resumed his pre-Jim routine.

Morning: Wake. Meditate. Systems checks. Physical conditioning. Report. Breakfast. Research.

Afternoon: Lunch. Meditate. Maintenance. Personal research.

Evening: Dinner. Final systems check. Personal log. Meditate. Sleep.

Every day the same. Then every week. And soon, every month.

He was numb. Physically present, perhaps—but mentally, he had shut down all non-essential functions. Only duty remained.

The perfect Vulcan.

And he was completely—utterly—devastated.

Only as he settled in for sleep in the dark of night—though out here it was endless night—did he allow himself to think of Jim.

Blue eyes. Dark blonde hair. A quick smile on an unfamiliar face.

Had he made it home?

The journey to Earth would have taken approximately one month, depending on the warp capabilities of the vessel sent for him.

Was he in Iowa now?

Or perhaps stationed at the Academy in San Francisco.

Did he visit his brother’s grave?

Spock willed the thought away—yet grief returned in full force. Not just for the loss of Jim, but for the idea that Jim had stood at Sam’s grave alone.

That Spock had not been there to comfort him. To steady him. To hold him.

Would he have been taller than the human?

Slowly sleep would take him, knowing he would never know.

***

A proximity alert jolted him from his afternoon meditation.

With a raised brow, Spock abandoned the viewport and strode into the control room.

An unknown vessel.
Not impossible—trade ships occasionally wandered this far from their solar routes—but still, an uncommon occurrence.

He opened a hailing frequency.

“Attention, unidentified vessel. This is Vulcan Neutral Zone Outpost 410. Please state your directive.”

He waited. Two minutes. No response.

He repeated the message.

The ship shifted course.

Now it was approaching his asteroid.

“Identify yourself. If you attempt to dock at this outpost without proper clearance, it will be a breach of the Vulcan-Terran Peace Treaty, code 3A, section 2.5.”

Still nothing. The ship kept coming.

Sensor readings confirmed it was small—cargo-class, likely. An older model. No active weapons, no formal ID broadcast.

The odds of receiving a response were diminishing rapidly.

Spock turned from the console and strode briskly to the storage room, scanning the neatly labeled bins until his eyes landed on the one marked: EMERGENCY ONLY.

He opened it and pulled out a phaser.

Old. Low charge. Maybe five shots left on the lowest setting.

It will have to suffice.

The vessel didn’t look capable of holding more than three individuals.

He dragged two heavy bins into the corridor, stacking them into a makeshift barrier near the base of the central ladder—the one leading up to the rooftop airlock. Then crouched. Took aim.

Silence.

Then—metal against metal.
A dull thud. The ship had docked. Clamps locked into place.

The stillness that followed was thick, breathless.

Finally it was broken by the whoosh of the airlock door.

It swung open with a clang as it hit the metal edge of the foreign ship—Vulcan design, able to be operated from either side in case of emergency.

Spock’s entire body tensed. He steadied his aim.

He only had basic phaser training. Surprise and precision would have to be his best allies now.

“Identify yourself!” he called, voice sharp, echoing through the empty corridor.

Silence.

And then—

Music.

A familiar song.

The floor fell away beneath his feet.

That same angry, unmelodic Terran music—loud, brash, defiant. The same song he’d heard a year ago.

He stood on shaky legs, lowering the phaser as his arm dropped limply to his side.

Boots echoed on the metal rungs of the ladder. Steady, climbing downward.

Then—Jim.

He stepped off the last rung and into the corridor, eyes sweeping the space until they met Spock’s.

A beat passed.

Stillness.

The music thudded faintly from the open airlock above, distant and chaotic against the quiet between them.

And Jim was—Beautiful.

Like witnessing a sunrise for the very first time.

Dark sandy blonde hair fell into short unruly patterns over sky blue eyes—eyes that pierced into the very marrow of Spock’s bones.

He was lean, all sinewy muscle baked in the glow of sun-warmed skin.

But it wasn’t his form that robbed Spock of breath.

It was the smile.

Wide. Crooked. Familiar.

As if he’d seen that smile a thousand times before—though this was the first time they had met.

