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Chapter Text

The alleyway reeked of stale beer and rotting garbage, a sour stench that clung to the damp brick walls and seeped into Jim’s cadet uniform, the red fabric wrinkled and damp from the puddle he’d collapsed into. 

His knees ached from squatting on the uneven pavement, the coarse concrete biting through his trousers as he crouched in front of the rusted dumpster. Tears streamed down his face, hot and unrelenting, carving tracks through the grime on his cheeks, smudging the Starfleet insignia on his chest. 

His chest heaved with ragged sobs, each one tearing out of him. Jim Kirk, the golden boy, was reduced to a shivering mess in a San Francisco back alley, clutching a vodka bottle like it was the only thing tethering him to the world.

He and Gary had been together for two years—two years of stolen kisses in the Academy’s library, late-night study sessions that turned into lazy mornings, and promises whispered in the dark. Jim had loved Gary with every fiber of his being, had poured his heart into the relationship, believing it was mutual. 

He’d even thought, in those quiet moments when his guard was down, that he could share the deepest parts of himself—the scars that ran deeper than skin, the nightmares of Tarsus IV. He’d been so close to telling Gary to bear that raw, haunted piece of his soul, believing their love could hold it. 

How stupid he’d been. It always ended the same way. 

Gary’s eyes had lingered too long on Jim’s face, his hands had been too eager to explore his body, and their time together had shifted from coffee shop dates and holo-vid nights to hurried, desperate moments between the sheets. 

When he had finally mustered the courage to confront him, Gary’s confusion had cut deeper than any knife. “Come on, Jim, we both know what this is. You’re hot, babe. But that’s about it.”  

His words had been a slap, sharp and dismissive, but Gary’s tone had grown crueler as their argument escalated, his surprise morphing into disdain. “What did you expect? You’re a pretty face, and you like sex, don’t you? Don’t act like things were more than that.”  

Jim had ended it then, walking away from Gary’s cruelty, but the rejection still felt like he’d been the one thrown out, left to rot in the dark.

Now, here he was, drunk and broken, with a bottle dangling from his trembling fingers, his jacket hanging open, its zipper glinting faintly in the dim alley light. He tipped the bottle back one last time, lips searching for a drop that wasn’t there. 

Nothing. 

“Damn,” he muttered, his voice thick with tears and liquor. 

With a surge of anger, he hurled the bottle overhead, hearing it clatter against the dumpster’s metal interior, a hollow sound that echoed his emptiness. The tears came harder now, a fresh wave of grief as he thought of himself like that, a dumpster—used, discarded, dumped. 

His sobs were so loud, so all-consuming, that he didn’t hear the approaching footsteps, the crunch of shoes on the gritty pavement. Maybe it was the vodka dulling his senses, or maybe it was the way his cries drowned out the world, but the voice that broke through startled him like a phaser blast.

“Cadet.”

Jim jolted, nearly toppling over as he scrambled to steady himself, one hand grabbing the edge of the dumpster, the cold metal biting into his palm. His heart pounded as he looked up, squinting against the harsh glare of the streetlight behind the figure’s head, which cast their face into shadow. 

The silhouette was tall, lean, and unmistakably composed, the kind of posture that screamed discipline. An arm extended toward him, and Jim flinched, bracing for a blow, his eyes squeezing shut as memories of bar fights and unwanted rough hands flooded his mind. 

“Cadet,” the voice repeated, firm, cutting through his panic.

There was a rustle of fabric, and Jim cracked one eye open, expecting the worst. Instead, he saw a neatly folded handkerchief dangling from the stranger’s hand, its crisp linen stark against the grimy alley.

He let out a wet, incredulous laugh, half a snort, as he reached for it, his fingers brushing the soft fabric. 

“Who still walks around with these?” he said, his voice slurring slightly as he took the cloth, its clean scent a sharp contrast to the alley’s stench.

“I am relieved your mood has improved, Cadet,” the voice said, dry and precise, with a faint undertone of something that might’ve been amusement.

Cadet? 

A civilian wouldn’t have addressed him with that title. 

Jim’s eyes flicked downward, catching the gleam of polished black shoes and the sharp creases of a black pantsuit, pristine despite the late hour. 

Shit. An instructor from the Academy. 

Of course, just his luck. 

Drinking in public was illegal, and he reeked, his breath sharp enough to cut through the fog rolling in from the bay. His cadet uniform was a mess—damp, disheveled, and probably screaming “disciplinary action” to anyone with a rank. He was crouched in a filthy alley, drunk off his ass, and now he was about to get hauled in front of a board. 

He scrubbed the handkerchief over his face, trying to wipe away the evidence of his breakdown. He struggled to straighten up, his legs wobbling under him, the alcohol making his knees feel like jelly. 

“No, Professor,” he said quickly, voice hoarse, when the figure asked if he was injured. “I’m fine.”

“Can you stand?” the instructor asked.

“I… need some help,” Jim admitted, hating how small he sounded, his hands fumbling with the hem of his jacket.

A hum of acknowledgment, and then an arm appeared in front of him, the sleeve of the black suit jacket pulling back to reveal a pale wrist, offered for support. Jim, drunk and uncoordinated, flailed for the hand instead, his fingers clumsily grasping the instructor’s. 

For a fleeting moment, it seemed like the professor's grip faltered, a subtle twitch as their skin made contact, as if the touch had caught him off guard. But then the instructor tightened his hold, hauling Jim to his feet with a strength that surprised him. 

Jim’s heart raced, a sudden jolt he chalked up to the cheap vodka coursing through his veins, though something about the steadiness of that grip lingered in his mind. 

He swayed on his feet, the world tilting like a shuttle in a nosedive, but he was standing, barely, his boots scuffing the pavement.

Now on his feet, he squinted through the haze of tears and alcohol, trying to make out the instructor’s face. The streetlight still obscured most of it, but the sharp jawline and pointed ears were unmistakable. 

Vulcan. 

Jim had heard of the Vulcan professor at the Academy, surrounded by rumors of his brilliance and tough grading, but he didn’t know his name—never needed to, since he’d never have to take any of his classes. 

And he had ignored the gossip, too busy dodging his own reputation as George Kirk’s son, the reckless playboy with a chip on his shoulder. 

But one rumor was certainly true: The Vulcan professor was hot.

All sharp angles and cool intensity, his dark eyes glinting even in the dim alley light, framed by the severe lines of his doofy haircut. 

“Your name, Cadet?” the Vulcan asked, his voice level but carrying an edge of expectation.

Jim bit back a groan. He didn’t want to do this, didn’t want to be known.  

“Cadet Kirk, James Kirk,” he said, the words gritted out through clenched teeth. 

He saw it, even through the Vulcan’s carefully schooled features—the flicker of recognition. 

Of course. Everyone knew George Kirk’s son. Times like this, his father’s legacy felt like a chain around his neck. 

“Cadet Kirk, I will escort you home,” the Vulcan said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“I can make it home myself, Professor,” Jim protested, gesturing vaguely toward his apartment building, the motion making his jacket flap open. “It’s only ten minutes—”

“Then it will be a short walk,” the Vulcan countered smoothly. “As an instructor at Starfleet, it is my responsibility to ensure the safety of all students.”

Jim wasn’t going to win this one. He sighed, offering a weak, lopsided smile, and started trudging out of the alley, the instructor’s steady presence at his side. 

The night air was cool, sharp against his tear-streaked face, the fog curling around the streetlights like ghostly fingers. The silence between them was a small mercy. The Vulcan wasn’t much for small talk, and Jim was grateful for it. 

He fumbled with his communicator, the screen blurring as he typed out a sloppy message to Bones: Meet me in courtyard. Plz 🙏🏻

The string of red question marks that pinged back told him Bones was already en route, no doubt grumbling the entire way. 

They walked on, the city’s hum a distant backdrop to the sound of their footsteps—Jim’s uneven and scuffing, his boots dragging slightly, the instructor’s precise and measured, like a metronome. 

When the Vulcan spoke again, his voice was careful, deliberate. “Are you sure you are uninjured, Cadet Kirk? The medical clinic is up ahead, and we can stop if you require—”

“I’m not injured, Professor,” Jim cut in, his voice softer now, the weight of the night settling back into his chest.

  Just heartbroken

“My roommate’s a doctor. If anything’s wrong, he’ll look me over.” He added, and the Vulcan seemed to accept this, and they fell back into silence. 

The walk felt endless, each step stretching time into a sluggish crawl, the fog making the streetlights halo like distant stars. When they finally reached the edge of his apartment courtyard, the professor broke the silence once more. 

“Are you well, Cadet?” He asked again and Jim would have given him the World’s Best Mother Hen award if it hadn’t already been awarded to Bones. 

“I’m fine, my roommate’s—” 

“You have already mentioned your roommate’s profession. I refer to your emotional state.”

Jim blinked, caught off guard by the concern in the instructor’s tone, so unexpected that he felt it from a Vulcan. He opened his mouth, then closed it, unsure how to respond to this strange, awkward empathy.

“Cadet,” the Vulcan continued, his dark eyes steady, piercing through the fog, “while I understand I may not appear the most approachable, I am aware that a high percentage of cadets exhibiting signs of emotional distress are often affected by the termination of romantic relationships. Is this what has occurred?”

Jim’s throat tightened, and he felt a fresh wave of tears threatening to spill. The Vulcan’s halting sincerity hit harder than Jim expected. He sniffled, wiping at his face with the borrowed handkerchief, the fabric now damp and crumpled. 

“Yeah,” he admitted, voice breaking, as tears started flowing from his eyes. “I really loved Gary. But he… he was just like everyone else.” He slurred, “Only wanted me for—” He choked on the words, the hurt too raw to articulate. “I’m not just some stupid slut!” he burst out, sobs wracking his frame again, his cadet jacket sagging off one shoulder. “I’m not some fucktoy! I just… I’m done with love, I quit. Every time I try, it’s the same damn thing.”

“Jim!” 

Bones’ voice cut through, thankfully stopping him from saying something further embarrassing. 

“My roommate, Professor. Leonard McCoy.” Jim said between sniffles, as he wiped at his face.

He couldn’t even look the Vulcan in the face after that outburst. He was sure he had given him more than enough uncontrolled emotion to last his lifetime.

He caught sight of Bones emerging from the courtyard’s shadows, dressed in faded plaid pajama pants and a worn grey t-shirt, his hair mussed from sleep. And the worry etched into Bones’ face made Jim’s chest ache with a different kind of pain.

“I can take him from here, Professor,” Bones said, his voice gruff but softened with concern. “Thank you for making sure he was safe. I’ll make sure he gets to bed.”

Jim watched as the Vulcan gave Bones a once over then a curt nod, his posture as precise as ever, before turning his attention back to Jim. 

“Goodnight, Cadet Kirk,” the instructor said, his dark eyes flashing a flicker of something unreadable passing through them.

“G-goodnight, Professor,” Jim managed, his voice cracking as the Vulcan turned, his suit blending into the night as he walked away, his steps measured and silent.

Bones stepped closer, his expression softening further as he placed a gentle, steadying hand on Jim’s shoulder. “Jim, what happened?” he asked, his voice low and steady.

Jim’s face crumpled, fresh tears spilling over as he choked out, “Gary,” the name barely intelligible through his sobs.

“That fucker, I’m gonna kill him,” Bones grumbled as he wrapped an arm around Jim’s shoulders, hauling him toward their building.

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The door to their apartment hissed open, swallowing them into the familiar, if slightly cluttered, warmth of their living space. Bones didn't waste a second. He steered Jim towards their couch, its cushions molding to Jim’s trembling frame. 

“Sit down,” he muttered, more out of concern than anger, already bustling toward their small kitchen. The clatter of ice in a glass, the splash of water. “Here,” Bones said, thrusting a tumbler of cold water into Jim’s shaking hand. “Drink this. All of it.”

Jim took a shaky gulp, the icy liquid a jolt to his system, chasing away some of the vodka’s fuzzy edges. 

He swallowed, the lump in his throat still massive. Bones, meanwhile, was already peeling off Jim’s reeking, damp uniform jacket. 

“Good Lord, Jim, you smell like a distillery and a dumpster had a baby,” he grumbled, but his movements were gentle, his fingers deft as he unzipped his cadet top. “Let’s get you out of these wet clothes before you catch a case of the interstellar plague.”

Jim leaned into the touch, too exhausted to hide his need for it. He felt Bones guiding him up, helping him shed the rest of the uniform. He stumbled into the bathroom, Bones right behind him, pushing a towel into his hands. “Wash the grime from ya’.” 

Hot water pours over Jim’s shoulders, steam swirling in heavy clouds around him as he steps into the shower at Bones’ urging. The heat seeps into his tense muscles, easing their knots, but it can’t touch the dull ache lodged in his chest. He presses his forehead against the cool tile, eyes shut, the water hammering his back.

His mind drifts to Gary—those cutting words, the cold glint in his eyes, dismissing Jim like he was nothing but a passing whim. Tears prick, hot and sharp, blending with the water streaming down his face. 

Then his thoughts shift to the Vulcan professor, and a fresh wave of sobs rises, this time laced with shame and embarrassment. The memory of his drunken outburst—slurred, drunk-fueled words spilling out in a haze of pain—twists his gut.

He just hopes he hasn’t been written up. Disappointing Pike would sting worse than the rest.

After the shower, Jim towels off, slips into Starfleet-issued skivvies, and collapses onto his bed. Bones is already there, sprawled out, waiting.

“I should just go back to letting guys fuck me,” Jim mutters, the words bitter, heavy with self-loathing. 

It always left him feeling like shit - a scraped-out shell, but at least it was honest. No promises, no illusions of love—just bodies, transactions, and the familiar ache that followed. 

At least he knew his place.

“Oh, Jim,” Bones says, his voice soft, cutting through the haze. His hands move to Jim’s damp hair, smoothing it gently, a steady anchor. Jim’s sobs break loose again, louder, his shoulders trembling as he leans into the touch.

“Sleep, darlin’,” Bones murmurs. “I’ll make you hotcakes in the morning. Might even toss in some bacon if you’re good.”

Jim lets out a choked, bitter laugh. “You sure you don’t like guys, even just a little?” 

It’s half a joke, but there’s a raw edge to it, a desperate reach for something solid. He’d asked Bones this before, half-drunk and half-hoping, already knowing the answer. Of course, the one person who treats him like he’s worth something, who sees beyond the conquests and mistakes, is straight as they come.

Typical.

Bones chuckles, a low, gravelly sound. “Trust me, Jim, my ex-wife could fill a book with how I’m no walk in the park. And you’re just talkin’ ’cause your heart’s in pieces. Besides, I’m too damn old for you—practically got one foot in the grave.”

Jim manages a real laugh this time, brief but genuine, before it fades into the familiar ache. “Why does this keep happening, Bones? I loved Gary. And I thought he loved me back.”

He's left wondering why his relationships always end with him heartbroken and feeling like nothing more than a pretty face. He tries so hard, yet the outcome is always the same.

“I just… I tried , Bones. I really did. And he just… he just wanted a warm body. Like everyone else.” His voice cracked on the last words, another fresh wave of tears threatening to overwhelm him. “Why am I so stupid? Why do I keep falling for it?”

“You’re not stupid, Jim,” he said, a balm to Jim’s nerves. “You’re just… you’re a goddamn fool for letting that worthless piece of space trash get to you. And that’s his problem, not yours.

A choked laugh escaped him. Bones hated Gary, and he never hesitated to make that known. Even though Jim knew Bones cared about him and hated seeing him curled up in such a pathetic state, he also knew Bones was probably preening over Gary finally being gone.

“You wanted something real. There ain’t nothing stupid about that. And if he was too much of a jackass to appreciate it, then he ain’t worth a single one of these tears, you hear me?”

He’s back to crying, his eyes are starting to hurt, and he just hopes they’re not blown red shot by the time the weekend’s over. 

“I know, Jim. It hurts like hell. But listen—you’re worth more than these guys who keep tearing you up. Someone’s out there who’ll see you, really see you, and give you everything you deserve and more.”

Jim’s laugh is hollow, his fingers digging into his pillow. “I don’t know, Bones. I don’t think that person’s out there. Not for someone like me.”

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Monday morning finds Jim in the mess hall, the weekend a haze of fitful sleep and too many cups of coffee. Despite campus rumors painting him as a charismatic socialite with a long list of friends, the truth is far quieter. Without Bones, Jim often sits alone during these gaps between classes, isolated in the crowd.

He’s toying with a tomato in his salad, nudging it aimlessly with his fork, when measured footsteps approach—deliberate, unhurried. Glossy black shoes catch the light. His gaze lifts, meeting the deep, unyielding eyes of the Vulcan instructor.

Jim swallows, his throat turning dry. A strange heat prickles under his skin, unbidden and unfamiliar, and he chalks it up to embarrassment from their last encounter.

He’d hoped to steer clear of him. Starfleet’s sprawling campus seemed vast enough to avoid him, especially since he was certain their paths had never crossed before. And no disciplinary summons had appeared in his student inbox, so he figured the professor had not reported his drunken antics from the other night.

“Professor,” Jim greets, forcing his voice to stay steady despite the odd flutter in his chest.

“You are feeling improved, I trust?” He asks, his tone calm but probing, his dark eyes holding Jim’s with an intensity that makes his pulse jump.

Jim forces a laid-back shrug, though his gut churns at the memory of his intoxicated outburst. “Yeah, a good night’s rest works miracles,” he says, shoving the tomato aside and clearing his throat. “Thanks for getting me home. Sorry if I said anything… out of line. It’s all a bit blurry.”

He leans hard into the persona of a careless, charming drunk, the reckless blond who can’t handle his drinks. It’s simpler than owning up to how much he’d revealed, his heart split open in a moment of weakness.

But the way the Vulcan's gaze lingers sends a shiver through him he can’t quite place.

“It is irrelevant,” He replies, his voice even, almost gentle, yet it carries a weight that seems to press against Jim’s skin.

The professor stands just beyond the table’s edge, his posture stiff yet radiating a presence that pulls at the space between them. Jim notices it then—the intensity of the Vulcan's gaze, unwavering and piercing, as if seeing straight through his facade.

A flush creeps up his neck, and he dismisses it as a Vulcan trait, though the instinct to stand, to meet that stare head-on, tugs at him. He stays put, fingers tightening around his fork.

“I sought to confirm your well-being,” The professor adds, stepping closer.

Jim’s eyes catch the sharp creases of his instructor's uniform, the way his hands are clasped behind his back, and suddenly Jim recalls the firm strength of the professor's grip from that night, stirring a warmth low in his stomach he refuses to name.

The air hums with an electric undercurrent, and Jim can’t tell if it’s his own nerves or something in that piercing gaze.

He nods, throat tight. “Appreciate it. I’m doing fine now.”

He expects the exchange to end there, his eyes drifting back to the tomato, now mashed under his fork. But then—

“Have you abandoned the pursuit of love?”

The question lands like a shock, and Jim’s head jerks up, meeting those dark eyes again. His mind flashes to his drunken confessions about Gary, about his heartbreak, and a flush of heat surges through him—part embarrassment, part something else he pushes away.

Why would he ask him that? For a moment, he thinks it’s a joke—a bad one—but the instructor's gaze doesn’t falter, steady and searching.

A dry chuckle escaped Jim, his plan to play dumb forgotten as he answered honestly. "I think it's best I focus on my studies." He genuinely meant it. 

He'd pile on coursework, pick up extra shifts at the library, volunteer at the clinic—anything to drown out the ache in his chest. Maybe if he kept moving, he could outrun the emptiness Gary left behind. 

He was done with dating, too. After a long talk with Bones, he'd just stick to his right hand for now; it came with less trouble and heartache.

The professor remains still, his gaze holding Jim in place, and Jim’s skin prickles under it, his heart beating just a fraction too fast.

“You authored a thesis on mitigating food disparity through regenerative agricultural technology,” He says, his precise tone slicing through the tension, unexpected and sharp.

Jim blinks, thrown off. “Sorry, Professor, I’ve written a lot of papers,” he says, not bragging, just scrambling to keep up with the shift in conversation.

“It addressed regions facing abrupt climate shifts, exploring adaptive food cultivation in changing atmospheres.”

Jim nods, the memory clicking into place. “Right, that one. Put it together for an environmental systems seminar last term. I’ve been into food scarcity and cultivation tech for a while.”

He doesn’t mention Tarsus IV, though its shadow looms behind every line of that thesis. The memories of hunger, of crops failing as hope faded—they’re what fueled his drive for sustainable solutions. But those scars are his alone, buried deep where no one, not even Gary, could reach.

The professor tilts his head, a faint motion, but his gaze—steady, penetrating—makes Jim’s face flush hotter.

“You are a prolific writer. Your analysis of molecular nutrient recycling paired with automated cultivation was thorough and persuasive, reflecting a keen grasp of both technological and societal dimensions of food disparity.”

Jim registers the praise, but the professor’s intense stare makes it hard to think straight. He ducks his head, mumbling, “Thanks. It was a bit of a personal project.”

“I encountered your paper while reviewing materials for a project I am supporting,” He continues, his voice steady yet hinting at something unsaid, his eyes never leaving Jim’s. “It involves scalable regenerative technologies to combat food insecurity in off-world colonies. Your insights could prove valuable. Would you consider contributing to the research?”

Jim’s breath hitches—a chance to immerse himself in data and purpose, a distraction from his pain. But there’s something else, too, in the way the professor's voice lingers on “valuable,” in the way his presence seems to fill the space between them, making Jim’s skin hum with an awareness he can’t quite shake.

The bell chimes, and the mess hall bursts into motion as students scramble with trays and bags. Jim lingers a moment, caught in the Vulcan's presence, then pushes himself to stand, grabbing his tray.