“Bro,” Jim laughed, gesturing at the phaser in Spock’s hand, “you were seriously gonna shoot me for being romantic?!”

Spock couldn’t respond. Couldn’t breathe.

Even now he could feel his brain attempting to shut itself down, to block out the overwhelming questions and emotions that were flooding in.

He dropped the phaser to the floor with a sharp clang and slowly approached Jim.

The human laughed, and Spock could recognize the familiar nervousness in the sound without even looking at Jim’s face.

“Well, say something, man. You are Spock right? I didn’t get the wrong address?”

He stared, dumbly. Silently. Taking in every detail of Jim’s face—the creases, the sun-darkened freckles, the curve of his lips.

So perfectly imperfect.

“Jim?” Spock finally whispered in a choked voice.

Jim smiled—so wide Spock briefly feared his lips might split—then suddenly warm, lithe arms were around his waist, pulling him close.

Jim squeezed him tightly, fiercely—so tight that, were Spock human, he suspected his ribs might have fractured.

“Fuck. Fuck, dude—God, I never thought I’d see you again. Or ever, I guess.”

The onslaught of thought and emotion that surged through the contact overwhelmed Spock’s mental boundaries.

It had been years since he’d last experienced his touch telepathy—he’d forgotten what it felt like.

He had told Jim, once, about Vulcan telepathy. But, of course, Jim was human.

And humans liked to touch.

Still, Spock made no move to break away. Instead, he embraced the moment—and Jim.

His arms, limp at his sides until now, slowly—hesitantly—rose to Jim’s shoulders. He pulled the human close and pressed his face to Jim’s neck.

He drew in a slow, deliberate breath.

He hadn’t given much thought to what Jim might smell like. But now, surrounded by him, he knew.

Wax.

Soap.

And… grass?

Of course Jim would manage to smell like Earth—even here, in the vast emptiness of space.

The scent settled in Spock’s lungs like memory.

Like home.

Jim chuckled, the sound warm and resonant against Spock’s chest.

“Was I everything you hoped I’d be?”

Spock took another deep inhale.

“You are perfect.”

And then Jim pulled away and, before Spock could register what was happening, warm, soft lips met his.

Gentle at first. Just a simple meeting of their mouths.

Spock froze. Not in rejection, but awe.

He didn’t pull away.

And through the delicate thread of their mental connection, he felt it—Jim’s confidence, blooming.

The quiet, radiant confirmation that Spock’s love was not just platonic or theoretical—but deeply, irreversibly romantic.

Jim kissed him again—firmer this time. More certain.

Jim’s fingers found Spock’s jaw as he led them back in slow, deliberate steps, stopping only when Spock’s shoulders touched the cold bulkhead behind him.

Spock had never kissed anyone before.

And certainly never allowed himself to imagine doing this with Jim.

It was intoxicating.

The flashes of love and desire humming beneath Jim’s skin. The feel of soft, pliant lips working against his own.

Eventually Spock felt, with some surprise, Jim’s tongue running along his lips, seeking entry.

Spock granted it without hesitation, parting his lips to welcome him in.

Jim’s tongue slid against his own—tentative, then sure.

Lips on lips. Tongue against tongue. Jim breathing his air.

It stripped him bare.

Logic slipped away like mist in morning light. Duties forgotten. Questions unasked.

How Jim had found him, why he had returned—none of it mattered.

There was only this.

This single, unrepeatable moment.

This pocket of time carved out just for them.

“Tell me to stop,” Jim murmured between kisses. “Tell me you don’t want this.”

“Vulcans cannot lie,” Spock replied—then slid his tongue back into the human’s mouth, swallowing the moan that followed.

Jim began to rock against him—slow, instinctive.

Spock registered it dimly at first: a hardness pressed between their bodies, the deliberate exploration of Jim’s tongue as it swept through his mouth.

He shifted his stance, pulled Jim even closer—and gasped.

The sudden pressure of Jim’s thigh against his own throbbing length drew a ragged breath from deep in his chest.

Jim giggled, breathless. “Why, Mr. Spock. Are you having unsavory thoughts while on duty?”

He leaned in harder, grinding against him.

Spock shuddered.

Then he grabbed a fistful of Jim’s hair and yanked his head to the side.

“Ah!” Jim moaned, head tilting as Spock pressed searing kisses down the line of his neck, ending in a sharp bite to his collarbone.

“Was that acceptable?” Spock whispered into Jim’s ear, his voice trembling despite his efforts to steady it.

“God, dude—take me to bed. Now.”

Jim’s hand found the back of Spock’s neck, dragging him into another kiss as he ground his length roughly against Spock’s thigh.

Spock didn’t hesitate.

He hooked his arms beneath Jim’s thighs and lifted him clean off the ground, their mouths still locked, Jim’s startled noises muffled between them.

“Fuck—ah—you’re strong,” Jim gasped into his mouth.

“Approximately 2.8 times—huff—the strength of humans,” Spock replied, grateful he knew the outpost well enough to find his way to the bedroom through lust-fogged, half-lidded eyes.

At last, he reached it.

He lowered Jim gently onto the bed, then followed—climbing over him to capture his lips once more.

The rhythm of it felt instinctual, as if he had done this a thousand times before.

As if kissing Jim was something written into his very biology.

After a few breathless moments, Spock drew back, just enough to look at him. He cupped Jim’s face in one hand.

Exquisite.

Radiantly undone.

Lips pink and kiss-swollen. Hair curling in wild, disordered waves.

Blue eyes nearly eclipsed by the black of his pupils—dilated, hungry.

“What do you want, Jim?” Spock asked softly. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to fuck me. I want to feel you, Spock. I—”

Jim hesitated, gaze flicking away for just a moment before returning.

“I want you to meld with me.”

Spock froze. A faint frown creased his brow.

“You… You do not know what you ask.”

Jim sat up slowly, shifting so they sat side by side on the edge of the bed.

“I do know,” he said quietly. “I researched. Know thine enemy, remember?”

A small, rueful laugh escaped him.

“Turns out humans have a remarkable amount of knowledge about Vulcans—if you’re willing to dig.” He paused. “I didn’t just fix up that junker above us while I was on Earth.”

Spock’s fingers found their way to Jim’s knee, gliding softly along the curve of it—compelled by a quiet, unfamiliar need to maintain contact.

“A meld will… form a bond between us,” Spock said, voice hushed.

“Correction,” Jim replied gently. “It will strengthen the bond that’s already there.”

Spock’s eyes widened, just barely.

Jim smiled.

“I’m no telepath,” he said, “but I could feel you. Those last few months. Just… a warmth in the back of my mind. Like I was never really alone.”

He reached out, placing a hand over Spock’s chest, blue eyes locking onto brown.

“Do you still feel it now?”

“Th’y’la,” Spock murmured, placing his hand over Jim’s chest to mirror his own.

Jim tilted his head, a lopsided grin curving his lips.

“My Vulcan’s still in the early stages, so you’ll have to forgive me. What’s that mean?”

“Not quite a friend. More than a brother. Not even lover, exactly.”

Spock’s gaze dropped, as if trying to find the words in the floorboards.

“It is… difficult to translate into Standard. A connection so profound it is as if you are two halves of one whole. Incomplete without the other.”

Jim’s smile softened. His eyes shimmered with something quiet and unguarded.

“Th’y’la,” he repeated, as if testing the word, voice barely above a whisper.

“I want to bond with you, Spock. I want you to resign your post. Come with me.”

He laughed gently, eyes still locked on Spock’s.

“Please don’t say I came all this way for nothing.”

Spock lifted his other hand, cradling the back of Jim’s neck, and gently drew him forward until their foreheads touched.

He closed his eyes.

Breathed in.

The already familiar blend of their scents—soap, sweat, something green and sun-warmed—settled in his lungs like an anchor.

He let himself relax. Just for this moment.

Jim’s heartbeat pulsed steadily beneath his palm. His breathing was slow. Sure.

He loved this human.

It was unreasonable. Illogical. Unconscionable by Vulcan standards.

And true.

“I love you, Jim,” Spock whispered. “I will come with you.”