“I’ve got class now,” he says, meeting those eyes again, his voice steadier than he feels. “But we can talk about your project after it finishes.”

He places his tray back down, realizing he hadn’t grabbed his bag yet. His cheeks burn—why is he so rattled? Picking his tray up again, he feels the Vulcan's gaze follow every clumsy movement, and that strange warmth flares in his chest again.

“My office location is listed on the student portal,” He replies, his gaze unflinching. “I will be available.”

Jim hesitates, then blurts out, “What’s your name, Professor?”

The Vulcan’s expression remains impassive, but his eyes hold steady.

“I mean, I won’t be able to find you in the portal... if I don’t know your name,” Jim stutters, his voice betraying the jittery energy he can’t explain. It’s not the usual nerves he gets around instructors, so why is his pulse racing?

Those dark eyes stay locked on him, and though only seconds pass, under that stare, it feels like hours.

“Spock,” the Vulcan finally says, his voice low, almost resonant.

“Spock,” Jim repeats, testing the name on his tongue. For a moment, he could swear Spock’s eyes darken, their focus sharpening on his lips, and a jolt runs through him—electric, confusing. He brushes it off—probably reading too much into things.

“Catch you later, Professor.” Jim offers a quick, hesitant smile and heads for the trash can, tray in hand. A prickle at his back makes him glance over his shoulder.

Spock stands there, still watching, his face unreadable but his eyes sharp, as if mapping every detail of him.

Jim’s pulse skips again, but he shakes it off—probably just a Vulcan thing—and steps into the bustling hallway, the strange heat lingering in his chest.

Chapter Text

For the first few minutes of class, Jim manages to focus on the lecture, his padd open to the day’s notes on warp core dynamics.

But his thoughts keep drifting back to the mess hall, to that intense gaze and the way Professor Spock’s voice seemed to linger in the air. 

His fingers hover over the padd, itching to dig deeper. Finally, he gives in, pulling up the student portal and navigating to the faculty directory. He types in ‘Spock,’ and the name appears, stark and precise. 

Clicking on the entry, he scrolls past the usual biographical data and finds the academic summary.

SPOCK, S.

Current Assignment: Instructor, Department of Sciences - Advanced Xenobiology, Astrophysics, Advanced Theoretical Physics

Previous Assignments:

• First Officer, USS Enterprise, Captain Christopher Pike commanding 
• Science Officer, USS Yorktown

Academic Publications: Numerous, including Multi-Species Ecological Systems in Variable Atmospheric Conditions, Subspace Thermodynamics: Anomalous Phase Transitions in Warp Fields, Interspecies Communication Protocols for Non-Humanoid Sentients, and Sustainable Terraforming for Off-World Colonies.

Research Focus: Xeno-biology, subspace thermodynamics, interspecies communication theory, sustainable terraforming

The list of accolades goes on—awards, citations, guest lectures at institutions Jim’s only dreamed of visiting.

He pauses, struck by the mention of Pike.

First Officer on the Enterprise? That’s no small feat. He knew Pike was a great captain, one he could hope to measure up to. The fact that Professor Spock served under him, second-in-command on a starship, makes the guy seem even more formidable. 

He scrolls back up and stares at the Vulcan’s portrait. There’s something about that steady presence, that unshakable calm, that draws Jim in despite himself.

“Professor Spock, he’s so hot, right?” a whispered voice breaks through his thoughts. It’s a mousy first-year sitting to his right, her eyes glinting as she leans closer, nodding at his padd.

Jim blinks, caught off guard, a faint heat creeping up his neck. “What do you know about him?” he asks, keeping his tone casual.

“Outside of what the rumors are saying, nothing,” she replies, her voice low to avoid the instructor’s notice. “I don’t think anyone’s seen him around the usual hang spots. Quiet type.” She gives his padd another appreciative glance. “Makes him even hotter.”

Jim hums, not quite agreeing or disagreeing, though his pulse quickens for reasons he can’t pinpoint. 

He turns back to the screen, scrolling further down the professor’s page. A link catches his eye: Starfleet Cultural Guide: Vulcan Etiquette and Customs.

He clicks it, feeling oddly self-conscious, though he’s not sure why.

If he’s going to work with the professor on this project, he reasons, he should know how to avoid stepping on any cultural toes. 

The pamphlet loads, and he skims through sections on Vulcan logic, dietary preferences, and social norms.

Then he stops at a short blurb: Physical Contact and Vulcan Sensitivities.

Physical Contact: Due to the touch-telepatic physiology, Vulcans generally avoid unnecessary physical contact. Their hands are highly sensitive, and uninvited contact may be perceived as intrusive or disrespectful.

In professional settings, it is advisable to avoid physical touch unless explicitly permitted. 

Casual touching, particularly of the hands or arms, can be perceived as an invasion of personal space or, in specific contexts, an intimate gesture. Direct skin-to-skin contact (e.g., a hand clasp or joining of hands) is a significant act, often reserved for individuals with whom a deep, established relationship exists, such as a family member or spouse. 

Jim’s stomach twists. His mind flashes to that drunken night, the way he’d stumbled, how Professor Spock had steadied him with a firm grip.

Had he grabbed the professor’s hand in his haze? He can’t remember clearly, but the possibility sends a pang of guilt through him. He’d already crossed a boundary, drunk or not.

He considers apologizing, maybe bringing it up when they meet, but the thought makes his chest tighten. Dragging that night back into the open feels like a bad idea—too exposing. 

It's better to let it stay buried and pretend it never happened. Besides, the Vulcan had called it ‘irrelevant.’

Maybe he meant it.

Class resumes, but Jim barely hears the lecture, his mind tangled in thoughts of Professor Spock’s piercing gaze and that strange, electric pull he’d felt in the mess hall. He jots down half-hearted notes, his focus shot.

Before he knows it, the final bell chimes, and the room erupts into motion—students grabbing bags, chairs scraping, voices rising.

Jim stays seated, his padd open again to the professor’s profile.

He could ditch the meeting. Professor Spock’s office is clear across campus in the science department, a solid fifteen-minute walk. He could just… not show up. 

Pretend he forgot. But then he remembers those dark eyes, and the way professor had looked at him, like he could see every thought Jim was trying to hide.

If he doesn’t show, the Vulcan might track him down—Jim doesn’t put it past him.

With a sigh, he stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

His heart does that weird skip again; he tells himself it’s just lingering embarrassment from the professor finding him drunk and sobbing in an alleyway- and the dread of having to face him again.

Nothing more. 

He steps into the hallway, joining the stream of students, and starts the trek toward the science department.

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As Jim weaves through the bustling campus toward the science department, the vibrant energy of Starfleet Academy is on full display. 

Students in their crisp red uniforms crisscross manicured lawns, some poring over padds under oak trees, others laughing boisterously as they spill out of lecture halls.

Shuttlecraft hum softly overhead, ferrying cadets to advanced flight simulations, and the iconic, gleaming spire of the main administration building catches the midday sun. 

His mind drifts to Pike. More mentor than instructor, almost a father figure, though Jim has never said it out loud.

Pike had seen something in him, dragging him out of a bar fight and pushing him toward Starfleet. Their talks were always grounded—Pike’s steady advice, his belief in Jim’s potential. 

It often felt misplaced, but it was the only thing that kept him from feeling like a failure.

But Jim realizes now he never thought much about Pike’s time in space, or the crew he commanded. The Enterprise. 

His First Officer Spock. 

He had always seen Pike as a larger-than-life figure, but the details of his missions, his command—those were distant, like stories from another world. 

Those three years as First Officer mean the Vulcan wasn’t just some academic; he had been out there, on the front lines of exploration, standing at Pike’s side. 

The thought stirs a mix of awe and unease in Jim, and he is not sure why.

Maybe it is the idea of the Vulcan—fitting so seamlessly into Pike’s orbit, a man Jim looks up to.

He shakes his head, trying to push away the strange warmth creeping into his chest. 

It is just respect, he tells himself. Admiration for a clearly brilliant guy who has earned Pike’s trust. 

Nothing more. 

Still, as he approaches the science building, its angular design a sharp contrast to the older, classical architecture of some other campus structures, the memory of the Vulcan’s gaze—sharp, almost magnetic—makes his steps falter. 

He is not sure what he is walking into.

Inside, the halls are quieter, the air cooler and smelling faintly of ozone. Jim checks his padd for Professor Spock’s office number, his fingers lingering over the screen where the Vulcan’s profile still glows. 

First Officer under Pike. The weight of it all presses on him, mingling with that nagging guilt about the night he does not want to remember.

He takes a breath, straightens his shoulders, and heads toward the professor’s office.

When he reaches his door, the Vulcan’s name emblazoned on the polished plasteel plaque, stops him, fist raised to knock.

“Cadet Kirk?” A voice calls from inside, calm and even, devoid of surprise.

Right. Vulcan hearing, he had read about it while skimming the guide.

Jim’s hand drops. He wouldn’t be surprised if the guy could hear his heart trying to pound out of his chest.

⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚

Jim’s nerves spike as he steps into the professor’s office, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft thud. The air feels heavier here, quieter, like the room itself is holding its breath. 

The Vulcan stands with his back to him, facing a shelf lined with data chips and what looks like paper copies of alien text.

Jim’s eyes wander, unable to resist taking in the space. 

It’s exactly as he’d imagined: meticulously organized, every surface clean, every item purposeful. Stacks of padds are arranged with almost mathematical precision, and a faint glow from a terminal casts sharp shadows across the desk.

By the time Jim’s gaze returns to Professor Spock, the Vulcan has turned, those dark, piercing eyes locking onto him again.

“Sorry, it took me a while. I’m not familiar with the science department,” Jim says, his voice lighter than he feels, hoping to break the ice.

The professor inclines his head slightly. “It is of no consequence,” he says, his tone even but carrying that same weight that makes Jim’s skin prickle.

He gestures to a chair across from his desk. “Please, sit.”

Jim nods, settling into the chair just as a sharp screech cuts through the silence. He startles, glancing over his shoulder to see a small hotplate behind him, a teapot steaming atop it. 

The Vulcan moves with deliberate grace, retrieving two cups from a shelf. “Would you care for tea?” he asks, his voice neutral but his gaze briefly meeting Jim’s.

“Uh, sure,” Jim replies, accepting to avoid seeming rude. He needs something to do with his hands anyway, something to ground him under the professor’s eyes. 

The professor pours the tea, handing him a cup, and Jim focuses on making sure their hands don’t touch as he takes it.

His pulse jumps when the very tips of their fingers graze, a fleeting warmth that sends a jolt through him. 

He’s about to sputter out an apology, his cheeks flushing, but the Vulcan makes no move, his expression unchanging, as if the touch didn’t register.

Jim swallows hard, deciding to leave it alone. 

He takes a cautious sip; it’s herbal, subtle, with a faint earthy warmth. “This is nice,” he says, surprised, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

The professor’s brow arches, the most expression Jim’s seen from him. “Most humans find Vulcan tea tasteless,” he observes, his tone almost curious.

Jim snorts, a grin tugging at his lips. “I’ll eat anything,” he says, then adds, “No, really, it’s nice.” He takes another sip, the warmth settling his nerves, if only slightly.

A short, unblinking stare from Professor Spock, and then the Vulcan turns his terminal around, displaying a complex terraforming grid.

The shift in focus is abrupt but welcome. “As to the project, Cadet. We are addressing an ongoing issue on the new colony of Palaver Ester X.”

Jim leans forward, his eyes catching an immediate flaw in the grid’s nutrient distribution model.

“The recycling system’s efficiency is off,” he says, pointing to a section of the schematic. “If the molecular converters aren’t calibrated for the local soil composition, you’ll get diminishing returns within a year.”

Professor Spock nods, his fingers tapping the terminal to zoom in. “A valid observation. Your paper addressed similar issues with adaptive cultivation.”

His tone is matter-of-fact, but there’s a subtle note of approval that makes Jim’s chest tighten—not with pride, exactly, but something else he can’t name.

They discuss the colony’s challenges for a few minutes, Jim slipping into the familiar rhythm of problem-solving, until Spock shifts topics. 

“In your paper, you cited a Dr. Jaime Murdeux,” he says, his eyes narrowing slightly, studying Jim. “I was unable to find work under her name.”

Jim’s throat tightens. He forces a steady tone. “Yeah. She was… somewhat of a mentor to me. Passed a long time ago.”

It’s a half-truth, and Jim knows the art of lying well enough to make it convincing. 

Dr. Murdeux had been a mentor, not just to him but to the other kids on Tarsus IV. She was part of the scientists hired to study the so-called ‘paradise planet’.

She had stayed with Jim and the other kids when things fell apart, the only adult left trying to protect them. 

She had comforted them, rationed what little food remained, and kept them sane—until a leg infection took her, four days before Starfleet arrived. 

Four days of hell Jim still can’t fully face.

He shakes off the memory, the weight of it threatening to pull him under.

The office falls silent, and Jim realizes Professor Spock is watching him, those dark eyes seeming to dissect every flicker of his expression. 

“I see,” the Vulcan says at last, his tone unreadable but accepting, and he resumes outlining the project. “The goal is to develop a sustainable system for Palaver Ester X. With your insights, we may achieve a viable model.”

“I will send the full report to your terminal.”

Jim feels a strange knot of nervousness about this, about giving Professor Spock his contact information, though he can't quite pinpoint why.

He provides his terminal address, and a second later, his communicator pings – a hundred-page report, already downloaded.

He stands, gripping his bag. “I’ll look it over and let you know if I can lend my time,” he says, knowing full well he can fit it in with his packed schedule of coursework and volunteer hours. 

It’s what he does—keeps moving, keeps busy.

“See you later, Professor,” he says, hand on the doorknob, ready to bolt.

“Spock,” the Vulcan corrects, his voice low and deliberate. “As we are to be colleagues, you need not refer to me by title.”

Jim’s heart hammers, his palm slick against the knob. He’s the only one standing, but those eyes pin him in place, and he’s not sure why it feels like the air’s been sucked out of the room. 

“Okay, well… just Jim, then,” he manages, his voice betraying a slight tremor.

Spock inclines his head, and Jim mutters a quick “Bye” before he’s out the door, practically sprinting out of the science building.  

⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚

Jim steps into his apartment, the door hissing shut behind him.

The space is modern, a sleek blend of Starfleet’s utilitarian design and personal touches that make it feel like home. A low, orange couch sits against one wall, scattered with mismatched pillows Bones insisted on for ‘comfort.’ 

A small coffee table holds a stack of medical journals and a half-empty mug of coffee, evidence of Bones’ chaotic study habits. On the nearby shelf, a holo-frame cycled through serene Earth landscapes and candid snapshots of Jim and Bones, captured grinning in a bustling bar or mid-stride on a hiking trail.

The walls are a soft blue, a nod to the sky they rarely see, and a compact kitchenette gleams with polished steel. A potted plant—Jim’s attempt at keeping something alive—sits by the window, surprisingly thriving.

Bones is splayed across the couch, snoring loudly, his arm flung over his eyes. Jim glances at the time: 4:47 PM. Bones’ nap before his evening clinic shift. 

Jim toes off his boots, leaving them by the door, and pads across the soft carpet to his bedroom.

He’s grateful every day for this place—one of the last student apartments with separate showers, a luxury he and Bones had snagged by sheer luck. 

No shared bathroom schedules, no awkward run-ins. Just peace.

In his room, Jim strips down and steps into the shower, letting the hot water cascade over him. The heat sinks into his skin, loosening the tension in his shoulders. 

His mind drifts to Gary. Two days, and not a single message. No call, no text, nothing.

The silence stings more than the breakup itself, like two years meant nothing. Like they meant nothing. 

Whatever.

He sniffs, letting the water pour down on his face, trying to wash away the bitter sting. He was never the type to get chased. 

Stay busy, stay distracted—that’s the plan, he reminds himself. 

Out of the shower, towel wrapped around his waist, hair still dripping, Jim crosses to his dresser. He digs to the bottom drawer, past folded shirts, until his fingers find the worn leather journal. 

Dr. Murdeux’s journal. 

Murdeux, like the other scientist, had been there to survey the colony, to maintain its food supply. He had cited her in his paper because so much of it was built on the doctor’s work—her analyses, her findings on Tarsus IV.

Jim flips open the journal, eyes skimming the familiar pages, the meticulous notes on soil composition and crop yields. Halfway through, a black card sticks out—a grim bookmark, marking the shift to Murdeux’s personal entries.

The early ones are mundane—daily routines, observations about Tarsus’ flora.

Then they darken. Murdeux had written about Kodos’s growing incompetence, details Jim hadn’t known as a kid caught in the chaos. 

The scientist had flagged issues with the food supply, warnings ignored by the colony’s leadership.

She had even documented her leg infection, the fever, the weakness, knowing it would kill her.

Jim’s fingers tighten around the journal’s edges, his breath hitching.

Her middle entries are the worst, when everything came to a turn—Kodos lining up the elders, the executions, the starvation—

Jim slams the journal shut, shoving it back into the drawer. His hands shake. Fuck.

He shouldn't have met with Spock. He shouldn't have even cited Murdeux. At the time, sharing the doctor's work felt like the right way to honor her. But now, guilt gnawed at him. 

He never turned the journal over to Starfleet. It held crucial details—Kodos's sabotage of the support units, his takeover—information that could've significantly aided the investigation.

Yet, after the rescue, Jim simply couldn't part with it. Starfleet had relentlessly poked and prodded him and the remaining survivors, forcing them to recount the horrors over and over. 

Giving up Dr. Murdeux's journal at that point would've felt like abandonment.

He had tried to give it to Murdeux’s family, tracked them down years later, after the rescue, but they’d wanted nothing to do with it. 

They wanted to forget. And Jim didn’t blame them.

He considers backing out of Spock’s project. Tell him he’s too busy, make up some excuse.

But as he crosses to his terminal, the downloaded project files catch his eye.

Palaver Ester X: Terraforming and Sustainability Report. He opens it, skimming the first page, then the next. Before he knows it, he’s ten pages deep, absorbed in the colony’s soil data and atmospheric challenges. 

This matters—real people, real lives depend on it. He can’t walk away.

By the time he finishes the entire report, it’s 1:03 AM. Bones is long gone to the clinic, and their apartment is silent.

Jim pulls up his communicator, typing a message to Spock: 

“I read your project, very interesting stuff.”

To his surprise, a reply pings back almost instantly.

“It is late, Jim. Should you not have gone to sleep by now?”

Jim laughs, the sound soft in his quiet room. Spock’s formal cadence carries through, even in text. 

“Your report was keeping me up. I’ll join your project,” he sends back.

Another quick reply: "I am pleased to hear this. You should rest, Jim. Proper sleep is required to be fully engaged while learning."

Jim grins, shaking his head. 

“I thought we were supposed to be partners, you’re sounding more like an instructor right now.”

No immediate response, and Jim assumes Spock’s done for the night. 

Then, a final message: “Goodnight, Jim.”

“Goodnight, Spock,” Jim types, hitting send.

He leans back in his chair, heart racing for no reason he can name. 

The glow of the terminal lights his face, and he stares at Spock’s message a moment longer before heading to bed. 

Chapter Text

“Such a pretty face.”

Jim jerks awake, heart pounding, the echo of a voice from his nightmare ringing in his ears. 

The clock on his nightstand glows, 11:02 PM.

Tarsus again.

The dreams have been creeping in more often, stirred up by the project, but he knows how to handle them. 

He’s been doing it for years. 

Slipping out of bed, he stands in front of the mirror, muttering an affirmation to himself, feeling foolish but steadied by the ritual. 

The words help, just a little. 

He pulls on Starfleet sweats, moving quietly to avoid waking Bones, who’s a light sleeper thanks to his nerve-fraying clinic shifts. Grabbing Dr. Murdeux’s journal, Jim decides to head to the campus library, open late and a short walk away.

The cool night air clears his head, pushing back thoughts of Tarsus and Gary’s stinging silence that lingers at the back of his mind.

At the library, a sprawling space with holographic star maps glowing overhead, Jim settles into a study pod, surrounded by scattered padds and a half-empty coffee cup. There are only three other people in the library, not counting himself: two students and the library staff member who didn’t even blink his way as he entered. 

His eyes burn from exhaustion, but he dives into Murdeux’s journal, focusing on her water system analyses for Tarsus IV, cross-referencing them with Spock’s report. Her journal’s entries stir memories, but he forces himself to focus on the charts, anything to stay here and in the moment. The library’s resources are better than his terminal at home, and staying busy keeps his darker thoughts at bay.

Unexpectedly, he hears a tap on his study pod door. 

Spock is outside, carrying two bags, his silhouette framed by the soft glow of the star maps. 

Placing the padd in his hand on top of Dr. Murdeux’s journal. He presses the door release, and Spock enters. 

“Jim,” he says, voice low, “As I was crossing through the library, I observed you sitting and wished to ensure your well-being.”

Jim startles, grateful for the stack of padds that sit in front of Murdeux’s journal. He pushes a few more toward the front, hoping Spock hasn’t noticed. 

“I’m fine,” he says, forcing a grin that feels more like a reflex than genuine. “Just couldn’t sleep, and I didn’t want to wake my roommate. What’re you doing up this late?”

Spock tilts his head, the faintest crease between his brows. “Vulcans require less rest than humans. I was attending experiments in the xenobiology lab earlier, but I made purchases at the market afterward.” He lifts one of the bags slightly, revealing a tightly packed container—spices, judging by the faint, sharp scent that hits Jim’s nose.

“A night-owl, huh?” Jim teases, leaning back in his chair, “Figured you’d rather spend your time—I dunno, reorganizing your data files for fun.”

Spock’s expression remains steady, but a faint glint in his eyes suggests amusement—or so Jim hopes. 