His hand slipped from the nape of Jim’s neck, gliding up along the curve of his jaw until his fingers found the meld points.

He pulled back just enough to meet Jim’s gaze.

“I will not connect us too deeply,” he said gently. “Just enough to share sensation. Please inform me if you become uncomfortable.”

Jim let out a soft laugh. “You horny Vulcan—you want to share physical sensation while we’re doing it?”

The corners of Spock’s mouth lifted in a rare, sly smile. “Are you… not interested in that?”

“Hell yes I am.”

Jim surged forward, and then his mouth was on Spock’s again—hot, hungry, just on the edge of reckless.

And then Spock opened his mental barriers.

He reached. Connected. Let their sensory input overlap.

Jim broke the kiss with a sharp, startled gasp.

“Holy shit—that’s weird!”

“Do you not like it?” Spock began to withdraw, but Jim caught his wrist.

“No! No, it’s… kind of awesome.”

He ran a fingertip along Spock’s lower lip, then up across his cheekbone, into his hair.

Spock closed his eyes. The sensations echoed—twice over.

“It’s like—like a phantom touch,” Jim said. “I feel my hand on you, but then I also feel it on me. Like a tingling on my face and shit.”

A wide grin split his face. “This is wild! Do you feel anything in your hand?”

“Yes. A phantom touch is an apt description.”

Spock felt a flicker of something unexpected through the connection—embarrassed jealousy.

“Have you… uh, done this with anyone else?” Jim asked awkwardly, his hand still exploring Spock’s temple, cheek, ear.

Spock nearly laughed. He was certain Jim felt it—an ironic little pulse of humor between them.

“Jim,” he said softly, “I’ve never done any of this before.”

Jim blinked.

“Oh. Shit.”

Spock opened his eyes and found Jim looking at him with sudden concern.

“Do you—I mean, we don’t have to do anything now. You wanna take it slow?”

Spock leaned in, shifting his hand away from Jim’s psi points but maintaining contact—just enough to keep the meld alive.

“As you would so eloquently put it: fuck no.”

He kissed Jim—deeply, hungrily—his mouth parting immediately, tongue gliding against Jim’s like velvet fire.

“Thank God,” Jim murmured between kisses, “’cause I did not want to rub one out in the bathroom.”

Then he pulled back, a little breathless.

“Though—let me, uh... prep myself.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Prep?”

Jim laughed, peeling off his shirt and tossing it straight at Spock’s face as he headed toward the washroom.

“You’re a smart guy. Just think about how two men are going to have penetrative sex and I think you’ll figure it out.”

He disappeared around the corner. “Be right back.”

Spock slowly pulled the shirt from his eyes and stared at it.

Prep?

***

Jim emerged a few minutes later, slightly more flushed than when he’d entered the washroom—now clad only in a pair of boxer briefs, a small bottle of medical lubricant in hand.

He tossed it to Spock.

“This is for medical use only, Jim,” Spock chastised automatically as he caught it.

Jim flopped onto the bed beside him.

“Well, we ain’t doing this dry or with spit,” he said, grinning. “And it’s not like they were gonna supply you with lube, okay? Now get your ass over here.”

Spock obliged without hesitation.

He reestablished the meld with ease as he leaned over Jim, pressing their bodies together and capturing his mouth once more.

There were no more barriers now. No revelations to halt them. No preparations left unfinished.

They kissed in earnest—hungry and reckless, abandoning caution as their bodies rocked together, returning to full hardness

Jim moaned into his mouth as Spock tangled a hand in his hair and dragged his nails down the length of his back, each motion sparking a mirrored pulse of phantom sensation along his own body.

Jim found the hem of Spock’s tunic and pulled it up and over his head, flinging it aside.

He paused—just long enough to rake his eyes over Spock’s bare chest, all sculpted lines and saffron-toned skin.

“Damn,” he laughed, eyes glinting with heat and surprise. “Who knew you’d be so hairy.”

Spock straightened to his knees, quickly unfastening his pants and sliding them down.

“Are you dissatisfied with my appearance?” he asked, voice quiet, almost uncertain.

“Are you kidding?” Jim replied—then grabbed Spock and pulled him back down, ravenous.

Craving the Vulcan’s touch like air in his lungs.

They crashed together—skin on skin, meld still active, sensations blooming across every nerve.

There was no effort needed now to maintain the connection; just proximity was enough. With his barriers relaxed, Spock let himself feel it all.

Their erections slid against each other beneath the last thin layers of fabric as they kissed and moaned and bit, all sense lost to heat and want.

Jim broke the kiss with a gasp, biting Spock’s lower lip hard.

”Spock, if you don’t fuck me soon, you’re not gonna make it inside.” Jim said breathlessly.

Spock froze for a beat, hesitating.

“I am concerned I will be… inadequate.”

“Hey,” Jim reached up, cupping Spock’s face with both hands, coaxing him into stillness. His blue eyes softened, warm and sure.

“You’re perfect,” he said. “Don’t worry about being anything but you.”

He pulled Spock in for a kiss—soft, unhurried, full of quiet reassurance. The emotion behind it rippled through their bond, touching every corner of Spock’s consciousness.

Spock nodded once.

Then he stripped off Jim’s underwear, followed by his own.

And suddenly, it was just them.

Naked.

Alone, suspended in silence in the middle of empty space.

Nothing left to separate one from the other.

Spock poured the lubricant into his palm, coating himself with deliberate care. His breath hitched—shuddering faintly at the sensation as Jim watched him, hunger written plainly across his face.

“Don’t stroke yourself too much,” Jim teased, his voice light, low, soaked in lust.

Spock exhaled shakily and removed his hand, wiping the excess on a discarded piece of clothing before moving to straddle himself behind Jim’s thighs once more.

Jim shifted beneath him, legs spreading to accommodate, hips tilting just slightly to guide him in.

Spock felt it—the first brush of warmth at his tip as Jim helped him align.

He took a grounding breath.

Then pushed forward—slowly, steadily—into impossible heat.

Tightness closed around him in an overwhelming rush, a bone-deep pleasure that pulled a groan from his chest as his forehead dropped against Jim’s.

Jim’s lips met his again—open, breathless—swallowing the groan that slipped from Spock as their bodies joined fully.

“Fuuuuck,” Jim moaned, tossing his head back with a breathless laugh. “Wow—this is insane with the meld. Honestly, it’s crazy Vulcans don’t fuck like rabbits, being able to do this.”

“We are… disciplined,” Spock managed, panting lightly against the side of Jim’s neck.

“Oh yeah,” Jim laughed, “you’re lookin’ real disciplined right now.”

Then he clenched—deliberate, hungry—pulling Spock deeper, until there was no space left between them.

And suddenly the laughter was gone.

His voice broke, threaded now with nothing but need.

”Fuck me, Spock.” Jim pleaded softly. “Please.”

Spock began to move.

He pulled out slowly—agonizingly slow—dragging every inch of himself from Jim’s body.

The phantom sensation of loss mirrored through the meld, paired with the tight, pulsing heat still wrapped around him, sent a ripple of sensation through both their minds.

It was overwhelming. Consuming. Perfect.

When only the tip remained, Spock thrust forward again—faster this time, but still controlled, deliberate.

He wanted to savor everything.

Every flex of muscle, every ragged breath, every tremor of Jim’s body beneath him. Their foreheads pressed together, breathing each other’s air.

“Shit,” Jim breathed, the sound half-laugh, half-moan. “I am not gonna last.”

His words stuttered with his breath as Spock bottomed out once more, the tops of his thighs pressing flush to Jim’s skin.

Again, Spock pulled out—and began a rhythm.

Still slow. Still methodical.

But with each thrust, he pressed a little harder, a little deeper, as Jim’s body gradually relaxed and opened around him.

Then—

A particularly strong thrust, and Jim suddenly cried out.

Spock froze.

He hadn’t felt pain through the meld—quite the opposite, in fact. There had been a sharp, electric burst of pleasure.

Still, he immediately pulled back, eyes searching Jim’s face with quiet concern.

“Did I hurt you?”