“I assure you, my data files are sufficiently organized. The market’s lack of crowds at this hour is efficient. I find it preferable.”

He steps further into the pod, setting his bags down with careful precision, and Jim shuts the pod door after him. 

“Your presence here at this hour, however, suggests a disruption in your rest cycle. May I inquire as to the cause?”

Jim’s grin falters for a split second, but he recovers with a casual shrug. “Just wired, I guess. Too much coffee.” He taps the cold coffee cup on the table, dodging the truth. “I’m fine, seriously.” He flashes another smile, hoping it’s enough to deflect Spock’s piercing gaze.

Spock’s eyes narrow slightly, as if he’s parsing every micro-expression on Jim’s face.

“Human physiology requires 7.2 to 8.3 hours of sleep per cycle for optimal cognitive function,” he says, his tone clinical but carrying a trace of something softer. 

“Your current state suggests a pattern of avoidance. If there is a matter you wish to discuss, I am equipped to listen.”

Jim laughs, the sound too loud in the quiet pod, and rubs the back of his neck. “You sound like Bones, except with better vocabulary. I’m good, Spock, just wrestling with the colonies’ water reclamation system. It’s a mess, right?” He gestures at the padds, steering the conversation away from himself. “Figured the library’s database would give me a leg up.”

Spock steps closer, approaching the desk, and his presence fills the small space in a way that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand. 

“Indeed. I have reviewed your preliminary notes on the system’s inefficiencies. Your observations align with my own.” He pauses, his gaze lingering on Jim with an intensity that feels like it’s mapping his thoughts. “Your suggestion to recalibrate the microbial filters is logical. I was unaware you had studied microbial hydrology in such depth.”

Jim shrugs, sidestepping the implied question. “Picked it up here and there. If you read enough colony reports, you start seeing patterns.” He flips open a padd, pulling up a chart of soil pH levels to avoid mentioning Murdeux or Tarsus.

“Check this out. Some older data I found suggests that we could boost the system’s efficiency by 12% if we adjust the biofilters to account for the colonies’ silicate content. Thoughts?”

Spock moves behind the desk, leaning in close, his shoulder brushing against Jim’s as he examines the padd. The fleeting contact sends a static-like jolt through Jim, heightening his awareness of Spock’s nearness.

He could have just handed Spock the padd, but this—well, this is fine too, he decides. Despite the brief touch, Spock doesn’t pull away, his presence lingering, as he continues studying the chart.

“Your hypothesis is sound,” Spock says, his voice calm and precise. “The elevated silicate levels on Palaver Ester X could indeed disrupt standard filtration. Your adjustment is insightful.”

He straightens, backing away slightly, his eyes meeting Jim’s. “Your ability to synthesize such data is remarkable, Jim. It suggests a mind attuned to both logic and intuition, a rare combination.”

Jim’s throat tightens at the praise, and he covers it with a playful grin. “What can I say? I’m a man of many talents.” He stretches, arms over his head, trying to shake off the heat creeping up his chest. 

“Your presence in this collaboration is uniquely compelling.”

Jim blinks, caught off guard by the word choice, but he chalks it up to Spock’s usual idiolect.

“Thanks, I think,” he says, chuckling before a yawn overtakes him. 

“Jim, I must suggest again that you return home so you may rest.” 

“Yeah, you’re right.” He starts packing up, sandwiching Murdeux’s journal between two padds and slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I should get my beauty sleep.”

Spock’s eyes flicker, giving Jim a once-over that sends heat prickling across his skin. “Your appearance requires no enhancement,” Spock says, his tone matter-of-fact, “though your cognitive efficiency would benefit from rest."

Jim’s face burns, and he laughs, unsteady. “Okay, Spock, you gotta work on your jokes. That almost sounded like a compliment.” 

“I was not attempting humor,” Spock says, his voice steady, his gaze lingering a fraction longer than necessary. “I merely state what is evident.” He picks up his bags, gesturing toward the door. “I will escort you home.”

Jim snorts, trying to lighten the mood as they step out of the study pod, and exit the library into the cool night air.

“Spock, my apartment’s like ten minutes from here. I’m a big boy, I can handle it.”

“It is 02:05,” Spock counters, his tone firm, “and while Starfleet’s campus is secure, the surrounding area poses potential risks at this hour. Your safety is a priority.”

Jim smirks, falling into step beside him, their footsteps echoing on the stone path. “By your logic, you’re in danger too. Who’s gonna walk you home?”

Spock’s brow lifts, a hint of what he thinks is exasperation flickering across his face. 

“As a Vulcan, I possess three times the strength of the average human male. Most assailants would find me an impractical target. You, however, are statistically more vulnerable.”

Jim laughs, the sound carrying in the quiet night. “So I’m quality bait, huh?”

“Precisely,” Spock says, deadpan, and Jim’s laugh doubles, earning another raised brow. The Vulcan’s composure is unshakable, but Jim’s starting to enjoy chipping away at it.

They walk through the campus, the stars above half-hidden by the city’s glow. 

“The campus shuttle can take me home.” Jim offers, figuring it’s a fair compromise. He glances at Spock, expecting a counterargument, but Spock pauses, giving him another assessing look that feels like it sees too much.

“This is acceptable,” Spock says, adjusting the strap of his bag. “I will escort you to the shuttle pickup point.”

Jim shakes his head, grinning. “You’re worse than Bones.”

“Bones?” Spock questions, his tone curious, “You’ve mentioned this person twice now.” 

An odd fusion of warmth and apprehension stirs in his core. There’s something about how intently Spock listens to each thing he says. He’ll have to be more careful of what he says, what he reveals. 

“Leonard McCoy. My roommate,” Jim explains, chuckling. “He’s got a knack for mother-henning me into submission. You two would either get along or drive each other crazy.”

Spock tilts his head, considering. “Dr. McCoy’s concern for your well-being is logical.” He pauses, then adds, “I have observed that humans often require such oversight, particularly those whose presence draws particular attention.”

Jim snorts, missing the subtle implication. “What, you’re saying I’m trouble? Fair enough.”

They reach the shuttle pickup point, a platform bathed in the soft glow of campus lights. Jim leans against a railing, the cool metal biting through his hoodie, while Spock stands closer than necessary, his bags set neatly at his feet.

The silence between them is comfortable, but there’s a charge to it, like the thrum of a warp core.

“Jim,” Spock says, breaking the quiet, his voice lower than usual. “As we are colleagues on this project, we will spend considerable time together. A degree of familiarity—friendship—would be a logical foundation.” He pauses, his eyes steady, almost searching. “Such bonds, when cultivated, may deepen in ways that are mutually enriching, beyond mere collaboration.”

He’s not sure he heard right.

Jim blinks, caught off guard. “You… want to be my friend?”

Jim’s tried making friends before—clubs, volunteer gigs—but most fizzled out. He always figured he wasn’t interesting enough.

“Yes,” Spock says, his voice calm but carrying a faint undercurrent of intent. “Your intellect and perspective are fascinating. A friendship would be mutually beneficial, and perhaps, in time, lead to a connection of greater significance.”

Jim’s chest tightens with surprise. “Well, Spock,” he says, grinning. “That’s… I mean, sure. As long as you’re cool with me dragging you to the occasional dive bar.”

Spock’s brow arches, but there’s a glint in his eyes, sharp and curious. “I am unfamiliar with such establishments, but I am open to observation. Provided they do not only serve alcoholic saccharine beverages.”

Jim laughs, softer now, the sound carrying in the quiet night. “No promises on that. But deal. You’re gonna regret this, you know.”

“I do not experience regret,” Spock says, his gaze locking onto Jim’s with an intensity that feels like it’s peeling back layers. “However, I anticipate our interactions will be illuminating, in ways neither of us may fully anticipate.”

The shuttle hums into view, its lights cutting through the darkness. Jim’s about to step forward when Spock moves first, addressing the driver with calm authority. 

“Please take him directly to the student housing on Auburn Street.”

The driver nods, and Jim feels that warmth spread again, from his chest to his fingertips, like he’s been handed something he doesn’t quite understand. 

He steps toward the shuttle, tossing a grin over his shoulder. “Catch you Friday, Spock.”

“Message me when you have arrived at your apartment,” Spock says, standing with his bags, his posture unwavering as he watches the shuttle doors. “Goodnight, Jim.”

Jim gives a mock salute, the grin lingering. “Night, Spock.”

The shuttle glides toward Auburn Street, dropping Jim right at his apartment building’s front.

He’s halfway to his bed, the weight of the night settling over him, when he remembers he was supposed to let Spock know he made it back safe. 

He pulls out his comm and types, “I’m home, Spock.”

The response is instant: “Good. Goodnight, Jim.”

“Goodnight, Spock,” Jim types back, a small smile tugging at his lips as falls asleep.

⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚

On Friday, Jim strides through the vibrant Starfleet Academy campus toward the science building. The campus bursts with life—cadets in crisp uniforms hurry between classes, their laughter mingling with the hum of hover-drones tending to the gardens. 

The air carries the faint tang of the nearby San Francisco Bay, mixed with the sweet, alien scent of blooming Altairian roses lining the walkways.

His mind, unbidden, wanders to Spock, who’s been slipping into his thoughts all week. He can’t shake the memory of their chance encounter in the library on Wednesday. 

Friends. He wanted to be friends with Jim.  

The thought sends a shiver through him, though he’s not sure why it feels so significant. Maybe it’s just the novelty of someone like Spock—former first officer of the Enterprise —choosing him for anything beyond a project partner.

He approaches the science building, noting how sunlight reflects off the expansive, curved windows, making it appear to pulse with the promise of discovery. He enters, his eyes drawn to the overheard holographic display of the Orion Nebula swirling lazily, part of the Academy’s ever-present reminder of the stars awaiting them. 

He takes a turbolift to the fourth floor, where Spock’s office is tucked in a quiet corner. Knocking lightly on Spock's office door, slightly ajar, he hears Spock’s voice from within: “Come in, Jim.”

He pushes the door open to see Spock seated behind his desk, engaged in a low, measured conversation over a comm unit, discussing soil sample transit schedules with someone off-world. He motions for Jim to enter with a slight nod, his dark eyes briefly meeting Jim’s before returning to the call. 

Jim slips in quietly, settling into a chair opposite the desk, and takes the opportunity to look around, vivid curiosity tugging at him.

Spock’s office is a study in ordered precision, yet it carries a subtle character that surprises him. The walls are lined with sleek data panels displaying rotating star charts and molecular models, their soft blue glow casting patterns across the room. 

A shelf holds a few physical artifacts—an intricately carved stone figure, and a data chip labeled with Klingon script, likely a memento from some past mission. His desk, a slab of polished obsidian, is cluttered only with a neatly arranged stack of padds and a single holographic model of a protein molecule spinning slowly in the air. 

On the side table to his left sits a steaming cup of tea, its earthy, herbal scent filling the space. A narrow window offers a view of the quad below, where cadets spar in a martial arts class, their movements sharp against the green lawn. The room feels like Spock himself—logical, functional, but with hints of something deeper, something personal.

Jim’s gaze lingers, caught by the quiet elegance of it all, until he realizes the room has gone silent—not just the background of the comm unit, but Spock’s voice too.

He turns back to find Spock watching him, his dark eyes steady and unreadable, with an intensity that makes Jim’s pulse skip. Flustered, he rubs the back of his neck, a flush creeping up his cheeks. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to snoop around your office,” he says, his grin sheepish. 

Spock tilts his head, his expression softening just a fraction. “No apology is necessary, Jim. Your curiosity is a positive trait, one that draws the eye and invites closer acquaintance.”

There’s a tone to the words, a suggestion of something Jim doesn’t catch or understand. 

“I prepared you tea, as you voiced appreciation for it previously,” Spock continues, gesturing to the cup on the side table.

Picking up the cup, he takes a cautious sip of the Vulcan tea, its warmth spreading through him, comforting in a way he can’t explain. 

This is nice, he thinks, murmuring a quiet, “Thanks.”

They dive into the project, Spock explaining that soil samples from Palaver Ester X are still in transit, but once received, they can craft a more accurate holodeck simulation to test their terraforming models. Jim nods, his mind buzzing with ideas for refining the nutrient distribution system. 

“Sounds good. The more data we have, the better we can tweak the simulation,” he says, enthusiasm creeping into his voice.

Spock hands him a padd displaying an official student outside work contract, which Jim skims and fills out with ease, having signed similar forms before. 

As he works, Spock continues, “I will provide the contact information for the stationed team on Palaver Ester X, so you may familiarize yourself with their operations.” He pauses, his gaze steady, almost searching. “I reviewed your student file, Jim. Your double track in command and engineering is rigorous, a testament to your intellectual capacity and dedication. It is admirable.”

Jim flashes a grin, accepting the compliment but brushing it off to quiet the stirring Spock’s words bring. 

"You're likely one of the few who think that," he quips, his voice playful yet brushing off the compliment. Then, almost without thinking, he adds, “I’m not exactly popular around here. Bones is pretty much my only friend.” 

He catches himself, and he feels a flush of embarrassment as he realizes how that sounded. “Well, I mean, you and Bones are my only friends now.” 

The words feel awkward, too exposed, and he cringes inwardly. When he meets Spock’s gaze, the Vulcan’s eyes have softened—still piercing, but almost gentle, though he’s not sure he’s reading it right.

Still, he feels a flutter in his gut.

“Your presence is singularly compelling, and those who fail to recognize it are diminished by their oversight.” 

Spock’s words leave Jim flustered, a flush creeping up his neck that he fights to suppress, unsure why it’s there when Spock is simply being friendly. 

They wrap up with Spock asking Jim to review his proposed adjustments to the water reclamation system from their library discussion. 

“I’ll get on it,” Jim agrees, standing and gripping the doorknob. “Bye, Spock.”

“I wish you a restful weekend, Jim.” 

⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚

On Sunday, Jim slumps into a worn armchair in his and Bones’ living room. The faint whirring of the environmental controls fills the silence, a steady reminder of the Starfleet campus just outside. It’s late—past midnight now—and the campus is quiet, save for the occasional hovercar humming in the distance. 

Another nightmare is to blame for his late-night revisions, the kind that leaves his pulse racing and his skin clammy.

His padd rests on his lap, displaying the water reclamation adjustments he promised Spock, but his eyes keep drifting to Murdeux’s journal, tucked under a stack of notes on the side table. 

It feels heavier than it should like it’s anchoring him to Tarsus all over again.

He rubs his temples, trying to shake the fog of exhaustion and the nagging ache of old memories. The nightmare from earlier lingers, not as sharp but still there, like a bruise under his skin—that voice, always that voice.

He thinks about calling Bones, who’s still at the clinic pulling a double shift, but decides against it. Bones would worry, and Jim’s not in the mood to be fussed over. 

Instead, he opens the padd and pulls up Spock’s latest message, sent over three hours ago: 

“I have cross-referenced your proposed adjustments with the available data. Your approach shows promise, but I recommend reviewing the microbial decay rates before finalizing. We can discuss further when we meet.” 

The message is clipped, precise, and so very Spock, but Jim can’t help the small smile tugging at his lips. There’s something about Spock’s unrelenting focus that feels like a lifeline, pulling him out of the chaos in his head.

He starts typing a reply, fingers hesitating over the keys. 

“Thanks for the feedback. I’ll check the decay rates and we’ll discuss. Don’t stay up too late running experiments, okay?”

He pauses, then deletes the last sentence, feeling it’s too familiar, too much like something he’d say to Bones. They’re supposed to be friends—Spock said so himself—but Jim’s not sure where the line is. 

Instead, he adds, “Looking forward to nailing this.” He hits send before he can overthink it.

Setting the padd aside, Jim leans back, staring at the ceiling, where a faint crack in the paneling looks vaguely like the outline of Andoria’s moons. 

The project is a chance to do something real, something that could prevent another Tarsus. Murdeux’s journal holds pieces of that puzzle, but every page pulls him back to those days—hiding in the caves, rationing stale protein bars, hearing Murdeux’s steady voice urging them to hold on. 

He reaches for her journal, fingers brushing the worn cover, but stops short. Not tonight. He’s not strong enough for that tonight.

His communicator chirps, startling him. It’s a new message from Spock, it reads: “Your enthusiasm for the project is noted. Rest is advisable.”

Jim grins, the tension in his chest easing a fraction. “Right back at you. What are you still doing up? ” He hits send, expecting a lecture on Vulcan physiology.

The response comes quickly: “I am organizing my data files.”

This pulls a genuine laugh from his ribs, one that feels foreign after the night he’s had. 

"Funny, Spock. I like keeping busy. Just trying to match your efficiency," he types back, the smile still tugging at his lips.

Another chirp, almost immediate: “Efficiency does not preclude rest, Jim. Your well-being is of particular interest to me. Goodnight.”

The words hit like a soft phaser burst, stirring that same warm feeling from the shuttle stop.

Jim stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the screen. 

Particular interest? It’s just Spock being Spock, right? Maybe a little protective because of their new friendship. 

But there’s a part of Jim—buried under the exhaustion and thoughts of Tarsus—that wonders if he’s missing something. He shakes it off, chalking it up to his overactive imagination. Spock’s a Vulcan, not exactly the type to get mushy.

“Night, Spock,” he types back, adding, “See you next week, don’t stay up too late organizing those files 😉

He hesitates, then adds a winking emoticon, something he’d only ever done with Bones and his previous partners, and hits send before he starts overthinking it. 

Another message arrives, quicker than he expects: “Your attempt at humor is noted. I anticipate our next meeting, Jim, as it promises to be engaging. Goodnight.”

Jim reads it twice, the word “engaging ” sticking in his mind like a burr. It’s just Spock’s way of talking, he tells himself, but that warmth spreads again, curling in his chest like a cat settling in for the night. 

He wonders if Spock knows the effect he has, or if it’s just Jim reading too much into everything. 

Either way, it’s… nice. Nicer than he’s felt in a while.

He powers down his padd and heads to bed, pausing to glance at Murdeux’s journal one last time. It can wait. 

He crawls under the covers, the faint hum of the environmental controls lulling him toward sleep, and for the first time in days, he feels like he might actually rest.

Chapter Text

Six weeks into the project, Jim and Spock stand in a holodeck, immersed in their first simulation of Palaver Ester X’s harsh terrain, which has been running smoothly for two of those weeks using their automated analyses.

Jagged crimson spires claw at a blood-red sky, their edges glinting like shattered glass in the thin, metallic air. The ground crunches underfoot, a brittle mix of rust-colored dust and pebbles.

Soil samples, painstakingly analyzed over, have shaped their virtual model—a testbed for nutrient systems and water filtration designed to coax life from this barren rock.

Jim’s energy surges as he steps in to adjust the nutrient dispensers’ controls, his fingers moving with a performer’s flair. Small pale green plants shoot through the simulated soil, their tips trembling in a faint, artificial breeze.

“This rock’s gonna be a garden, Spock,” he says, his grin sharp, eyes blazing with the thrill of creation, though a faint edge of tension lingers from the alerts that brought them here.

Spock, ever methodical, reviews parameters on his control padd, his brow creasing as he scans the incoming data. “The nutrient levels are deviating from projections by 7.9 percent,” he states, his tone a measured counterpoint to Jim’s zeal. “This suggests an underlying instability.”

Jim laughs, a bit forced but defiant. “Come on, Spock, it’s been running fine for days. Let’s nudge it back on track.”

Their rhythm is sharp, honed over six weeks—Jim’s bold ideas sparking against Spock’s calculated predictions.

The simulation thrived with virtual fields sprouting vibrant crops based on their carefully calibrated analyses. But as the second week drew to a close, alerts signaled trouble: crop growth slowed in scattered sectors and unpredictable fluctuating nutrient levels through out. 

“Something’s not right, Spock,” Jim mutters, his voice tightening as he eyes a patch of wilting crops. “These plants should be twice this size.”

Spock’s eyes narrow at his padd, fingers moving swiftly. “The nutrient dispersal system is malfunctioning. I recommend reducing input by 12.4 percent to stabilize it.”

Jim shakes his head, jaw tight. “No, we can save this. Let’s boost the levels, force it to hold.” His fingers jab at the controls, a flicker of unease in his movements, but he buries it under stubborn confidence, unwilling to accept that their six weeks of work might unravel.

The nutrient system collapses entirely, virtual crops browning and crumbling into the rust-colored dust. “Dammit, it’s crashing!” Jim snaps, his voice raw with frustration that masks a rising tremor.

Dust-choked fields begin to sprawl under a sickly yellow sky, the air thick with the sour reek of rot. Wilted stalks, brittle as bones, claw from cracked earth, their tips blackened and curling.

Phaser whines pierce the silence—sharp, staccato bursts echoing with distant screams.

Jim freezes, his breath snagging. Memories of Tarsus slam into him: skeletal faces, Dr. Murdeux’s final gasp, rough hands pinning his arms, Kodos’s cold voice cutting through the chaos.

The screams and plasma bursts reverberate in his skull. His hands tremble on the controls, fumbling to reset the simulation, but his fingers feel numb, disconnected.

“We… we can fix this,” he mutters, forcing a laugh that cracks like dry twigs. His voice is too high, too thin, betraying the storm brewing beneath.

Spock’s head snaps up, his dark eyes narrowing. “Jim,” he says, stepping closer, “Your respiratory rate is elevated. Are you unwell?”

“I’m fine,” Jim bites out, sharper than intended, diving back into the controls to hide his shaking hands.

“Let’s keep going, Spock.” His breaths are shallow, each catching in his throat like a hook, his chest tightening as if crushed by an invisible weight.

The simulation spirals further, a grotesque reflection of their flawed model. The virtual crops blacken, leaves curling into charred husks that crumble at the slightest touch. The soil splits, oozing gray sludge that reeks of decay—a rancid stench that clogs Jim’s throat.

The water filtration system fails spectacularly, pumps gurgling as they choke on algae-slicked muck. Pools of stagnant liquid shimmer under the red sky, rippling with oily swirls.

A low, simulated wind rises, carrying a keening wail too close to Tarsus’s starving winds, too close to the screams of the fallen.

Jim’s mind fractures. He’s back on Tarsus, watching crops wither, hearing phasers crack like breaking bones. The square fills his vision—bodies piled like discarded rags, their faces gray and sunken. Kodos’s shadow looms, a specter in his memory.

His chest seizes, a vise crushing his ribs. His breaths come in ragged gasps, each shallower than the last. Sweat slicks his forehead, dripping into his eyes, stinging with salt.

“No… no, it’s not happening again!” he chokes, hands clawing at the console as his vision tunnels, the holodeck’s decay blurring with ash and blood. Tears—hot, unbidden—burn tracks down his cheeks.

“Jim!” Spock’s voice cuts through, sharp and commanding. He slams his hand on the control panel, powering down the holodeck. The ruined landscape vanishes, replaced by sterile black gridlines, but Jim’s spiral continues.

“I’m fine,” Jim gasps, the words raw and unconvincing, his legs wobbling as he stumbles back. “Just… need a second.” He bolts from the holodeck, the corridor’s fluorescent lights blurring as he runs to the nearest bathroom.

Inside, he collapses into the farthest stall, back slamming against the cold tile wall. He slides to the floor, heart hammering like a drum.

Kodos is dead. Kodos is dead. Kodos is dead. He chants it, forcing air into his burning lungs, but memories claw deeper: Murdeux’s limp hand, cold against his own; the burn of rough hands on his skin; Kodos’s venomous hiss.

His hands shake violently, pressed to his eyes as he counts breaths—one, two, three—naming objects to ground himself: tiles, sink, door. The air bites his throat, but slowly, his pulse steadies, the tremors fading to a dull quiver.

Humiliation surges. Shit. He fell apart in front of Spock. His cheeks burn as he rubs his face with his sleeve, trying to erase the tear-streaked evidence.

The bathroom door creaks open. “Jim?” Spock’s voice echoes.

Jim drags himself up, stepping out of the stall. He forces a weak smile, wobbly and unconvincing. “I’m okay, Spock. The simulation just… blindsided me. No big deal.” His voice cracks, and he avoids Spock’s piercing gaze, focusing on the gray tiles.

Spock stands near the door, posture rigid but eyes searching. From his pocket, he produces a neatly folded handkerchief, its crisp white fabric identical to the one he had been offered that night in the alley. “You may find this useful,” he says, holding it out.

Jim lets out a choked laugh, brittle but real, as he takes it. “Another one of these, huh? You must have a whole stockpile.” The teasing is weak, a flicker of his usual spark.

Spock tilts his head. “Your amusement at my preparedness is noted, Jim.” His tone is dry, but a subtle undercurrent of care threads through it.

Jim’s fingers tighten around the handkerchief, his smile faltering as memories of that stench-soaked alley surface.

“Hey, uh… sorry about that night,” he says, voice rough. “Mocking your handkerchief when you were just trying to help.”

Spock’s expression softens. “No apology is necessary, Jim. Your response was understandable under the circumstances.” He pauses, then adds, quieter but firm, “I would rather you have something to stop your tears.”

The words hit Jim, unexpected, slicing through the fog of his panic. He blinks, his breath catching, and attributes it to Spock’s Vulcan nature—unaccustomed to emotional outbursts, likely just wanting Jim to compose himself.

Embarrassment creeps in, hot and sharp, as he scrubs at his face with the handkerchief.

“Sorry for… this,” he mutters, gesturing vaguely at himself. “The crying, I mean. Not exactly Starfleet’s finest.”

Spock’s hand lifts slightly, as if to reach out, but he stops. “You need not apologize, Jim. Your emotions are a natural response to the vivid imagery. They do not diminish you.” His eyes hold Jim’s, and he adds, “You are more resilient than you allow yourself to believe.”

The words spark a flicker of solace in Jim’s chest, and his heart races, caught between panic and Spock’s unexpected faith. He swallows hard, unable to respond.

⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚

The dining hall pulses with the controlled chaos of Starfleet Academy at midday. Long, sleek tables stretch across the vast room, their surfaces reflecting the stark glow of overhead lights—white panels casting a crisp sheen over the bustling scene.

Utilitarian gray walls, etched with Starfleet’s delta insignia at regular intervals, frame the space, while the steady thrum of replicators hums beneath the lively din, churning out meals with a faint metallic whir.

Cadets weave through the crowd, their trays clattering with plates of replicated food—salads, sandwiches, and the occasional exotic alien dish—adding to the vibrant hum of conversation and movement.

The air swirls with savory aromas, punctuated by the sharp clink of cutlery and the occasional squeak of boots on the floor.

Along one wall, floor-to-ceiling windows reveal San Francisco’s skyline, the Golden Gate Bridge a faint silhouette shimmering through the haze.

Jim sits at a corner table, pressed against the cool glass of the window, its chill surrounding him as he pokes at a plate of congealing marinara pasta.

His fork twists listlessly, his appetite dulled by sleepless nights haunted by night terrors of Tarsus. The bags under his eyes are dark as bruises, his face pale, his usual vibrancy dimmed. 

Bones suddenly slides into the seat across from him, fresh off a clinic shift, his medical coat rumpled and his scowl etched deep.

“You look like death warmed over, Jim,” he says, stabbing at a piece of grilled chicken on his tray. “Sleep not getting better?”

Jim shrugs, twirling his fork. “Just the usual nightmares.” His voice is guarded, the words scraping at the edges of a wound he doesn’t want to reopen.

Bones raises an eyebrow, chewing thoughtfully. “Maybe you should consider taking a break from the project, Jim.”

“I’m fine, Bones. Just going through the motions.” Jim’s voice is clipped. “It’s not always like this,” he adds, softer. “You know that.”

Some weeks, Tarsus barely surfaces, buried under Starfleet’s relentless pace. He keeps his schedule packed with classes, projects, late-night study sessions— anything to hold the memories at bay. 

Bones leans back, concern etching his face. “I don’t like seeing you like this, Jim. You’re piling on too much.”

Before Jim can retort, a shadow falls over the table. Spock approaches, cutting through the dining hall’s clamor.

His black professor’s uniform, tailored to his lean frame, absorbs the light, the high collar framing his angular jaw.

His pale skin glows faintly under the stark lights, dark hair swept back to reveal the subtle points of his ears. His deep brown eyes carry a quiet intensity that hushes nearby cadets.

His tray holds a steaming bowl of orange-hued soup, and a small stack of padds glows faintly with data in his other hand.

“May I join you?” Spock asks.

Bones smirks, gesturing to the seat beside Jim. “Have at it, Professor.”

Spock sits, his shoulder brushing Jim’s as he settles, causing a fleeting jolt to spark up Jim's spine. He places his tray and padds carefully, his gaze flicking to Jim.

Jim’s cheeks flush, the holodeck meltdown still fresh. “I’m, uh, sorry about the other day, Spock,” he says, eyes on his pasta. “Losing it like that.”

Spock tilts his head, his expression unreadable but his eyes softening. “No apology is necessary, Jim. Emotional responses are not a failing, nor do they discomfort me. I find tending to your emotional needs to be a responsibility I do not mind undertaking.”

Jim blinks, chalking it up to Spock’s blunt sincerity, and forces a grin to hide the heat creeping up his neck.

“Thanks, Spock. Just don’t want to be a mess in front of you.”

Bones squints between them, fork paused mid-air, a knowing smirk tugging his lips. His eyes dart from Spock’s gaze to Jim’s oblivious flush, but he stays silent, the look screaming he’s caught something Jim hasn’t.

“What you got there?” Jim asks, desperate to shift the focus, nodding at Spock’s soup.

“This is plomeek soup,” Spock replies, his voice even. “A traditional Vulcan dish, though many humans find it bland.”

“You may sample it, if you wish.”

He produces a small dressing cup from his tray, offering it to Jim, his fingers brushing Jim’s as he passes it—a fleeting touch that sparks warmth in Jim’s chest. 

Jim takes it, sipping the warm, faintly orange broth. It’s tasteless, like warm water with a hint of vegetables. “Wow, yeah, pretty bland,” he says, grinning. “This’d be a killer hangover remedy, though.”

Spock tilts his head, his gaze lingering on Jim. “I am curious, Jim. What foods do you prefer?”

Jim chuckles, the question catching him off guard. “I’m not picky. Grew up eating whatever I could get.”

Tarsus flashes—gnawing hunger, scraping for scraps—but he buries it, keeping his tone light.

“If I had to choose, maybe a juicy burger with all the fixings—lettuce, tomato, bacon. Or pizza, pepperoni, and extra cheese. Oh, and sushi—salmon nigiri, spicy tuna rolls.” He glances at his congealing pasta, grin fading. "I'd kill for some sushi right now. This stuff’s not cutting it.”

Bones snorts, waving his fork. “Eat like that, and you’ll be waddling in no time, Jim.”

Spock’s brow lifts, his tone measured but pointed. “On the contrary, Doctor, Jim’s physical condition appears optimal. His strength and agility are evident, as is his… aesthetic appeal, regardless of dietary choices.”

Jim laughs, “Thanks for the backup, Spock!” He shovels pasta into his mouth, cheeks flushing slightly.

Bones rolls his eyes, his smirk sharpening as he leans back. “Hopeless,” he mutters under his breath.“Where’s my sample, Spock?”

Spock’s expression remains dry. “I was unaware you expressed interest in Vulcan cuisine, Doctor.”

Jim laughs, and their conversation shifts to the project, Spock addressing Jim directly.

“Your cross-pollination idea for the colony’s flora was intriguing. I’ve recalculated the nutrient matrix to support it. Would you consider further adjustments?”

Jim perks up, Tarsus’s fog receding slightly. “Yeah, I was thinking we tweak the water filtration for nitrogen retention. Could stabilize the soil long-term.”

Spock nods. “A logical approach. Your creativity enhances our model. Have you considered adjusting irrigation cycles for the planet’s diurnal temperature shifts?”

Jim leans forward, exhaustion briefly forgotten. “Good call. Staggering cycles at dawn could cut water loss by, what, 15%?”

“17.4%,” Spock corrects, his tone precise but warm. “Your instincts are commendable, Jim. I would value your input on the dispersal system.”

Bones clears his throat loudly, with a mock scowl. “I’m here too, you know.”

Jim laughs, “Sorry, Bones. No more shop talk. How’s the clinic? Still wrestling cadets’ egos?”

Bones snorts, launching into a story about a cadet fainting during a scan, and the table settles into an easy rhythm. Spock’s responses are clipped but not unfriendly, even as Bones jabs at his “pointy-eared logic.” Jim watches, amused, their dynamic surprisingly natural for a first real meeting.

But Spock’s attention keeps drifting to Jim. “Your contributions to the project are highly valuable,” he says softly, eyes lingering. “I find your perspective fascinating.”

Jim blinks, “Thanks, Spock. Glad I’m not totally screwing it up.” He grins, but his heart races, and he buries it under another forkful of pasta.

The mess hall bell chimes, signaling lunch’s end. Spock rises, tray cleared. “I must prepare for my next class,” he says, looking at Jim. “Rest well, Jim. I anticipate our next meeting.” His gaze holds Jim’s for a beat, before he nods to Bones and strides away.

Bones leans in as Spock disappears, his smirk widening. “He likes you, Jim. And not just for your brain.”

Jim scoffs, “Come on, Bones. We’re partners. He asked to be my friend, remember?” He shakes his head, dismissing it, but his words feel flimsy.

Bones snorts, standing and clapping Jim’s shoulder. “You’re hopeless, kid. Get some sleep before you keel over.”

Left alone, Jim stares at his half-eaten pasta, Spock’s words— 'tending to your emotional needs' and 'aesthetic appeal '—bouncing around in his head. He’s not sure why it matters so much, and that uncertainty sets his heart racing all over again.

⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚

Friday afternoon settles over Spock’s office, the soft whir of his terminal threading through the silence as Jim and Spock review notes on their terraforming project. Jim’s fingers fly across his padd, tweaking nutrient distribution models, his focus razor-sharp for the first time in days.

The shadows under his eyes have eased, carved away by a few nights of hard-won sleep, though Tarsus lingers in the quiet corners of his mind—ugly memories still threatening to claw their way back.

He senses Spock’s gaze and glances up. Their eyes lock—Spock’s dark, inscrutable, and searing in a way that sends a jolt through Jim’s pulse. The air crackles with something electric, something Jim can’t pin down, and for a moment, neither moves.

Then Spock looks away, his attention turning back to his terminal, his long fingers resuming their precise dance over the controls.

Jim frowns, trying to shake the lingering spark. Why was he staring? Probably just Spock being Spock—those piercing looks he’s caught before, especially since the holodeck incident.

Spock’s protective streak has sharpened lately—frequent checks on Jim’s well-being, and offering tea more often. Jim chalked it to Spock feeling responsible after witnessing his meltdown.

“More soil samples are in transit,” Spock says, his voice slicing through Jim’s thoughts. “We should be able to conduct another simulation in two weeks.” He pauses, his gaze flickering back to Jim, “Are you well enough to proceed?”

Jim’s chest tightens at the memory—He forces a smile, though it feels fragile. “I’m good, Spock. Really. Got some sleep, brain’s not on fire anymore.”

It’s a half-truth. The simulation had gutted him, but he’s determined to push forward.

“I just wasn’t ready for how real it felt. I can handle it.”

Spock tilts his head, studying him with a keen intensity that makes Jim’s throat catch.

“Do not hesitate to inform me if you require accommodations.” His tone is formal, but a quiet sincerity is there, tugging at Jim’s nerves.

“Thanks,” Jim says, ducking his head, his fingers gripping his padd tighter to steady the tremor in his hands.

They wrap up, gathering their padds and exiting Spock’s office. The turbolift ride is quiet, the confined space amplifying Jim’s awareness of Spock—his even, measured breathing, the faint scent of vetiver and spices clinging to his uniform.

Jim’s skin prickles, his heart picking up pace, and he clenches his hands at his sides, staring at the floor. Just the small space, he tells himself, willing his pulse to slow.

Outside the science building, rain pours in relentless sheets, drumming against the pavement and pooling in shallow dips. Jim curses under his breath—he forgot an umbrella, and the nearest shuttle stop is a ten-minute trek through the downpour.

Spock, unruffled, produces a large transparent umbrella, its frame glinting faintly under the rain. “I will drive you home,” he says, his tone firm.

Jim’s heart stumbles at the thought of another enclosed space, with Spock sending a surge through him. “You don’t have to—” he starts, but Spock’s raised eyebrow silences him. “Okay, fine. Thanks.”

They cross to the faculty lot, where Spock’s hovercar waits—a sleek, obsidian-black marvel, its smooth curves and polished chrome accents gleaming through the rain. The vehicle hovers an inch above the ground, its lines sharp, tinted windows catching the light. A subtle Starfleet insignia etched into the hood gleams faintly. Jim lets out a low whistle, his fingers itching to trace its contours.

“Damn, Spock. This thing’s a beast.”

He slides into the passenger seat, careful not to smudge the pristine leather interior. The dashboard glows with understated tech—holographic displays and sleek controls radiating precision and expense.

Spock starts the car, and Jim’s eyes widen as he accelerates, weaving through the soaked streets with a speed just shy of reckless. The hovercar glides effortlessly, its suspension absorbing every bump, the engine’s low thrum vibrating through Jim’s bones. Rain streaks the windows, the city blurring past in a wash of neon and gray.

Jim’s grin tugs at his lips despite the flutter in his chest. Speed demon, he thinks, his body buzzing with the ride’s energy.

The car’s raw power is hot —exhilarating, fast, a little dangerous—and Jim stamps down the thought, refusing to tangle his admiration for the vehicle with the person driving it.

Spock glances at him, his hands steady on the controls. “Do you find the vehicle satisfactory, Jim?” he asks, his voice calm but laced with a faint curiosity that feels oddly intimate for a Vulcan.

Jim laughs, caught off guard. “Satisfactory? Spock, this thing’s a work of art. A ride like this probably gets a lot of attention.” He dodges the question, his fingers fidgeting with his bag’s strap, his face heating. 

Spock’s eyes flick to him, a subtle glint in his eyes. “If you find it appealing, I would permit you to drive it, should you wish.” His tone is even, but a quiet undercurrent stirs Jim’s pulse.

Jim’s laugh comes out flustered, “Uh, yeah, probably best if I don’t. Never got my license for hovercars. Only ever drove bikes back home.” He rubs the back of his neck, the space feeling tighter.

Spock’s brow arches slightly. “You have no license? How did you manage transportation?”

Jim grins, leaning back, trying to shake off the fluster. “Guess I’ve always found someone to drive me around,” he says.

Another half-truth. He’s managed to hitch rides when needed, but he hasn’t touched a steering wheel since he nearly sent his dad’s old car careening off a cliff—a memory he dodges to avoid stirring darker ones. That near-miss, tangled with past traumas, has kept him from ever driving again.

Spock’s eyes dart to his, “I will give you a ride whenever you need it,” he says, his words lingering in the air. “It would be no inconvenience.”

Jim swallows hard, Just Spock being friendly, he tells himself, though his body betrays him—pulse racing and skin prickling. 

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll get tired of playing chauffeur,” he says. “I wouldn’t want to take advantage.”

“I would not mind.”

The air fills with a quiet charge, Spock’s faint scent—clean, like sage and steel—blending with the leather and rain-soaked atmosphere of the hovercar. Jim’s senses sharpen, catching every detail: the engine’s low rumble, the soft blue glow of ambient lighting tracing the car’s interior, the precise grace of Spock’s hands on the controls.

It’s overwhelming, and Jim attributes it to admiration for Spock’s unexpected kindness toward someone like him, still half-convinced he’s a walking disaster.

“So,” Jim says, breaking the heavy silence, his voice louder than intended. “No music in this fancy ride? Kinda quiet for a guy with a car this cool.”

“Music can be distracting. However, I would not object if you chose to play something you enjoy.” His voice, almost inviting. “I believe I would find your preferences beguiling.”

Jim laughs, his face warming again. “Trust me, you don’t want to hear my off-key singing to old Earth tunes.” The words feel like a shield, though he’s unsure what he’s guarding against.

Spock glances at him, his gaze pinning him in the passenger seat. “I would not mind,” he says before his eyes return to the road.

The words send a shiver through Jim, and he grips his bag strap tighter, urging his heart to slow.

They pull into Jim’s apartment complex, rain hammering down, puddles mirroring the hovercar’s sleek lines. Spock retrieves an umbrella from the back and steps out to join Jim.

“I’ll walk you to the door,” he says, cutting off Jim’s protest before it forms.

They walk side by side, shoulders brushing under the umbrella’s canopy. The fleeting contact sends a jolt through Jim, tightening a knot of feeling he can’t quite name.

At the building’s entrance, Spock stops, his eyes locking onto Jim’s. “You are important to me, Jim,” he says. “Ensure you rest adequately.”

Jim’s skin flushes, heat creeping up his neck. Just Spock being Spock, he insists, though Bones’ words—he likes you—echo faintly before he pushes them aside.

Bones is protective too; Jim’s just unaccustomed to such care, especially from someone like Spock, who’s only known him a short while.

“Thanks, Spock,” he says. “Good night.”

“Goodnight , Jim.” Spock nods, his gaze steady, but he remains standing under the umbrella, its faint halo glinting in the rain as he watches Jim fumble with punching in his code before he manages to unlock the building door.

He glances back, meeting Spock’s eyes before stepping inside, the door shutting behind him.

That night, he sleeps deeply, the longest stretch of peace he’s had in days.

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The sun blazes down on Jim as he jogs through his neighborhood park, his sneakers pounding the winding gravel trail, kicking up faint clouds of dust that mingle with the scent of sun-warmed grass.

The park sprawls around him—lush green lawns dotted with picnickers, maintained oaks casting shade, and the distant sound of hovercars weaving through the skyline.

Sweat soaks his top, the blue fabric clinging to his torso, the hem riding up to expose a strip of toned midriff. A breeze carries the faint tang of the nearby Pacific, but it does little to cool the sweat beading on his brow or the burn in his lungs from the rhythm of his run.

His communicator pings mid-stride, pulling him from the cadence of his footfalls. He slows to a stop near a tree, its twisted branches offering a pocket of shade. Chest heaving, heart already racing from the workout, he wipes his brow with the back of his hand.

The screen glows against the sunlight, and when he sees Spock’s name, his pulse spikes for a different reason—sharp and unplaceable. Leaning against the tree’s rough bark, he opens the message.

“Jim, there is a data chip I lent you during our last meeting,” Spock’s message reads, precise as ever. “I require it for a lecture.”

Jim grins, his breath still coming in quick bursts as he types back, “No problem. I’m out for a run, I'm sure I could easily run to your place.”

He sends it, wiping more sweat from his forehead, the park’s sounds—children laughing, a dog barking, the distant whir of a lawn drone—fading into the background.

The response is almost immediate. “That is not advisable. My residence is twenty minutes from the Academy, in an area unfamiliar to you. I could not permit such a risk.”

Jim chuckles, catching his breath, the air tasting of dust and salt. “Relax, Spock, I was joking. Besides, I’ve hit my limit on catcalls today.”  

He’s already been whistled at twice this hour—once by a group of hoverbikers near the park’s entrance, their eyes lingering on his exposed midriff with lazy grins, and again by a passerby on the trail who muttered something crude about his legs—the attention prickles, not entirely unwelcome but enough to make him hyper-aware of others. 