Jim let out a breathless laugh, the sound rippling down his body where it met Spock’s.

“No. Definitely not. I’m not sure if Vulcans have them, but human men have a kind of… G-spot. You just nailed it.”

Spock nodded slowly, absorbing the information.

“So,” he said, voice thoughtful, “if I thrust with more intensity, I will stimulate that spot again?”

Jim grinned up at him, eyes half-lidded, flushed and shining.

“Wow, it’s a real talent of yours to make dirty talk sound like a science briefing—but yes. Please fuck me harder, Mr. Spock.”

Spock obliged, rocking into Jim harder—faster.

Jim pulled Spock’s head down beside his, teeth grazing the pointed tip of his ear before biting lightly, grunting with each rhythmic thrust.

The meld amplified everything—every burst of pleasure each time Spock fully buried himself into Jim, every slick, pulsing clench around him. The sensation of driving into that hot, wet heat, again and again, was nearly overwhelming.

He could already feel the beginnings of release slowly building low in his abdomen. Pressure pooling in his navel.

Through the haze of moans, Jim’s voice slipped into his ear, breathless and laughing.

“Close? I can feel it. I am too.”

With that Jim grabbed Spock’s rear and began pulling him in harder. A voracious primal hunger driving his actions.

His free hand tangled in Spock’s hair, gripping hard, nails raking over scalp.

“Jim,” Spock gasped, struggling to stay coherent, “if you continue, I will—”

“Yeah, that’s the point, stupid!” Jim barked a laugh, which immediately dissolved into louder, hungrier moans.

Suddenly, he yanked Spock’s head up from the crook of his neck and crushed their mouths together in a searing, messy kiss.

And that is what sent Spock tumbling over the edge.

His mouth fell open against Jim’s, gasping as his vision whitened and his body seized in a blinding rush of pleasure.

He spilled into Jim with a groan, the meld turning sensation into something tidal—every nerve alive, every edge dissolved.

He was so far gone, drowning in the intensity of his own climax, that he barely registered Jim clenching around him in rhythmic waves.

At some point, Jim had reached between them, and now his own release spilled across his stomach, his hand still working himself through the final throes.

Shuddering breaths. Quiet, broken moans.

Their bodies slowly came down together, the last pulses of climax ebbing like the tide.

Spock eased down onto Jim’s chest, cupping his face in one hand as he kissed him—gentle, but deep.

After a long moment, he slowly disengaged the meld and began to pull out.

“Oh—wait—”

But it was too late.

Spock had already withdrawn fully, sitting back on his knees—only to watch, with dawning horror, as a myriad of fluids immediately began pouring from Jim, soaking the sheets beneath.

Jim burst out laughing at the expression on Spock’s face.

“Don’t just sit there—get me something to stem the tide!” he wheezed, the renewed pressure causing even more to spill out.

Spock blinked, then quickly reached for the shirt he’d used earlier to clean his hand—it would most certainly need a second wash now—and handed it to Jim with all the solemnity of offering first aid.

“Yeah,” Jim grinned, wiping himself off, “should’ve warned you. Sex is pretty gross.”

“Indeed,” Spock said gravely.

“But holy shit,” Jim continued, sitting up with a wide grin, “that was without a doubt the best I’ve ever had. And you were all worried about being ‘inadequate’—puh-lease. With that little party trick you’ve got up here—” he gestured vaguely at Spock’s temple, “—you’re always gonna be a great lay.”

There were far too many human idioms in that statement for Spock to interpret with confidence, so he merely accepted it as a compliment.

“I… also enjoyed myself quite thoroughly.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

Jim stood carefully, wiping himself again as more fluid trickled down his thigh.

“I have a feeling I’m gonna be leaking for a bit. Mind if I use the shower?”

Spock nodded.

As Jim disappeared into the washroom, the door sliding shut behind him, Spock began to clean himself with quiet efficiency—gathering their discarded clothing, stripping the sheets, folding them with precise corners despite their condition.

He moved through the motions methodically, but not without thought.

There was a small smile on his face the entire time.

A stillness in his chest he hadn’t felt in years.