His communicator chirps, “Catcalled?” Spock’s reply reads. 

Jim smirks, leaning harder against the tree, its bark scraping lightly against his shoulder.

“Not familiar with the term?” he types, his fingers quick on the screen. “Street harassment. Guess that’s what I get for wearing a crop top.”

He sends it, glancing around the park—a jogger in neon yellow sprints past, a couple sprawls on a blanket under a nearby tree, and a street vendor’s cart wafts the smell of grilled corn and spices his way.

Spock’s next message is sharp. “Jim, you should not excuse those who lack the discipline to control themselves when faced with an aesthetically pleasing individual.”

Jim’s face heats, the compliment landing like a spark in dry grass. Aesthetically pleasing. He knows Spock’s just stating a fact, like he did in the dining hall—Spock’s commented on his appearance before, always in that detached, Vulcan way, as if it’s just data. 

Physical attractiveness probably ranks low on the Vulcan priority list, Jim figures, brushing it off. Just Spock being a friend. Though his words stir something warm in his chest, he stamps it down, focusing on the rough bark against his skin.

“Okay, okay, no excuses, for your sake,” he replies, “Wanna swing by my place instead?” He sends it, shifting his weight, his sneakers crunching on the gravel.

“I do not wish to disturb you,” Spock responds, ever formal, the words almost stiff on the screen.

“It’s not a problem 😉,” Jim types, tossing in a winking emoji for good measure. “How about you come around 4 if you’re free?” He pushes off the tree, stretching his arms, the sun glinting off the sweat on his skin.

“That is acceptable.”

“Cool, my building code’s 2264. Sixth floor, apartment at the end of the hall.” Jim sends.

Spock’s reply is swift, tinged with that familiar protectiveness. “Your openness with such information is concerning, Jim. I advise greater caution.”

Jim laughs aloud, the sound startling a nearby squirrel that darts up a tree. “Promise, only you and Bones have my code,” he types, shaking his head as he resumes a slow jog, his sneakers scuffing the trail.

Spock, being Spock. Protective as ever, especially since the holodeck incident. It’s just friendship, amped up by Spock witnessing his panic attack. 

Nothing more.

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He had been wrong about only Spock and Bones having his building code.

Jim stands in the hallway of his apartment building, the overhead lights casting a soft glow that thrums faintly in his ears. The hallway, narrow but clean, boasts pale blue walls adorned with Starfleet motivational posters and a digital bulletin board flashing campus events.

The speckled gray-and-navy carpet, worn but well-kept, and the air carries a blend of cleaning solution and the faint, savory aroma of someone’s cooking drifting from a nearby unit.

His face remains tacky with the green clay mask he meant to wash off fifteen minutes ago. Gary leans against the wall, exuding smug charm and an uninvited presence, his eyes raking over Jim with a familiarity that grates on his nerves.

Forty minutes before Spock’s due to arrive, Gary had shown up unannounced, his building code still valid from a relationship Jim now sees as shallow, fleeting, all lust and no substance. Sex was all it ever was with Gary, and the rose-tinted glasses Jim once wore are long shattered.

The wound of their breakup stings—not because he wants Gary back, but because a flicker of feeling for someone so unworthy lingers, a betrayal of his own heart. Jim masks it with a tight smile, his jaw clenched to hide the hurt.

“Gary, I told you, I’ve got someone coming over,” Jim says, his voice taut, arms crossed over his chest, the hallway’s balmy air brushing his bare forearms. “You need to go.”

Gary’s smirk widens, his eyes glinting with edge as he steps closer, crowding Jim’s space. “Already moved on, huh, Jimmy? Bet they don’t fuck you like I did.” His voice drops, low and sleazy, dripping with arrogance. “You’re looking good, all clean and tight in that shirt. Makes me wanna drag you inside and peel it off, remind you how I used to make you scream.”

His wink is pure bravado, as if Jim’s just a conquest to reclaim, likely spurred by someone else’s rejection that sent Gary crawling back.

Jim’s skin crawls, the hurt flaring beneath his forced calm, but he keeps his expression steady, refusing to let Gary see the sting.

“Enough, Gary,” he says, his fingers digging into his biceps. “We’re done. Get the hell out of here.”

Gary chuckles, undeterred, his hand grazing Jim’s arm, fingers lingering with a familiarity that feels wrong. “Come on, babe, don’t play hard to get. One night, for old times’ sake—I know you’re still thinking about me.” His tone is crass, his smirk a challenge, as if Jim’s resistance is mere foreplay.

Jim opens his mouth to snap back, but the elevator dings at the end of the hall.

His luck, as always, is rotten.

Spock steps out, his deep brown eyes sharpening as they land on Jim and Gary. The hallway’s light catches the faint sheen of his jacket, and his posture, rigid yet commanding, radiates, making Gary’s bravado seem small and cheap.

“Hey, keep those eyes on me, Jimmy,” Gary says, his tone playful but filled with irritation, two fingers brushing Jim’s cheek to turn his face back. The touch feels invasive, and Jim flinches, stepping back until his shoulder hits the doorframe, the panel cool against his skin.

“You should leave, Gary,” Jim says, his eyes burning with a mix of hurt and anger he keeps locked down. “Now.”

Gary’s smirk doesn’t falter, but his eyes flick to Spock, sizing him up as he walks down the hallway.

“We could get back together, though,” he says, his voice loud enough to carry, a taunt in it. “Nobody fucks like I do, and that ass of yours was always my favorite view.”

“In your dreams,” Jim bites out.

“Oh, I dream about you all the time,” Gary winks, all arrogance.

Spock reaches them, his presence cutting through the air. “Jim,” he says, his gaze flicking to Gary before settling on Jim. “Are you well?”

Jim meets Spock’s eyes, the tension in his chest easing slightly. “Just peachy, Spock. Gary was just leaving.” His gaze bores into Gary’s, a silent fuck off.

Gary scoffs, his smirk fading under Spock’s piercing stare. “Whatever, Jim. Catch you later.” His eyes flick to Spock with a slight sneer. “Professor.” He saunters toward the elevator, leaving a trail of smugness and acrid cologne in his wake.

Jim exhales, his shoulders sagging as he punches in his door code with more force than needed, the keypad beeping sharply.

“No one,” he mutters to Spock’s raised eyebrow, his voice tight with frustration. “Just my ex.” He leads the way inside, trying to shake off the encounter.

Bones lounges on the couch, a bowl of soup in hand, the flickering glow of an old Terran series about chaotic hospital drama and messier relationships casting shadows across his form.

“Great, did that asshole finally leave?” he grumbles, spoon paused midair. “I finished season six while that prick held you hostage out there.”

Jim snorts, his cheeks flushing as he catches Spock’s gaze lingering on his face, likely noting the green mask. “I take my skincare seriously,” he says, half-defensive, half-joking, trying to hide his hurt from Gary’s words. “Had to deal with some unwanted company. Gimme a sec. I’ll wash this off and grab your data chip.”

He does take his skincare seriously—a routine to quiet his mind, with the added perk of clear skin.

In the bathroom, he wipes the mask away, the cool water soothing his flushed skin. He grabs the data chip from his room and returns to the living area, where Bones is still glued to his show, muttering about the latest dramatic twist.

Spock stands near the edge of the living room, his posture relaxed but eyes attentive on the screen.

“You’d think for someone who works twelve-hour days in a clinic, he’d stay away from anything medical related in his free time.” Jim remarks, joining them.

“I am unfamiliar with such programs. But so far I find it fascinating,” Spock replies, his voice curious.

“Shush, you two. You wanna chit-chat, go in the kitchen,” Bones grumbles, waving them off.

Jim rolls his eyes and motions for Spock to join him at the barstools by the half bar.

“What programs do you enjoy, Jim?” Spock asks as Jim slides the data chip across the counter, their fingers touching briefly in the exchange. 

“Me? Anything with a happy ending,” Jim says, settling onto a barstool. “I like turning my brain off, seeing things work out.”

He leaves out how Tarsus’s shadow makes happy endings a tether against the dark.

Spock tilts his head, considering. “A preference for optimistic narratives is logical.” He pauses, glancing toward the living area. “I observe you have a chessboard, Jim. Do you play?”

Jim perks up, a genuine grin breaking through. “Yeah, I play chess. Not much of a challenge around here, though—Bones is a lousy opponent.” He tosses a playful glance at Bones, who snorts loudly from the couch.

“Excuse me, I’m a great player,” Bones retorts, waving his spoon. “You just cheat with that disorganized nonsense.”

Spock’s brow arches slightly. “I, too, am a chess player, Jim. You may find me a worthy opponent.”

Jim’s eyes light up, the sting of Gary’s words fading further. “Oh, yeah? We’ll have to play sometime. Bet I could give you a run for your money.”

He leans back on the barstool, his grin widening, the idea of a chess match sparking a welcome distraction, another way to fill his mind with strategy instead of Tarsus or Gary.

Spock tilts his head, his gaze steady and intent. “I would find spending additional time with you most agreeable, Jim.”

Bones snorts again, this time with a low chuckle, and waves his empty bowl. “Jim, more soup?”

Jim huffs, sliding off the stool. He grabs the bowl, walking to the pot on the stove and ladling more soup.

“You cook often, Jim?” Spock asks, his eyes tracking Jim’s movements with quiet focus.

“Yeah, most of the time,” Jim says, stirring the pot. “Replicators are fine, but I like making stuff myself.”

He doesn’t mention how Tarsus made food a fixation, a quiet defiance against hunger, a way to ensure food is always there, always his to control.

“Sorry, Spock, this has meat in it,” he adds, glancing at the pot. “Can’t send you home with any.”

“Good,” Bones grunts as Jim hands him back his bowl. “Don’t want him stealing my portions.”

“Ignore him,” Jim says, laughing. “But I did bake a blueberry coconut cake if you want a slice.”

“Might be too sweet for his tastes,” Bones remarks from the couch.

“I will take a slice,” Spock says quickly, surprising Jim. “I find myself curious about your culinary efforts.”

Bones raises an eyebrow. “Thought Vulcans weren’t into sweets.”

“Oh, quiet, McCoy,” Jim shoots back, rising to cut a generous slice and wrapping it for Spock.

He’s just being polite , Jim thinks, handing it over.

They settle at the bar, discussing the project—the new soil samples, simulation tweaks. Jim notices Spock’s staring again, sharper than usual, sending a heat through him. 

What?” he says, laughing. “Leftover mask on my face?”

Spock’s eyes flicker downward, then back up. “You look different. This is the first time I have seen you outside your cadet uniform or Starfleet labeled clothing. Your body modification is not typically visible.”

Jim glances down, realizing his tight white shirt reveals the silver nipple ring glinting through the fabric. He laughs, “Oh, yeah. Guess Vulcans aren’t big on piercings, huh?”

“Such adornments are uncommon on Vulcan,” Spock confirms, his voice low, a faint edge stirring Jim’s pulse. “Yet they suit you remarkably.”

Jim grins, “Thanks. Just a little rebellion before joining the fleet.” He laughs lightly, trying to shake off the flutter in his chest.

Spock rises soon after, tucking the cake and data chip into his bag. “I must prepare for tomorrow,” he says, his eyes lingering on Jim, “Thank you for your hospitality, Jim. It is appreciated.”

“Anytime,” Jim says, walking him to the door. “Night, Spock.”

As the door closes, Bones pipes up from the couch, spoon in hand. “He’s got the hots for you, Jim. I know it.”

“Bones, cut it out,” Jim says, plopping down with his own bowl of soup, his face tingling with a flush. “He’s just being nice.”

“Your body modification is not typically visible,” Bones mocks, mimicking Spock’s cadence. “That friendly alien act might work on you, but he's interested in more than just being your friend.”

“You make it sound like he’s a perv,” Jim huffs, spooning soup into his mouth to hide his grin.

“I’m a doctor, Jim. I know what I’m talking about.”

“And that makes you a Vulcan expert?” Jim counters, shoving another spoonful of soup in his mouth to mask the heat creeping up his neck.

“No, I’m saying that one,” Bones says, pointing his spoon at the door, “has his eyes on you.”

“Whatever,” Jim mutters, his skin still prickling with an unnameable tension, blaming the soup.

He leans back, focusing on the show’s cheesy dialogue, but Spock’s lingering gaze and careful words keep sparking in his mind, stirring a restless energy he can’t temper down. 

Chapter Text

The gentle drone of Spock’s hovercar vibrated through Jim’s body as he slouched in the passenger seat, his cadet uniform jacket slightly unzipped to save his neck from the itchy collar. Outside, San Francisco’s skyline unfolded in a dazzling sprawl—sleek, silvered towers pierced the morning mist, their glass facades reflecting the golden sun. 

Hovercars dart through elevated lanes, their sleek forms weaving between buildings adorned with holographic billboards flashing Starfleet recruitment ads and vibrant entertainment promos. Below, monorails snaked through bustling streets lined with fusion-powered streetlights and vibrant market stalls, their awnings fluttering in the coastal breeze. 

Jim’s padd rested heavily in his lap, crammed with notes for the project, but his mind raced with the thrill of skipping class for this trip to the hydroponics facility. Cadets seldom got such opportunities, and the exclusivity—usually reserved for staff—only heightened his excitement.  

“So, Spock,” Jim starts, breaking the silence with a playful grin, tapping his padd, “you’ve probably been on a ton of these science trips, right? What’s the craziest one? Here I am, ditching class for plants, and you’re stuck with me.”

Spock’s eyebrow lifts, his gaze flicking to Jim before returning to the road. “Your academic record justifies such opportunities, Jim,” he says. “My past excursions have been varied. I studied microbial life in Andorian ice caves and mapped atmospheric anomalies in the Mutara Nebula. Each presented distinct challenges.”

Spock’s fingers move over the controls as they dipped into a busy lane. “The work was rigorous. The Andorian caves required meticulous thermal control to preserve specimens, while the Mutara Nebula demanded constant recalibration of sensors. My colleagues were capable, but they lacked your unique perspective.”

Jim chuckles, rubbing his neck. “Unique perspective? That’s a nice way of saying I’m probably slowing you down. You have better stories with smarter partners than me.” He leans back, watching the passing traffic.

“On the contrary,” Spock says, his tone even, “your presence is refreshing, Jim. Your unconventional approach often yields unexpected solutions. I find our collaboration more rewarding than any of my prior partnerships.”

Jim let Spock’s words settle over him, unsure of what to do or say, as heat spread through his chest.

Spock maneuvered the hovercar into a long, descending tunnel, and the city’s vibrant sprawl gave way to the deep, verdant green of the countryside. Their destination appeared in the distance, a cluster of shimmering glass domes glinting like giant dew drops under the sun. A single sign marked their arrival: ‘Starfleet Hydroponics Research Facility.’ Jim’s heart, still buzzing from Spock’s praise, picked up its pace in anticipation.

At the hydroponics facility, sunlight streamed through towering glass walls, illuminating rows of vibrant plants suspended in midair. Lush ferns swayed gently, vines twisted around sleek supports, and alien flora pulsed with soft, glowing light, their colors shimmering like underwater jewels.

The air hung thick with nutrient mist, clinging to Jim’s skin and carrying an earthy scent that stirred memories of Tarsus—cracked earth, hunger’s sharp edge. He shoves the thoughts down, forcing a smile as he leans toward a nutrient sprayer.

“Spock, look at this setup,” he says, his voice bright despite the knot in his gut. “If we can replicate even a fraction of this, Palaver Ester X might actually feed someone.”

Spock steps closer, his shoulder brushing Jim’s, the brief contact sending a spark through him. “Your enthusiasm is commendable,” Spock remarks, his voice low as he examines the sprayer’s controls, his fingers grazing the panel.

Jim laughs, a touch too loud. “Just trying to keep things lively.”

They are assigned a cramped workbench in a bustling corner, surrounded by sprayers and technicians darting between stations. Jim’s movements are quick, a bit sloppy, and as he reaches  for a sample vial, his fingertips graze Spock’s, who reaches for the same one.

The fleeting touch sends a jolt through him, and he pulls back fast. “Whoops, sorry,” he mutters, cheeks heating as he forces a laugh, blaming the humid air for his sudden dry mouth. 

Spock’s expression remains steady as he picks up the vial. “No need to apologize, Jim,” he says, his tone calm as he offers the vial to Jim. “Your touch is not unwelcome.”

Jim’s heart trips, but he grins to cover it as he takes the vial. “Good to know, since I keep bumping into you like a bull in a china shop.”

Spock’s gaze lingers briefly before he turns back to his work, and Jim shakes off the flutter in his stomach, diving back into his task. Their elbows brush again as they lean over a nutrient solution, and Jim’s fingers fumble with a different vial, his focus slipping under Spock’s guidance.

“Adjust the pH to 6.2,” Spock said. “Your adaptability is impressive, Jim.”

Jim’s breath catches, but he grins. “Just trying not to mess up your perfect system, Spock.”

Then his clumsiness strikes again—he knocks a stack of padds off the bench, the devices clattering to the floor. “Dammit,” he grumbles, dropping to his knees to gather them. The padds slip from his fingers, and he curses under his breath, feeling the technicians’ glances on him. 

As he starts to rise, too fast, and he would have banged his head against the table’s edge, but a soft thud stops him. Spock’s hand was there, cushioning the blow as Jim’s head hit the back of Spock’s hand instead.

Jim freezes, clutching the padds, staring at Spock’s hand, now flexing slightly. The gesture stirred Bones’ words in his mind— he likes you —but he dismisses them, his face burning.

“Spock, crap, thanks,” he stammers, heart pounding. “That could’ve been bad.”

Spock’s expression remains composed, his eyes steady. “I simply wish to ensure your well-being, Jim,” he says, “I find satisfaction in taking responsibility for it.”

Jim’s chest fills with emotions, an aggressive fluttering that travels from his stomach to his chest. “That’s why you’re still regarded as the best first officer in the fleet.” He says, attributing Spock’s care to duty rather than anything deeper. He pushes the moment aside, and they dive back into their work, though he can’t stop pounding in his chest.

A few minutes later, Spock breaks the silence. “Jim, what are your long-term goals within Starfleet?”

Jim’s eyes light up, his voice growing zealous. “I want my own command someday. A ship, a crew, exploring the unknown, making a difference out there.” He pauses, suddenly self-conscious under Spock’s gaze, scratching his neck. “I mean, that’s the dream, right?”

“Your passion is evident. You possess all the attributes of a great captain.”

Jim laughs, a mix of embarrassment and warmth surging at the high praise. “How could you know that, Spock? I’m honestly a mess.” He gestures to the ill-stacked padds, as if to prove his point.

Then, the irrigation system malfunctions, a cold spray of water bursting across their workbench. It soaks Jim’s sleeve, splattering the padds, and chaos erupts—dripping pipes, shouting technicians. 

A memory from Tarsus flashes in his mind: the water tank system bursting, scientists, including Dr. Murdeux, moving frantically, shouting at one another, and at Kodos’ men on watch, demanding they reach Kodos. He had been too young to know it was the start of everything.

His breathing falters, fingers tightening around the padd in his hand. His knuckles are white as he accepts a cloth from a technician who rushes to calm the system. 

He forces a laugh, his eyes burning—he’d blame it on the lights if Spock asked. “Guess our water system’s jinxed, huh?” His voice cracks, and he can't shake the feeling that the shadows of Tarsus were seeping into the present, as if he were at fault for the chaos.

Spock reaches into his pocket, offering Jim a light blue folded handkerchief. “For your sleeve,” Spock says simply.

Jim takes it, his laugh brittle. “You really are always prepared.” The joke felt weak, but it helped push back the memories and pull him into the present. 

“Your demeanor suggests distress, Jim,” Spock says, stepping closer, “Shall we take a moment outside?”

Jim hesitates for a moment but nods, rising and following as Spock leads them to a quiet observation deck. The low lighting cast soft shadows, framing the view beyond the glass: emerald hills stretched toward the horizon, dotted with sleek wind turbines spinning slowly against a sky streaked with wisps of cloud.

The serene expanse steadies him somewhat, the chill of the glass cooling his heated skin where he stands.  

Spock’s voice cuts through the haze. “On Vulcan, we say, ‘Wuh karik gir tor'ovau s'wuh pseth solek. Karik'es ti svi'abru-sarlah klotaya.’ ” He pauses, studying Jim. “The strongest roots grow from the driest soil. Strength lies in overcoming hardship.”

Jim turns, a laugh bubbling up despite himself. “What, Spock?”

Spock’s lips twitch, and he steps closer. “It is a reminder of resilience, Jim.”

“Ah,” Jim said with a small smile, turning back to the glass. “You’re a good friend, Spock.”

They’d only been ‘friends’ for three weeks, barely exchanging more than project-related words, yet Spock’s presence calms him in a way that felt so profound, so unlike the stoic Vulcan stereotype he had expected.

Jim doesn't know what to say, so he stays silent, staring at the spinning turbines.

“A breathing exercise may help,” Spock offers. “Inhale for four counts, hold for four, exhale for six. It calms the body’s response.”

Jim tries it, the rhythm pulling him back from the edge, his fingers tighten around Spock’s handkerchief, still clutched in his hand. “Thanks, Spock,” he says softly, loosening his grip and sliding the handkerchief in his pocket. “You’re pretty good at this calming thing.”

“I am Vulcan; remaining calm is inherent to my nature,” Spock replies, though his lips twitch again in that subtle way Jim catches sometimes when they spoke.

He manages a chuckle, “You know, I can’t even imagine you not calm. What would that look like? Scolding the computer for a rounding error?”

Spock’s dark eyes fix on him, sending a sharp spark down Jim’s spine. “If such an occurrence were to transpire,” Spock says, “your actions would likely precipitate it, Jim.”

The air seems to thicken, Spock’s gaze pinning Jim like a specimen under a microscope. Flustered, Jim breaks eye contact, turning to the observation glass, where hills stretched endlessly. But Spock’s reflection lingers in the glass, his stare unrelenting. 

Jim forces a grin, to lighten the mood, “Well, I am pretty vexing, so I wouldn’t be surprised if I pushed you to lose your cool.” 

He waits for a quip, a raised brow, something—but Spock says nothing, his silence heavy as he seems to assess Jim, and another shiver runs down Jim’s spine.

“The cake you provided at our last meeting was exceptionally palatable,” Spock said suddenly. “Your culinary skills are commendable.”

Jim’s grin returns, bright and genuine. He was always confident in his cooking, and Spock’s praise for his efforts put an easy smile on his face.

“Glad you liked it, Spock. I’m no baker, but I can whip up a decent cake.” He laughed. “I like messing around in the kitchen, trying new stuff. Keeps things interesting.”

“Your versatility in such endeavors is impressive. Have you explored many culinary disciplines?”

Jim shrugs, still smiling, though he keeps his eyes on the turbines to avoid that piercing stare. 

“A bit of everything—Terran, of course, Orion, even some Klingon recipes, though those are intense. I’ll cook you anything you like; you just have to ask.” 

He turns from the glass to Spock, meeting his gaze, and feels a familiar heat creep up his neck again. He turns back, letting the vastness of the world beyond pull him from whatever he’s feeling.

Spock’s voice is soft, almost a murmur, yet it carries a weight that makes Jim’s pulse stutter. “I would find great satisfaction in tasting more of your creations, Jim. Your offerings intrigue me.” His eyes hold Jim’s for a moment in the reflection of the glass.

Jim’s breath hitches, but he forces a chuckle, dismissing the comment as friendly encouragement.

“Hey, I’ll take any excuse to show off in the kitchen.” He keeps his tone light, ignoring the way his heart pounds away in his chest, convincing himself it was just Spock’s way of being supportive.

They return to the lab, working now to collect samples from the facility’s grown nutrients for analysis back at the Academy.

Jim reaches for a sharp-edged tool to extract a sample, but Spock intercepts, holding a protective glove. Instead of handing it over, Spock takes Jim’s hand with deliberate gentleness, slipping the glove onto his fingers, his touch lingering briefly at Jim’s wrist.

“Your safety is important, Jim.” Spock said, voice low, his eyes focused on the task as if it required his full attention.

Jim’s breath caught, his mind flashing to what he’d read about Vulcans—their guarded nature, their preference for personal space, and how Spock seemed to disregard that boundary with him time and again. He shoves it all down, refusing to dwell on it. 

Instead, he flashes a smirk. “What’s this? Afraid I’ll nick myself and ruin our precious samples? I’m not that clumsy.”

Spock doesn’t respond, his expression unreadable as he turns back to the samples, leaving Jim to shake off the strange flutter in his chest.

They work in efficient silence, packaging the samples with care. Jim’s fingers brush the handkerchief in his pocket, a reflex he couldn’t quite stop, and he catches Spock glancing at him, though neither acknowledge it.

As they finish and head to the hovercar, Spock’s measured stride matches Jim’s. At the vehicle, Spock reaches for the door handle, opening it for Jim—a manual gesture when the doors could’ve opened automatically with a command. 

He holds it open for Jim, his posture as composed as ever, but the act feels deeply personal. A flush of heat creeps across Jim’s skin, and he slides into the passenger seat with a quick, “Thanks.”

Spock enters the driver’s seat, and they head back to the Academy. “Your contributions today were exceptional, Jim,” Spock says.

Jim’s hand finds its way back to his pocket, gripping the handkerchief. “Thanks, Spock,” he says, his mind racing. 

He focuses on the dashboard, willing his thoughts to stay on the samples, the project—anything but the way Spock’s actions keep knocking him off balance.

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Starfleet Academy buzzes with Friday energy, as the last bell of the day rings. Cadets dart across sunlit paths, their laughter mingling with the rustle of eucalyptus leaves.

Late September clings to San Francisco, the air cool and heavy with a faint salty tang from the bay. Jim weaves through the crowd, his padd tucked under one arm, his cadet uniform slightly askew from a long day of lectures. 

His blond hair catches the golden light, mussed from too many distracted swipes of his hand. He’s heading to the science building for his regular meeting with Spock, as their project demands another round of data analysis following their recent visit to the hydroponics lab.

The soil samples they collected from the facility—sourced from various colonies with atmospheric conditions similar to those of Palaver Ester X—hold the key to sustaining life on the struggling colony. 

If they can decode what fuels growth in those alien soils, they might secure a future for its people. Their first deadline looms, and their next simulation has to work.

Jim’s mind churns with nutrient ratios and soil simulations, but beneath it, a restless undercurrent tugs—sleepless nights haunted by Tarsus, bruised, gaunt faces, and pained screams linger in the corners of his mind.

The courtyard outside the science building is quieter, framed by low stone benches and blooming shrubs, their petals vibrant against the fading light.

Jim’s early, a rarity, and he slows his pace, scrolling through hydroponics data on his padd to kill time. A sudden grip on his arm yanks him back, his boots scuffing the path.

“What the—?” He spins, heart pounding, to find Gary’s familiar face, his grip loosening but his eyes intense.

“Gary, you can’t just grab me like that,” Jim huffs, pulling his arm free and stepping back, his pulse still racing.

“Listen, Jim, I’m sorry, alright?” Gary’s voice is low, contrite, his hands raised in a placating gesture. “You’re right, I shouldn’t have done that. Are you okay?”

Jim exhales, rubbing his arm, the adrenaline fading into irritation. “I’m fine. Just—don’t do that again.”

He shifts his weight, glancing around the courtyard, hoping no one sees them. Gary’s always been a mix of charm and chaos, and Jim’s still untangling why he ever fell for him.

There’s the honest, caring side—like now, with Gary’s genuine concern—but then there’s the other side, crude, mean, and sometimes viciously negative, especially toward Jim.

Gary steps closer, his voice softening. “I know why you broke up with me, Jim. It wasn’t just about sex. I care about you—really care. I messed up, and I’m sorry.” His eyes are earnest, searching Jim’s face, and for a moment, Jim sees the Gary he once loved.

But his resolve holds firm. He’s been here before, caught up in Gary, and he knows the pattern too well.

“You told me exactly how you felt, what you thought of me. I can’t go back to that.” he says, his voice steady despite the growing ache in his chest.

Gary’s face tightens, his calm façade cracking. “What, so you’ve gotten rid of me for that Vulcan?” he snaps, his tone turning snarky, a familiar edge creeping in.

Jim blinks, caught off guard. “What?” He’s disappointed in himself for even engaging with the jab. “We’re partners. I’m working on a project with him.”

“Yeah, and he looked like he wanted to bite my head off back at your apartment,” Gary retorts, folding his arms.

“Gary—” Jim starts, exasperated.

“Don’t you still love me, Jim?” Gary’s voice drops, and his expression—hurt, almost broken—hits Jim despite everything.

For a moment, it feels like they’re breaking up all over again. Jim’s throat tightens; he doesn’t love Gary anymore, not like that, but seeing his pained look stirs a guilt he can’t ignore.

Gary leans in, his breath hot and urgent. “Come on, Jim. We were good together. Remember those nights in the sim labs, sneaking off to the observation deck? You laughed with me like you don’t with anyone else. I know you—the real you, not the perfect cadet act you put on for everyone. Give me another chance. I’ll change.”

Jim shakes his head, stepping back further, the courtyard feeling smaller. “You say that now, but some things you can’t take back.”

Gary’s eyes flash with frustration. “What could he possibly give you that I can’t?”

Jim scoffs, “Why do you keep bringing up Spock? He has—”

“He has a lot to do with this.”

“What are you, jealous?” Jim scoffs with a short laugh. “I told you we’re working on a project together. I’m not dating anyone.”

“Jealous? Over that pointy-eared fuck? I doubt the weirdo can even get hard, though it’s obvious he wants to be in your pants.”

“Okay, enough!” Jim’s voice rises sharper than he intends, drawing a glance from a passing cadet with a swishing ponytail. He lowers it, chest tight. “This is why, Gary. Right here. You can’t even apologize without turning it into an attack.”

Gary’s shoulders slump, but the bitterness lingers. “Fine. But when he sees just how broken you are—how you wake up screaming from those nightmares—you’ll come crawling back. And I might not be waiting.”

Jim flinches, the words landing like a slap, echoing old insecurities from Tarsus, from every failed connection since.

Gary storms off, leaving Jim standing in the courtyard, his heart pounding and eyes itching. He glances around, praying no one saw the exchange, and hurries toward the science building, his steps quickening as emotion wells up.

Inside, he ducks into the nearest bathroom, his breath uneven. In a stall, he leans against the wall, fighting back the tears that burn his eyes.

He had loved Gary, once—loved his charm, his wit—but this, this cruelty — How could he use my nightmares against me? When he held me after each one? He thinks.

The sobs come unbidden, quiet and choking, as he slides down to sit on the cold tile floor. Why does it always end like this? he thinks, wiping at his eyes furiously. Because I’m too messed up—scarred from Tarsus, from Dad’s shadow, from every damn thing that’s gone wrong.

His thoughts spiral, heavy and unrelenting, a familiar darkness settling in. No one’s ever going to see past the mess. And why should they? He lets the tears flow for a minute longer, the salt stinging, before forcing himself to breathe deeply. Enough. Better off focusing on the stars, on command tracks and simulations where I can control what’s around me.

Stay busy, stay distracted.

He hauls himself up, leaving the stall to splash cold water on his face at the sink, checking the mirror—relieved his eyes aren’t too red—and takes a final steadying breath.

Checking his padd, he’s now five minutes late, thanks to Gary and his breakdown. With another quick look in the mirror, he turns and leaves.

Time to face Spock; he can’t let this mess bleed into their work.

He reaches Spock’s office, and the door slides open. Spock is already at his desk, a padd in hand, his black hair catching the light from a holographic display. The room smells faintly of incense, and a steaming cup of spice tea sits at the edge of Spock’s desk, a small gesture Jim’s grown accustomed to over weeks of collaboration.

“Sorry I’m late, Spock,” Jim says, forcing a grin as he drops into the chair he’s claimed for their meetings.

Spock inclines his head, his expression unchanged, and they dive into the project, spreading out data on nutrient distribution models across the desk’s holo-interface. The holographic charts flicker, casting soft blues and greens across the room.

They work silently, but Jim senses Spock’s looks, sharp and piercing, as if cutting through the layers of his carefully constructed facade. The air feels heavy with the weight of unspoken words, and it’s not long before Spock speaks.

“Is something wrong, Jim? You seem distracted.”

Jim huffs, embarrassed to be read so easily, a flush creeping up his neck. “I don’t want to bother you with my terrible love life,” he says, his eyes flicking to the holo-display.

Spock raises a brow, his posture unchanged, but his attention locks onto Jim with an intensity that makes the air feel heavier. 

“I thought you were no longer seeking romantic pursuits.”

Jim laughs, though it’s far from jovial, his fingers tapping restlessly on his padd. “I’m not, but my ex has other ideas.” The words spill out, and he immediately regrets it, his flush deepening as he feels exposed under Spock’s scrutiny.

Spock tilts his head, his voice measured but laced with a quiet force. “The one from the hallway?”

“Yup,” Jim replies, glancing at his padd, desperate to dodge the topic.

The heat in his cheeks betrays him, and he shifts in his seat, the memory of Gary’s venom mingling with the odd vulnerability of discussing it with Spock.

“Jim, if you are being harassed—” Spock begins, his tone firm, his dark eyes narrowing, sending a shiver through Jim.

“It’s hardly harassment, Spock,” Jim cuts in, shaking his head, though his voice wavers slightly. “I’m fine.”

“You should not make excuses—”

“I’m not,” Jim assures him, managing a small smile, though his pulse quickens under Spock’s gaze. “Besides, I think that’s the last I’ll hear from Gary.” He sighs, trying to pivot, forcing lightness into his tone. “Especially with you around.”

Spock’s expression shifts only slightly, curiosity flickering in his eyes, but there’s a weight to it that makes Jim’s skin prickle. “What do you mean?”

Jim laughs, shaking his head, his eyes skimming a chart on his padd. “He said you were giving him the death stare in the hall.”

When no response comes—no quick rebuttal—Jim looks up. Spock’s eyes are fixed on him, the holographic light casting sharp angles across his face. “I did not find his crass words toward you acceptable,” Spock says.

Jim winces, the flush now burning his cheeks. “You heard all that? Sorry.” He rubs the back of his neck, wishing he could sink into the floor.

“There is no need for an apology,” Spock says, his tone softening but still resolute. Then his eyes narrow further, a subtle shift that feels like a tightening coil. 

“Jim, if this individual—Gary—refuses to respect your boundaries, you will inform me.” His voice is a low, vibrating with an authority that makes Jim’s heart stutter. “I will ensure he does not trouble you further. You may contact me at any time should he persist.”

Jim blinks, caught up in Spock’s words, Gary’s accusations flood back unbidden: It’s obvious he wants to be in your pants.  

The thought sends a jolt through him, warm and disorienting, sparking a restless heat that coils low in his gut. Could there be truth to it? Spock, interested? In me? The idea is absurd, and Jim’s mind reels, his skin tingling under Spock’s gaze. Damn it, Kirk, he curses himself inwardly, you’re still raw from Gary’s bullshit. Don’t project your mess onto Spock.

He’s just being protective. A protective friend.  

But the way Spock’s eyes hold him feels like more, and Jim’s pulse races, his collar suddenly too tight.

“Spock, you don’t have to play bodyguard on my behalf,” Jim says, his voice lighter than he feels, trying to diffuse the tension that’s making his skin hum.

“I am not playing, Jim,” Spock replies, his voice a low rumble, his gaze unwavering, as if carving a space around Jim that no one else can breach.

Spock’s presence feels enveloping, pulling Jim into an orbit where Gary’s words, Tarsus’ shadows, and his own doubts seem to falter. 

“Gary is harmless,” Jim says, his voice betraying the blast of heat creeping up his spine.

He’s not sure why he’s pushing back, why he feels the need to deflect Spock’s assertion—or why it makes him fidget, his fingers gripping the edge of his padd.

Spock’s gaze sharpens further, “He does not appear harmless; he has caused you clear emotional distress. I will not tolerate any further imposition upon you, as you are under my purview.” 

His words carry a quiet assurance, a vow that Jim belongs within the sphere Spock has sworn to protect, and it causes his breath to catch in his throat. 

Jim laughs slightly using his sleeve to rub at his eyes where unshed tears still linger.

“That easy to tell?” 

No, Spock just notices everything, his mind supplies, a trait that’s both infuriating and oddly reassuring in this moment.

“Indeed,” Spock replies, his dark eyes holding Jim’s in a way that feels almost trance-like.

“Your distress is evident in your elevated respiration, the micro-expressions of fatigue around your eyes, and the subtle evasion in your posture. But beyond mere observation, Jim, I am invested in your equilibrium. No one shall disrupt it without consequence—not while I stand as your ally.”

Ally. Right. Friends.  

Jim clings to the word, desperate to ground himself in its simplicity, though his body betrays him, his skin flushed and his heart pounding under Spock’s gaze. 

He forces a smile, his voice lighter than the turmoil inside. “Thank you, Spock. I appreciate it, really.” 

But his words feel inadequate, overshadowed by Spock’s presence, and Jim’s sure he’s imagining the underlying feeling, reading too much into the Vulcan’s duty-bound concern. 

It’s just Spock being Spock, he reminds himself, though the thought does little to ease the heat prickling his skin or the way his blood thrums in his ears.

They continue working, but Jim’s body won’t relax, his mind spiraling back to Spock—his words, his actions, the way his gaze seems to anchor and unsettle him all at once. Each glance from Spock feels like a touch, sending a fresh wave of heat through Jim’s chest, his fingers fumbling over his padd as he tries to focus on nutrient ratios. 

He’s just being protective, Jim repeats to himself, but the mantra does little to quiet the restless buzz under his skin, the way Spock’s quiet authority lingers like a current pulling him under.

As they wrap up, Spock offers to drive Jim back to his apartment, as he has done for the past weeks, but for some reason, the offer today causes Jim’s pulse to stutter.

“I can ensure you reach your residence safely,” Spock says, his eyes steady, as if the offer is more than mere courtesy.

Jim shakes his head, the words coming too quickly. “No, thanks, Spock. I’ve got to hit the library to study.”

It’s a flimsy excuse, and he knows Spock sees through it, but he can’t bear the thought of being confined in the hovercar with him, not when his nerves are already alight, his skin still burning from their earlier exchange.

“I’ll walk. Need the air.”

Spock’s brow lifts slightly, but he doesn’t press, merely inclining his head in that maddeningly composed way. “Very well, Jim. Contact me if you require assistance.”

Jim forces a grin, slinging his padd under his arm. “Will do, Spock. I’ll let you know when I’m home.”

He turns and leaves the office, the door sliding shut behind him, but the weight of Spock’s eyes lingers on his back, as if it could follow him through the walls.

He walks home, the chill of the evening biting at his exposed neck, the city’s skyline now aglow with golden lights against the deepening dusk. Jim unzips his jacket, hoping the cool air will douse the restless heat still prickling his skin, but it’s no use. 

His mind won’t let go of Spock—his low, commanding voice, the way he’d claimed Jim’s safety as his responsibility, the piercing intensity of his gaze that felt like it could see straight through him. 

It’s just friendship, Jim tells himself, just Spock being his usual self. But the thought does nothing to quiet the rush in his veins, the way his pulse quickens at the memory of Spock’s words, his presence, his unshakable calm that somehow sets Jim ablaze.

Late into the night, sprawled on his bed, Jim stares at the ceiling. The horrors of Tarsus hover at the edges of his mind, but they’re overshadowed by thoughts of Spock. 

His steady hands on the hovercar controls, the faint twitch of his lips ever so often when they spoke, the way his voice had carried that vow to protect him. Jim’s skin feels too tight, his chest warm with restless energy, and he turns onto his side, pressing his face into the pillow. 

With a shaky hand, he reaches for his communicator on his nightstand, remembering he promised Spock he’d let him know when he was home. The time spent lying in bed fuels his lie about the library—he hopes at least.

Hesitating, his fingers hover over the keys before he types out and sends: “Home, Spock. Have a good night.”

Almost immediately, his communicator pings with Spock’s response: “I hope my conduct has not made you uncomfortable.”

Jim swallows, a flush creeping up his neck as he reads the words, Spock’s directness slicing right through his thoughts. 

He opts for a sliver of honesty, typing back: “No, it’s fine. Just not used to having someone care.” 

Bones cares , he thinks, but it never felt so… intimate. The thought sends a jolt through him, and he shakes it off, telling himself it’s just Spock’s straightforward nature, his Vulcan bluntness.

He’s not used to someone so unapologetically in his corner, that’s all. 

It’s just friendship, he insists, but the thought feels fragile.

His communicator pings again, and Spock’s message reads: “ Your well-being is of great importance to me, Jim.”  

His words are formal as always, yet they carry that same quiet vow from earlier, and Jim’s breath catches, his skin prickling once more as if Spock’s voice is in the room with him. 

You’re imagining it, Kirk, he thinks, but the thought is hollow, drowned out by the memory of Spock’s dark eyes.

“Thank you, Spock. Goodnight.” He responds.

Because despite the nervousness Spock brings him, he also never had anyone compliment his smarts like Spock, or voice, liking spending time with him as much as the Vulcan, and he can admit it feels nice. 

“Goodnight, Jim.” His communicator pings again. 

He lies awake, his fingers still clutching his communicator as if it could anchor him against the tide of his own restless emotions. 

⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚

He doesn’t speak to Spock again until the following Friday, when they’ve agreed to meet in the agronomy lab. They’ve received more soil samples from Palavar Ester X, and it was now time to cross-examine their findings with the other samples.

Well past midnight, the campus outside lies cloaked in darkness, stars faintly glimmering through a skylight streaked with condensation.

Jim hunches over a hologram, tweaking nutrient distribution models, his eyes heavy with fatigue. He stifles a yawn, forcing his focus onto the glowing data. “If we boost the phosphorus here,” he mutters, pointing at the hologram, “it might balance the soil’s uptake.”

Spock sits beside him, posture impeccable despite the late hour, his fingers gliding over his padd as he reviews the same model. “A sound hypothesis,” he says, his voice cutting through the quiet lab. 

Their movements are in sync, a rhythm born of hours spent working together, punctuated by a comfortable silence that feels companionable.

Jim doesn’t miss the way Spock’s gaze flicks toward him through the hours—those deep brown eyes framed by dark lashes, a detail he’s started noticing more lately.

He shakes it off, telling himself it’s just a byproduct of their growing familiarity. Working this closely, you notice things, he reasons, brushing aside the thought as he refocuses on the hologram.

His fingers brush the handkerchief in his pocket, the one Spock gave him at the hydroponics facility. He’s told himself a dozen times to throw it out or return it, but it stays with him.

He’d pulled it out only on laundry day, staring at it before shoving it back into his pocket that morning as he pulled his pants out of the dryer. 

It was starting to feel like a security blanket, a comfort he doesn’t want to admit he needs, and the realization makes him shift uncomfortably in his seat.

Their shoulders nearly touch as they lean over the display, and Jim’s fingers hesitate on his padd, a faint tremor betraying his exhaustion.

Then his stomach lets out a loud rumble, breaking the quiet. Jim laughs, rubbing his neck. “Guess my body’s got opinions about these late nights.”