Peace.

***

“So what, you’re just gonna leave a memo?” Jim asked around a bite of rations from his ship.

He’d tried a mouthful of Spock’s tevmel but immediately grimaced, pushing the bowl away with a grim, drawn-out:

“Noooope.”

“I do not wish to wait here for a replacement,” Spock replied evenly. “Additionally, I do not believe it would be wise for you to make your presence known.”

“Spock, if you just abandon ship like that, you’re risking desertion.”

Spock swallowed his bite of tevmel and met Jim’s eyes.

It still felt strange—remarkable—to look at him while he spoke.

To see every expression. Every smile.

To match the voice to the man.

Almost as disarming now as it had been the first time they’d spoken.

“I am aware,” Spock said quietly. “But I also have no reason to return to Vulcan. I am… unwelcome there.”

He looked down at his bowl for a moment, then back at Jim.

“I will send a private message to my father explaining the circumstances of my departure. If he is able—and willing—he may persuade High Command to grant me a dishonorable discharge in lieu of formal charges.”

Jim set down his ration bar with a sigh.

“Look… I know I yelled at you before I left. And yeah, I did just show up out of the blue like some unhinged romantic. But are you sure—absolutely sure—this is what you want?”

Spock reached across the small kitchen table and laid his hand over Jim’s.

A spark passed between them—warmth, certainty, the quiet hum of mutual understanding.

“We are bonded,” Spock said. “We are th’y’la. This is what I want.”

His voice softened.

“Exploring the galaxy with you would be the greatest honor I could ever hope to achieve.”

Jim smiled.

He leaned forward across the table and pressed his forehead to Spock’s.

“Th’y’la,” he whispered.

***

They spent the rest of the day packing Spock’s belongings and calculating the necessary rations and supplies to—
as Jim put it— borrow from the outpost.

Spock found he didn’t much care about the protocols they were breaking.

Jim loaded the ship while Spock recorded his final transmissions—one for High Command, and one, more personal, for his father.

With the last crate stowed, Jim climbed down the airlock ladder and exclaimed, “Oh—shit, I almost forgot!”

He fished a memory chip from his pocket.

“Got this for you.”

Spock raised a curious eyebrow but took the chip to the control room, sliding it into the computer console.

A video.

He glanced at Jim, still lingering in the hallway.

“You—uh… I don’t think you’re gonna want me standing over your shoulder for this,” Jim said. “I’ll be in the ship.”

Spock waited until Jim’s footfalls had faded away. Then, he turned back to the screen and pressed play.

A human woman—perhaps in her early sixties—appeared.

Spock’s breath caught.

She smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners, familiar and impossibly warm. Her hair had grayed since he’d last seen her, her face more weathered with time—but unmistakable.

His mother.

“Hello, Spock,” Amanda said softly. “Jim tells me you two are running away together.”

She laughed—light, airy—and Spock was instantly transported back to childhood afternoons in the kitchen.

Kneading dough. Chopping vegetables.

Warm. Safe. Home.

“That’s absolutely amazing and I’m so, so immensely proud of you. Jim seems like a lovely person.”

“Am a lovely person!” Jim’s voice rang from somewhere off-screen, and Amanda giggled.

“He is a lovely person,” she agreed. “And he promised me all he wants to do is make you happy.”

She sighed dreamily. “I can’t wait to hear about your adventures together! And who knows, maybe when you settle down somewhere, I can come visit. I hope you haven’t gotten too tall…”

Jim’s voice chimed in again: “Me too!”

Amanda laughed.

“I love you, Spock. And I’ll talk to you soon. Jim’s bringing all my communication info, for you. Be safe.”

She raised her hand in the ta’al.

“Dif-tor heh smusma.”

Spock mirrored the gesture, voice barely above a whisper.

“Live long and prosper, Mother.”

The screen went dark.

Spock wiped away the single tear that had rolled silently down his cheek.

“Thank you, Jim,” he said softly.

Pocketing the chip, he stood and took one last look around the outpost.

His gaze settled on the radio console—the one he’d met the love of his life on.

Then he turned—

and left.