Spock’s eyebrow arches, and he stands with measured grace, moving to the lab’s replicator. “Sustenance is logical to maintain efficiency,” he says. Moments later, he returns with two bowls of plomeek soup and, to Jim’s surprise, a small plate of garlic bread.

Jim’s eyes light up at the bread. “Spock, you’re a lifesaver,” he says, grabbing a piece and tearing into it with a grin. “Thanks for this—garlic bread’s my weakness.”

Spock tilts his head, his expression unreadable but soft. “You mentioned your preference for it previously.”

Jim pauses mid-bite, his brow furrowing as he tries to recall. “When did I mention that?” he asks, genuinely puzzled.

Spock’s gaze remains steady. “Briefly, during lunch with Dr. McCoy. You noted garlic bread as a favored accompaniment.”

Jim blinks. Spock’s attentiveness is disarming—warming, yes, but also a little alarming. The guy doesn’t miss a thing. Spock is already aware of his panic attacks, but Jim can’t let him get too close to the uglier truths, like Tarsus.

Then he might not want to be his friend—or worse, he might not want him working on the project.

“You’ve got a hell of a memory, Spock,” he says, forcing a chuckle to cover his unease. “Gonna have to watch what I say around you. I don’t want to embarrass myself.”

Spock’s lips twitch,“I find your candor engaging, Jim.”

Jim smiles, tamping down the flutter in his gut, attributing it to hunger. They eat in companionable silence, the lab’s soft hum wrapping around them. The warm broth and familiar bite of garlic bread steady Jim, easing the weight of his fatigue.

After eating, they resume work, falling back into their rhythm. Spock leans over Jim’s shoulder to adjust a parameter, his breath brushing Jim’s ear. “Your adjustments are creative, Jim,” Spock says, his tone warm. Jim’s skin prickles, but he laughs it off.

“Just trying to keep up with you, Spock,” he says, flashing a grin.

As the hours stretch on, Jim’s yawns grow harder to suppress. Spock notices, his voice cutting through the quiet. “Jim, your fatigue is evident. It would be prudent to conclude our work for the evening. I will drive you home.”

Jim nods, too tired to argue. “Yeah, sounds good. Let’s pack up.” They begin powering down the displays, the lab’s glow fading as they gather their padds.

As they work, Spock speaks again. “I propose we schedule more frequent meetings to advance the project, perhaps outside of campus hours, at a mutually agreeable location.”

Jim grins, the idea sparking a flicker of excitement despite his exhaustion. “More meetings? Sure, that’ll keep us on track for our deadlines.”

Spock’s gaze softens, his voice carrying a warmth that surprise Jim. “Yes, though I also wish to meet for more recreational purposes.”

Jim’s heart jumps. “Yeah, uh, that sounds great,” he says, his voice a little too quick. “We can play a round of chess like we mentioned. How about Sunday at my place, if you’re free?”

“Sunday is agreeable.”

They step into the night air, a light drizzle misting the campus. Spock’s hovercar waits nearby, and Jim climbs in, the familiar roar of the engine settling his nerves. But as Spock drives through the dark, quiet roads, Jim’s fingers brush the handkerchief in his pocket again.

“Thanks for the ride, Spock,” he says as they pull up to his apartment complex. “You’re gonna regret playing taxi when I destroy you at chess.”

Spock’s lips twitch, “I look forward to the challenge. Please inform me when you are settled.”

Jim nods, his fingers tightening around the handkerchief in his pocket as he steps out, the promise of more time with Spock—work sessions, chess matches—sparks a restless anticipation that overpowers his exhaustion, leaving him awake all night.

⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚

Jim stands before his mirror, tugging at the hem of his faded tank top, the faint outline of his nipple ring visible through the thin fabric. He’s not sure why he has the jitters—Spock is just coming over to work on the project, and play a few rounds of chess. 

But Spock’s earlier comment echoes in his mind: Your body modification is not typically visible.

The memory makes him second-guess the tank top, wondering if it’s too revealing.

Then Bones’ words crash in—He likes you—and his stomach twists.

No way, he thinks. He’s not flaunting anything; this is just his usual style. Spock just notices every damn detail.

Jim slaps both sides of his face lightly. Be yourself. He’s not into you like that. Not at all.

He turns away from the mirror, leaving his room to grab a rag to wipe down the already spotless coffee table. The living room is pristine, but he can’t shake the urge to make it flawless, dusting shelves and fluffing cushions.

The soup simmering on the stove fills the air with a savory aroma, its warmth curling through the apartment. He stirs it absently, wondering why he cares so much about Spock’s opinion of his place. 

Just not used to having friends, he tells himself, ignoring the deeper tug in his chest.

The front door chimes, snapping him out of his thoughts. He opens the door, flashing a grin despite the flutter in his heart at the sight of Spock in a light green sweater and neutral slacks, a shift from his usual black.

That sharp, smoky scent that clings to Spock hits Jim like a wave, intoxicating yet disorienting.

“No black today, Spock,” he says, his tone teasing as he steps aside.

Spock’s brow arches. “Black is a rational color choice, offering versatility and neutrality.”

Jim raises his hands in mock defense, laughing. “Hey, I’ve got nothing against all-black outfits. The green’s a nice touch.”

He motions Spock toward the living room, but his mind notes how the sweater makes Spock’s complexion seem to glow.

Just an observation, he assures himself focuses on retrieving glasses of tea for them.

They settle on the couch, diving into the colonies’ soil data from Friday, their padds whiring with nutrient models.

After an hour, Jim stretches, his back cracking audibly. “Break time? You hungry?”

Spock nods, following him to the kitchen. Jim grabs two bowls, setting aside their utensils, as he explains the dish as he ladling the steaming soup. “Roasted veggies, baked and blended with coconut milk, then simmered. Thought you’d like it.”

Spock stands closer than expected, watching with quiet interest. “You need not alter your dietary preferences for my sake, Jim.”

Jim smiles, “Vegetarian stuff can be great.”

He juggles the bowls in his hands, and as he reaches for the utensils, Spock leans around him, his sleeved forearm brushing Jim’s waist as he picks up their spoons. 

Just helping out, Jim reasons, blaming the sudden heat on his skin on the stove.

They sit back in the living room, and Jim's eyes flick to Spock as he takes a cautious taste. Spock’s eyes meet his as he swallows, and Jim catches a subtle glint—a sparkle, almost—in those dark eyes. Jim laughs, the sound bubbling up before he can stop it. 

“It’s good?” he asks, hiding his grin behind a spoonful, humming at the savory taste himself.

Spock tilts his head slightly, his expression composed but warm. “It is exceptionally flavorful, Jim. The balance of spices is commendable.”

Jim’s chest warms at the compliment, and he shrugs, trying to play it cool. “Glad you think so. I made enough for you to take some home, if you’d like.”

Spock’s gaze holds steady, “I would like that very much.” He resumes eating, his focus returning to the bowl.

Jim reaches for the remote to flick on the holo-screen, pulling up a familiar movie. About halfway through, Spock says, his tone neutral but curious, “This is a curious film.”

Jim cringes inwardly, realizing how childish it might seem to a Vulcan. “Sorry, Spock, I should’ve asked if you wanted to watch something first,” he says, laughing to hide his embarrassment.

Spock tilts his head. “It is no issue, Jim. I am not opposed to Terran media. The concept of a prodigy with telekinetic abilities is intriguing. However, the parents’ treatment of the child is concerning. Such neglect would be illegal and severely punished on Vulcan. Its depiction in the film is alarming.”

Jim snorts, not dismissively but in recognition. “Yeah, that’s why I like it. She gets away from all that.” He reaches for the remote, offering, “Sorry, I can switch it.”

Spock’s hand stretches out, stopping him gently. “It is no issue. You enjoy this film.”

Jim grins, warmth flickering in his chest. “Yeah, didn’t get to watch stuff like this growing up.” A memory flashes—Frank smashing their holo-TV, glass crunching underfoot. He pushes it away, focusing on Spock. “What about you? Any favorite childhood shows?”

Spock’s gaze grows distant, his fingers stilling. “Vulcan children are not encouraged to engage in recreational media. However, my mother shared her favorites with me, many of which I found illogical.”

Jim laughs, imagining a young, unimpressed Spock watching morning cartoons. “What was it like as a kid for you?”

“Growing up, I faced challenges due to my half-human heritage. My peers often targeted me, deeming my duality inferior. They frequently remarked on my ‘human eyes,’ claiming they betrayed weakness.”

Jim’s eyes widen, his spoon pausing midair. “Your eyes?” he blurts, a bit too loudly. “Ah, your eyes do say more.” He catches himself, heat rushing to his face as he hurriedly adds, “Not in a negative way, I mean! They’ve got depth.”

Spock says nothing, his eyes—warm as amber, Jim notices, almost as if seeing their softness for the first time—holding Jim’s gaze for a long moment. The silence feels heavy, but Spock merely tilts his head, as if considering Jim’s words.

Jim clears his throat, pushing past the awkwardness. “Anyway, you got bullied? Hard to picture.” He leans back. “I had it rough too. Dead dad, too smart for my own good—easy target.” He snorts, a wry grin tugging at his lips. “Had these thick bifocals that put me on everyone’s list too.”

Spock’s lips twitch, and Jim laughs, the flutter in his chest growing at the sight.

Spock stands to collect their empty bowls and spoons, heading to the kitchen and Jim dismisses the feeling he gets from the gesture. When Spock returns, the movie now ended, they resume working on the project, their padds glowing with data.

Hours later, Jim yawns, stretching. “Alright, another break. How about that chess game?” He grins, pulling out the chessboard from the coffee table and setting the pieces.

Their game begins, and Spock comments, brows furrowed, “Your strategy is unorganized, Jim.”

Jim laughs, using a knight to take another one of Spock’s pawns. Jim wins, and Spock studies the board, fingers hovering as if retracing the moves.

Jim feigns mock hurt, leaning back. “What, someone like me can’t beat you at chess? Is that what you’re saying?” He laughs, but Spock’s intense stare pulls him in, the Vulcan’s eyes locking onto his.

“Your intelligence is formidable, Jim,” Spock says. “It surpasses my own in ways I find highly intriguing. To have lost to you is a privilege.”

Jim’s breath catches, the compliment stirring a rush of blood in his ears; he’s sure they’re bright red. He laughs, “Glad you’re not a sore loser, like Bones.”

Spock’s lips twitch in response, and Jim quickly turns his gaze to the board, collecting the pieces for a rematch. Vulcans value smarts, Jim thinks. Ignoring the way Spock stares at his hands as he resets the board.

They play on, trading wins, the game absorbing them as a storm brews outside, thunder rumbling. Jim barely notices until the lights flicker out, plunging the room into darkness.

His breath stutters, heart racing as memories flood in—Tarsus nights, cold and hunted in the dark; Frank’s drunken rages, Jim shivering under his covers, hoping he’d stay downstairs. His breathing quickens, panic clawing at his chest.

Spock’s voice cuts through. “Jim, are you well?” His tone is calm but urgent, sensing the shift.

Jim stumbles to his feet, nearly tripping over the coffee table in the dark, his voice shaky. “I’m all good, just… not a fan of the dark.” He laughs, the sound frail as he fumbles toward the kitchen, barely dodging furniture in his semi-panicked state.

He yanks open a drawer, pulling out battery-powered nightlights, their soft beams comforting him slightly. He places one on the coffee table and forces himself to sit, trying to ignore the storm’s roar outside.

He sinks back onto the couch, too overwhelmed to let the embarrassment of another panic attack in Spock’s presence cloud his mind.

Spock reaches for him, his hand warm and light on Jim’s forearm. “Jim, perhaps we can perform a breathing technique together.”

Jim nods, throat tight, but follows Spock’s lead—inhale for four, hold for four, exhale for six. The rhythm pulls him back, the panic easing.

Spock’s hand still rests on his arm as the lights flicker back on. The storm outside wanes, but their gazes lock, Spock’s grip steady. Jim’s heart pounds, caught in the moment.

Then the front door swishes open, and Bones strides in, shaking rain droplets from his umbrella. “Hell of a storm at this hour,” he grumbles, glancing at the clock. Jim’s eyes follow, startled to see how late it is.

Bones eyes them both, then the chessboard, smirking. “Enjoying Jim’s chaotic playing? Losing’s gotta sting for someone like you.”

Spock’s brow arches. “On the contrary, Doctor, Jim is a formidable opponent. I do not mind losing to him.”

Bones snorts. “Oh, I bet.” He says, yawning. “Night, you two.” He heads down the hall, leaving Jim with a prickle of heat on his skin at the indirect compliment from Spock, feeling oddly caught, though unsure why.

Jim stands, making a beeline for the kitchen. “Gonna do the dishes,” he mutters.

Spock follows, joining him at the sink. “You don’t have to help, Spock,” Jim says, scrubbing a bowl.

Spock tilts his head. “You prepared the meal. It is only logical.”

He nods letting Spock rinse. They finish cleaning, and Jim packs some soup into a thermos for Spock. As they stand at the sink, silence settles.

Jim breaks it, his voice soft, “Thanks for being nice, Spock. You’re a good friend. I know I’m not normal.” 

A grown man needing nightlights—he feels ashamed.

“You are quite normal, Jim. You need not feel inadequate,” Spock says, his voice firm.

he meets Spock’s eyes and a flicker of something unreadable crosses his dark eyes, like a ripple beneath still water.

”There is nothing I find displeasing about you.”

Jim’s fingers clench beneath the dish water. A fleeting thought strikes— Is he?—No. The idea sends a jolt through him, but he shoves it down. 

He laughs shakily, drying his hand before ladling some soup in a thermos. He hands it to Spock with a slight smile, “You say that now.”

If Spock knew about Tarsus, about Frank, he’d think differently.

“I say that now and in the future, if need be,” Spock retorts, his gaze lingering a moment too long, causing Jim’s stomach to flip, followed by flutters. 

“Let me know when you’re home,” he says, and Spock nods, gathering his things before leaving.

As the front door hisses shut, Bones’ voice cuts from the hallway, where he leans, arms crossed, a knowing smirk on his face. “For a genius, Jim, you’re as blind as a bat. He’s not just being friendly.”

Jim’s cheeks burn, as he waves it off. “C’mon, Bones, don’t start.” 

He turns out the lights in the living room, tidying up the chess pieces. Just friends, he tells himself as his fingers grasp Spock’s queen before shaking his head and putting the chessboard away.

He lies in bed, unable to sleep, but not because of nightmares. His communicator buzzes on the nightstand, and he grabs it, heart quickening as he sees Spock’s name. 

The message is simple: “I have returned home.”

Jim’s pulse races, a grin tugging at his lips. 

He types back quickly, “Good to know. Night, Spock”, and he hits send, thinking that’s the end of it.

Moments later, his communicator buzzes again. Spock’s message reads: “I enjoyed myself, Jim. I anticipate additional chess matches.” 

Jim’s breath catches. He rereads the text over and over, the words searing into his mind. His fingers hover over the screen, and after a few minutes, he hurriedly types: “Me too”, before shoving the communicator into his nightstand drawer, as if hiding it will quiet his mind.

He lies back, staring at the ceiling. His mind floods with Spock—their interactions, how he now looks forward to seeing Spock again, and now, not just to discuss new strides in the project. 

He thinks of Spock’s dark eyes that cradle softness every now and then, the way his lips twitch when they speak, almost as if—smiling. Spock’s smiling in his own subtle way.

The sudden realization makes him toss and turn all night.

Chapter Text

Jim navigated the familiar hallway to Spock’s office, padd tucked under his arm and his cadet uniform slightly wrinkled from a long day. The weight of their second simulation for Palavar Ester X pressed on him, causing anticipation and unease to knot in his stomach. 

The initial simulation’s collapse—barren soil, and a malfunctioning irrigation system—was still a dark mark in his mind. Yet today, armed with fresh data from their latest samples, a spark of optimism stirred within him.

The door to Spock’s office slid open, revealing the Vulcan seated at his desk, his dark hair illuminated by the glow of a holo-chart.

Jim stepped inside, flashing a relaxed grin. “Hey, Spock. Ready to get those crops thriving?”

Spock’s gaze lifted, meeting Jim’s with an intensity that sent a quick jolt through his pulse. “Indeed, Jim. The nutrient models are ready, and the analysis for the updated water system is complete.” He paused, rising with effortless grace and rounding the desk to stand before Jim. 

“However, I must ask—are you feeling well enough to proceed? I can enter the data into the simulation and share the results with you later, if you prefer.”

Jim’s grin wavered, his pulse quickening as he realized how close they stood, mere inches apart in Spock’s office. “I’ll be fine, Spock, I promise,” he said, his smile flickering back to life.

Spock shifted closer, the movement subtle but enough to make the air between them feel charged. His dark, unreadable eyes held Jim’s, pulling him in, and Jim felt his chest tighten.

“Especially since this simulation’s going to outshine the last one,” Jim added, his voice slightly breathless. “I’ve got a good feeling about it.”

Spock gave a slight nod, his face impassive but his gaze lingering. “Your optimism is noted.” As he turns to collect his padd and paperwork from his desk, the back of his hand grazes Jim’s, a brief contact that sends a jolt through Jim’s skin, sparking a rush up his arm.

His heart pounded in his chest, but he shoved the feeling down, blaming it on nerves for the simulation. 

They made their way to the holodecks, the campus’s polished hallways transitioning to the sterile expanse of the simulation bay. The holodeck doors slid open with a soft hiss, unveiling a faintly glowing blank grid.

Jim’s boots echoed lightly as he entered, his thoughts already swirling with calculations of nutrient ratios and soil compositions. 

Spock approached the control panel, entering their data with swift precision, while Jim joined him, their shoulders almost touching as they collaborated. The simulated landscape of Palaver Ester X materialized around them—a stark, reddish terrain beneath a hazy sky.

Jim tensed, his eyes darting to Spock, whose calm gaze carried a quiet, protective intensity. He flashed a brief smile to brush off the concern, though he knew it wouldn’t fully convince Spock. 

He’s just checking on me. He tells himself. 

Grateful he is for the Vulcan. Though Spock's presence helped to chase away memories of Tarsus, he stirred a prickling at the back of Jim’s neck for reasons he’d rather not explore.

Calibrating the simulation took over an hour, their fingers moving swiftly across the control panels as they entered data on phosphorus levels, pH balances, and irrigation cycles. Jim’s focus honed in, the technical rhythm fueling his energy, though Spock’s nearness kept his nerves humming.

Finally, Spock activated the simulation, and Jim held his breath, eyes fixed on the holographic terrain.

The landscape shifted, specks of green sprouting from the soil, forming short, sturdy stalks that swayed under a simulated breeze. The water system whizzed to life, pipes gleaming as they pumped clear liquid to a central tank, self-cleaning with a soft whir. 

The temperature swung wildly, replicating Palaver Ester X’s brutal climate, yet the crops stood strong, their roots gripping the nutrient-dense earth. A calm awe washed over Jim, his chest easing as the scene unfolded with an almost tranquil beauty.

Then, Spock’s hand settled lightly on his shoulder, the warmth catching him off guard.

“Wha—?” Jim blinked, turning to find Spock closer than expected, his dark eyes soft with concern.

Spock reached into his pocket, pulling out a light blue handkerchief, its edges neatly folded. “You are crying,” he said.

Jim’s fingers brushed his face, surprised to find warm tears on his cheeks. He let out a forced chuckle, accepting the handkerchief. 

“Didn’t even notice,” he mumbled, wiping his face as his pulse still raced from Spock’s touch. He moved to the control panel, gripping it tightly to mask his embarrassment. “Guess I’m just relieved it worked—better than the first run, even.”

Spock’s steady gaze lingered, his hand falling away, though his nearness kept Jim’s skin tingling. “Your emotional response is understandable, Jim. The initial success of this simulation is significant.”

Jim nodded, clutching the handkerchief, his eyes fixed on the thriving crops. The simulation’s calm—short stalks swaying, water system humming, a stark contrast to Palaver Ester X’s brutal reality—clashed with the storm inside him.

Relief surged, but so did the heavy shadow of Tarsus, the haunting what-could-have-been for him and the others.

Jim pushed back the encroaching thoughts, determined not to let them overshadow their success.

He glanced at Spock, whose steady gaze hadn’t wavered, and forced another smile. “Yeah, we did good, didn’t we?” His voice softened. “Just gotta make it last this time.”

His breath caught as a warm hand settled on his forearm. Turning slightly, he met Spock’s eyes, their pull like an unrelenting tide.

 “Jim, you need not hide your emotions from me,” Spock said, his voice carrying a quiet conviction that tightened Jim’s chest.

Jim flashed a smile, dodging the weight of the moment. “Don’t want you thinking I’m a crybaby.”

Spock raised a brow, his hand sliding gently to Jim’s wrist. Jim bit the inside of his cheek, resisting the urge to lean into the touch, his heart racing.

“The time for that has passed,” Spock replied.

“Hey!” Jim’s laugh burst out, cutting through the tension, and he playfully nudged Spock’s shoulder, breaking the contact. “You calling me a crybaby, Spock?”

Spock’s lips twitched faintly. “I merely observe that your emotional expressiveness is consistent.”

Jim let out another laugh, the playful exchange easing the knot in his chest. In the brief quiet that followed, he noticed Spock’s fingers still loosely encircling his wrist, the touch lingering longer than expected.

Spock had said back in the hydroponics lab that his touch wasn’t unwelcome, so this was… normal, right? 

But as Spock’s warm fingers tightened briefly before letting go, Jim knew it wasn’t. This felt different—he shouldn’t want it so much, shouldn’t ache for more of Spock’s touch. The realization sent a shiver rippling across his skin.

He stepped back, hand back on the control panel, “Alright, let’s wrap this up and save the data. Don’t want to jinx ourselves.” 

Spock nodded, moving to the panel beside him, their shoulders brushing. “Agreed. The data will require further analysis, but this simulation’s success is promising.” His tone was calm, professional, but his gaze lingered, and when Jim met his eyes, his mouth went dry.

As they powered down the holodeck, the simulated colony fading into the blank grid, Jim tucked the handkerchief into his pocket, the feel of Spock’s fingers around his wrist still present on his skin.

⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚

Two weeks later, their simulation was still running successfully, bringing Jim many restful nights. 

Jim now descended the steps of the library with a cheery tune, the template of his xenobotany report forming in his mind. Though he could barely focus because in another week, this new simulation would have lasted as long as the first. They just had to ensure it continued progressing as it was.

The sky was a vibrant blue, with not a cloud in sight, and a gentle breeze weaved through the campus. Genetically engineered shade trees swayed softly, their leaves catching the sunlight, while hovercars hummed above the quad, their reflections glinting off the metallic walkways.

Cadets bustled around, their chatter mingling with the distant chime of a passing monorail.

He spotted Spock at the base of the stairs, his dark eyes meeting Jim’s as he approached, causing a familiar tug through Jim’s core. 

“Jim,” Spock greeted.

“Hey, Spock,” Jim said, a smile spreading across his face, though the tug in his chest deepened. 

Spock had taken to texting him more frequently—brief, precise messages asking about his day, small talk that felt oddly intimate for someone like Spock, or at least Jim assumed.

The last one, over the weekend, had been a pointed chastisement: “Running in Golden Gate Park at 2300 hours is illogical and poses unnecessary risk. I recommend safer alternatives.”

Jim had fired back a teasing, “Safer alternatives? What, like you driving next to me?”

“That is agreeable.”

“Wasn’t an invitation, Spock,” he had typed with a laugh, but the concern had warmed him, settling in his chest.

“How is your day progressing?” Spock asked, stepping closer as they moved away from the library steps, his proximity making Jim’s pulse quicken.

Jim shrugged, his smile lingering. “Pretty good. Just battling a report that’s trying to kill me. You? Saving the universe one lecture at a time?”

Spock’s brow quirked. “My lectures proceeded without galactic incident. Would you care to join me for lunch? I have no further obligations until 1400 hours.”

Jim’s heart gave another tug, and he nodded, “Yeah, sounds great. I was headed to a café just off campus. I’m tired of replicators. You up for it?”

Spock inclined his head. “I am.”

They set off, the breeze tugging at Jim’s cadet jacket as they crossed the quad and passed through the academy gates. The city unfolded around them, a blend of glass towers with neon accents, holographic billboards, and street vendors with touchscreen menus.

Jim couldn’t help but notice how close Spock walked next to him, their shoulders nearly brushing, the Vulcan’s measured steps syncing with his own.

 It was as if Spock deliberately placed himself in Jim’s space, close enough that Jim swore Spock could hear the blood rushing in his veins.

Their arms grazed once, twice, each time sending a spark through Jim that he tried to dismiss, blaming the breeze or his overactive imagination. 

Spock always walked this close to him. The thought heated his skin.

Spock was always close.

He shook his head, dismissing it. Right, Spock was always close, which meant he shouldn’t read into it too much.

The café, Starlight Brew, sat on a bustling corner, its exterior a mix of chrome and warm cedar, with round tables spilling onto the sidewalk under a red-and-white striped awning.

The air carried the rich aroma of roasted coffee and sizzling sandwiches, mingling with the distant beat of waves crashing against the shore.

They entered, the bell above the door chiming softly. The interior buzzed with life—rainbow colored signs casting a bright glow, vinyl booths tucked against mirrored walls, and a jukebox pulsing out tunes. Floating lights illuminated the space, reflecting off the walls and tables. 

The line at the counter was growing, but several seats remained free. Spock glanced at the crowd, then at Jim. “I will place our order if you secure a table.”

“Sounds good,” Jim said, scanning for a spot. “I’ll take a fried chicken sandwich with mint lemonade. Oh, and a sugar cookie—those things are my weakness.”

Spock nodded, eyes lingering on Jim, committing the order to memory with that precise focus Jim found oddly charming. 

“Very well.”

Before Spock could turn, Jim added, “Tell me how much, and I’ll pay you back.” 

“Not necessary,” Spock said before moving to join the line, leaving Jim standing there, gratitude and something deeper, stirring, bubbling in his chest. 

Jim grabbed a table by the window, the breeze drifting through the open pane, allowing the sounds of the city to trickle in.

He busied himself collecting napkins and utensils from a nearby station, and as he returned to their table, a stranger approached—a handsome man with sandy skin, his tailored suit gleaming with a sheen that screamed expensive. 

His smile was confident, his green eyes sparkling with clear interest. “Sorry, I had to talk to you,” the man said, gesturing toward the line, towards Spock. “Is that your boyfriend?”

Jim’s heart stuttered, but he flashed a grin, already sensing the direction of the conversation. “No,” he said, “Why, you want to ask him out?”

The man’s smile widened, a playful glint in his eyes. “No, I was more interested in you. Glad you’re single, right?” He asked with a wiggle of his brows. 

Jim swallowed, the question hitting harder than he thought it would have. He had referred to Gary as an ex before, but saying he was single out loud felt final.

Still, it had been three months, and the guy’s easy charm was hard to resist. 

“Yeah, I am,” he said, “I’m Jim,” he continued, offering a grin and his hand. The man took it, his grip firm, their hands pumping twice before he released it.

“Gideon Marc,” he said, his voice smooth. “I have to run, but I’ll leave my card with you. Maybe you’ll call me, Jim.”

He handed Jim a sleek, reflective business card, the word Esquire embossed in silver.

Jim twirled the card, raising an eyebrow. “Esquire? You like to argue, huh?”

Gideon’s grin turned mischievous. “I do. But I’d let you win anytime.” He winked as he added, “Hope to see you soon, Jim.” With that, he strode out the front door, the bell chiming behind him.

Jim plopped into his seat, the card still in his hand, his thoughts in a tangle. The flirtation had been fun, natural even, but it stirred a reminder of Gary, of the way things used to feel before everything fell apart. 

He shoved Gideon’s card into his pocket, his fingers brushing against one of Spock’s handkerchiefs as he pulled his hand out.

At that moment, Spock returned, balancing a tray with their food: a steaming sandwich, a glass of mint lemonade, a sugar cookie, and a simple salad for Spock.

“Efficient service,” Spock noted, setting the tray down, his eyes flicking to Jim’s face, as he plated Jim’s food for him. 

Jim forced a smile, pushing his thoughts to the back of his mind. “Thanks, Spock. Looks perfect.” 

Jim sat across from Spock and readily began eating. Spock’s salad sat mostly untouched, a neat pile of greens and protein cubes that looked more like rabbit food to Jim than lunch. 

The café buzzed around them—cadets and civilians laughing, the jukebox playing the latest hit, the clink of mugs and silverware—but Spock’s presence held Jim like a gravity well.

Spock nodded toward the door, “Who was the individual you were speaking with?” Spock asked, his voice calm but with a curious edge that made Jim’s pulse skip.

Jim took a bite of his sandwich, the crispy chicken a welcome distraction. “Oh, just a guy giving me his number,” he said around a mouthful, trying to keep it light.

But Spock’s eyes seemed to bore into him, dark and intense, before he glanced down at his salad, picking at a leaf with his fork. 

The shift was subtle, but Jim caught it—something in Spock’s posture tightened, like he was being pulled taut. 

“You said you were not pursuing romantic relations,” Spock said, his tone even but pointed, and Jim felt the ground tilt under him.

Jim swallowed, his sandwich suddenly heavy on his tongue. Friends talk about this stuff, he told himself, trying to shake off the new set of nerves he was suddenly feeling. 

“Well, that was, like, almost three months ago? Besides, I meant more like I’m not putting myself out there anymore.” He took another bite, avoiding Spock’s eyes.

“If they come to me, I can at least consider it.” He grabbed his lemonade, the minty tang sharp as he downed a gulp, hoping it’d cool the heat creeping up his neck.

Spock seemed to pause, his gaze flicking back to Jim. “So, if one propositioned you, you would…”

“I’d consider it,” Jim said with a shrug. 

He meant it, sort of. Gideon’s grin had been charming, his suit screaming credits Jim would never see, and maybe a fling wouldn’t hurt. 

“Though, honestly, it felt weird saying I was single to that guy,” he admitted, staring at the crumbs on his plate.

“Why?” Spock asked, his eyes locking onto Jim’s, and Jim felt that pull again.

Jim held his gaze, his throat tightening. “I was with Gary for two years. It’s just weird being single after that long.” 

Spock tilted his head, his expression unreadable but focused. “When did your relationship with Gary begin?”

Jim thought back, the memory fuzzy. “2255.23, I think. A little after when I started at the Academy.”

Spock’s brow arched slightly. “Technically, that would indicate a duration of one year and five months.”

Jim snorted, “Well, the point is, it was the longest relationship I’ve had. So I’m not sure if I’m even ready for anything serious.” 

His words hung there, and he thought they were done with the subject. 

“Will you contact him?” Spock asked, his voice quieter now, but there was something sharp to it.

Jim shrugged, unwrapping his cookie, “Maybe, maybe not.” He sighed, taking a bite out of it.

A casual fling with Gideon Marc might be enjoyable—light, no strings attached. Jim had always leaned toward a single, steady partner rather than a string of hookups—kept the rumor mill quiet.

But the idea felt hollow, like trying to fill a void that didn’t fit. Torn, Jim wondered if he truly wanted to keep chasing fleeting connections, though a bit of companionship and playful flirtation seemed harmless enough.

Spock’s gaze hardened, his posture stiffening just enough for Jim to notice. “This individual is a stranger. You should be wary of his motives. His intentions may not align with your well-being.”

Jim laughed, a small, nervous sound, trying to brush off the shiver Spock’s words sent up his spine. “You were a stranger, too once, Spock.” 

“Yet my intentions toward you have always been clear,” Spock said, “I have felt responsible for you since we met.”

Jim paused, Spock’s words bouncing off his nerves.

Responsible? It sounded like duty, but the way Spock said it, the way his eyes held Jim’s, felt like more. 

“Well, better you found me like that than someone else,” Jim said, forcing a chuckle to cover the flutter in his chest.

Spock gave him another hard look, “Indeed. I would prefer you avoid entanglements with those whose character is unverified.” Spock said, leaning forward, just a fraction, and Jim swore he could feel the heat of him from across the table.

Jim’s throat tightened, and he tried to deflect with a grin. “A man has urges, Spock,” he said, his tone teasing, but the words felt bolder than he intended, hanging in the air.

Spock’s brow lifted, his eyes seeming to focus even more intently on Jim. “I am well aware of such urges,” he said, “However, I wish only to ensure your well-being. One such as you, with your notable presence, garners much attention.”

Jim chuckled, taking Spock’s comment as a friendly observation, though his palms grew sweaty, and he grabbed his napkin to dry them, the paper crinkling under his fingers. 

“Notable presence, huh? Why don’t you be my wingman then? You can pick the perfect guy for me.” He winked, keeping it light, even as his heart tried to pound itself out of his chest. 

Spock tilted his head, his eyes carrying a glint Jim couldn’t quite identify—something darker. “I must decline,” he said, his voice cool. “I have no desire to facilitate such pursuits. My role would be to ensure no one else claims your attention.”

Jim laughed, popping the last bite of his cookie into his mouth. “Sounds like you don’t want me to date at all,” he said playfully, though his pulse began to stutter. “Worried I’ll get distracted from our project?”

His lips curved into a teasing grin, striving to keep the moment light, but when his eyes met Spock’s, the pressure of his dark eyes pinned him in place.

He felt a familiar heady jolt, the same thrill that sparked whenever Spock’s stare lingered too long—a look Jim now recognized as the slow sweep of someone checking him out.

That’s not right, he chastised himself, shaking off the thought. Spock wasn’t doing that.

Spock didn’t answer, his attention shifting to his salad, his fork nudging a small tomato, then piercing it. The silence stretched, and Jim’s skin prickled again, his fingers tightening around his napkin.

He reached for his drink, taking a few sips, the lemonade suddenly too sweet.

⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚

On Thursday afternoon, Jim’s comm pings from his desk, its sharp chime slicing through the quiet of his room. Fresh from a shower, he scrambles to pull on a shirt, the fabric snagging on his damp hair. 

His pulse quickens as he glances at the caller ID: Pike.

He drops into his desk chair, smoothing his shirt with a quick swipe, and answers the call. The screen flickers, revealing Pike’s familiar smile, his gray eyes warm yet piercing, as if he could see through Jim across the light-years.

“Hey, Jim,” Pike says, his voice carrying that easy warmth that always makes Jim feel like a kid again. “How’ve you been?”

Jim leans back, and the hum of his room’s air recycler plays in the background. “Doing fine—better than I have in a while, honestly.”

It’s more truth than he meant to share. Since their second simulation succeeded, he’s been sleeping better with his nightmares less frequent. The project is showing promise, holding stable with no issues.

“The project’s going well,” he adds. “Data’s solid—no crashes or sludge-filled water systems this time.”

His mind whispers yet, but he pushes it aside.

Pike chuckles, his uniform crisp against the backdrop of what looks like a ready room. “That’s what I like to hear.” He leans forward, his expression softening. “But Jim, how are you really holding up?”

Jim’s grin falters. “I told you, I’m fine. I want to do this.” 

His voice cracks, betraying him, and he barely registers embarrassment as Pike shifts, eyes narrowing slightly. Jim wonders if his smile looks as forced as it feels.

“Jim, I’m not here to talk you out of anything,” Pike says, raising a hand. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine, really,” Jim insists, but Pike’s gaze seems to peel back his defenses, exposing cracks he tries to hide. 

He shifts in his chair, a memory of Tarsus flashing unbidden—his dirty fingers smearing Pike’s gold uniform as Pike carried him to the shuttle.

As a kid, he’d wondered why Pike’s eyes were wet; as an adult, he knows a soft heart like Pike’s couldn’t bear the horrors of Tarsus: skeletal survivors and barren fields piled with corpses.

Pike had kept tabs on him and the other survivors afterward, a silent vigil Jim only learned about in that Iowa bar when Pike pulled him aside and nudged him toward the Academy. It wasn’t fate or cosmic luck—just Pike, watching over a broken kid.

The thought makes Jim’s chest ache, gratitude tangled with old wounds.

His foot taps the floor, fingers fidgeting with his shirt’s edge as Pike’s question lingers in the silence. He opens his mouth to respond, but the words snag, his mind caught in Tarsus and the fear of examining himself too closely.

Am I really okay?

Sensing his hesitation, Pike’s eyes soften, the wrinkles at their corners deepening. He leans back, his tone shifting to something lighter but still probing. “Jim, why haven’t you told Spock you know me?”

Jim freezes, his stomach lurching. Embarrassment floods him, laced with guilt, like he’s been caught in a lie. Pike, a constant between them, feels dangerous—like Spock could get too close to Tarsus. 

Pike was there, and he had seen Jim as a starving kid who barely survived. He knows why Jim’s file is blacked out. 

Telling Spock about Pike risks questions Jim isn’t sure he can dodge, especially from someone as perceptive as Spock.

“Am I in trouble?” he asks, half-joking, but his voice comes out small, like a kid caught sneaking sweets.

Pike smiles, though his eyes stay sharp. “No trouble, just curious why you kept it quiet. Spock and I talk often, and when it was clear he didn’t know I knew you, I stayed silent. He’s a good man—I’d know.” He adds. 

Jim nods, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, he’s… great. We’re doing solid work together.” His face heats, and he hopes the screen hides it. “Didn’t think it was worth mentioning, I guess.”

Pike raises a brow, leaning back hands in his lap. “You know, Spock speaks highly of you.”

“He does?” Jim asks, too quickly, his face burning now. The idea of Spock talking about him—to Pike, of all people—is both alarming and oddly thrilling.

“Yes,” Pike says, a laugh in his voice. “Sometimes you’re all he talks about.” He pauses, then adds, “You’ve been a big help to the project.”

Jim smiles, the praise warming him despite his embarrassment. “Thanks. It’s been… good working with him.” His fingers tug at his shirt again.

“I won’t say anything,” Pike says gently, pulling Jim back. “It’s nice hearing him speak so freely about someone.”

“What do you mean?” Jim asks, curious.

Pike shrugs, the gesture making him seem younger, and Jim can’t help a small laugh. “Some things are better kept secret, right?” Pike says with a wink. “But if your friendship with Spock is going to grow, you might consider being more honest.”

Jim’s heart stutters, and he feels defensive. “ I don’t think bringing up Tarsus is necessary.” The word slips out, and he winces, wishing he could take it back.

Pike’s smile fades, replaced by the solemn look Jim remembers from that Iowa bar, when Pike offered to share news of the other survivors. Jim had refused, knowing it would drag him back to that hell, make him feel like shit for making it this far when others didn’t.

“Not Tarsus, Jim,” Pike says softly. “That’s your call. But keeping secrets might affect your friendship with Spock.”

“I know,” Jim says, though he’s not ready to admit Pike’s right. “Spock’s great… he looks out for me. Like you do.”

Pike’s eyes crinkle, but there’s a knowing glint to them. “Right. Like I do.” He leans forward, his voice gentle but firm. “Take care of yourself, Jim. And maybe let Spock in a little. He’s worth it.”

Jim nods, his chest tight. “I’ll try.”

The call ends, Pike’s smile lingering on the screen before it goes dark, leaving Jim alone with his thoughts and the quiet of his apartment. 

⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚

Later that night, Jim’s communicator buzzes on his nightstand, its soft chime yanking him from a half-hearted attempt at studying. He snatches it, his heart skipping as Spock’s name flashes across the screen.

His message was concise, as always: “Jim, I propose we conduct our Friday meeting at my residence to review the latest simulation results.”

His stomach flutters, a twinge of nervousness pooling despite himself. 

Spock’s place? Just the two of them? He shakes off the thought, typing back;

“Sounds good, Spock. I’m in. See you Friday.”

He sets his communicator down, exhaling.

Friends hang out at each other’s places—it’s normal.

Nothing to overthink.

⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚

Friday arrived, gray and overcast, the sky shrouded in a heavy mist that clung to the air. Jim met up with Spock at his office, the familiar scent of incense greeting him as he entered. 

“Ready to head out Spock?” he asked with a slight smile, slinging his padd under his arm.

Spock inclined his head, his dark eyes landing on Jim. “Indeed.” He gestured toward the door, and they headed to Spock’s hovercar.

The sky loomed heavy, clouds thick with the promise of rain, as Jim slid into the passenger seat. 

The thought of being in Spock’s personal space was making his nerves jump, and he focused on the passing city to quell the anxious flutter in his gut. 

Spock’s scent, that sharp, smoky undertone, filled the car, making it harder to ignore than usual. 

“How was your day, Jim?” Spock asked, his voice cutting through the hum of the engine as he navigated into traffic.

Jim blinked, surprised by the light conversation. “Oh, you know, the usual. Lectures, simulations, trying not to fall asleep in cartography.” He grinned, glancing at Spock. “You?”

Spock’s brow quirked slightly. “I reviewed cadet progress reports.” 

They lapsed into silence, the hovercar slowing in a snarl of traffic. The quiet felt heavy until Spock spoke again. 

“Would you care to select something to listen to, Jim?” 

Jim laughed, the suggestion loosening the knot in his chest. “You sure you’re ready for my taste in music, Spock?” He leaned forward, fiddling with the console, flicking through stations. 

A sultry guitar riff poured through the speakers, low and haunting, the kind of melody that curled around your heart with a bittersweet ache, a voice crooning about a dangerous, burning desire. Jim’s fingers paused, his lips twitching.

“This one’s good, but it’s a shame we caught it halfway through.”

He flicked to another station, and a smooth, soulful melody filled the cabin, rich with a slow, jazzy rhythm that felt like a confession wrapped in silk and velvet. The singer’s voice was deep, aching with longing.

Jim glanced at Spock, whose expression remained blank, but a flicker—something soft, almost curious—crossed his features.

Jim laughed, “I told you my singing’s terrible." He started humming along, then sang softly, his voice rough but earnest, catching the song’s emotional pull.

Spock inclined his head, his tone measured. “I have no comment on your singing capabilities, though your interest in genres is varied.”

Jim grinned, relaxing into the seat, feeling more himself in Spock’s presence. “Oh, I’ll listen to anything. Rock, soul, even Klingon opera if I’m feeling brave.”

He continued humming, then sang the next song that followed, a lighter pop tune, his voice carrying a playful edge. The music seemed to bridge the silence, making the space of the hovercar feel less confined. 

They drove away from the bustling downtown, entering a quieter district where sleek condos rose like sentinels against the gray sky.

In no time, they pulled into the underground parking garage of a towering fifty-story building, its polished concrete and ambient lighting a stark contrast to Jim’s modest apartment complex. 

Jim’s jaw dropped slightly, his eyes wide as he took in the pristine rows of hovercars and the high-tech security drones patrolling the space. “This garage is fancier than my entire building,” he muttered, half to himself.

They exited the hovercar, and Jim followed Spock to a sleek glass elevator. Spock pressed the button for the top floor, and Jim raised an eyebrow. “You live in the penthouse?”

Spock’s brow quirked, but he said nothing, his silence as telling as any answer. The lift hummed, ascending swiftly, and Jim felt a flutter of awe starting to overpower his nerves. The doors slid open directly into Spock’s entryway, and Jim’s breath caught.

The penthouse exuded luxury—high ceilings and black marble floors gleamed under recessed lighting, casting a warm, reflective glow. Mirrored panels lined one wall, amplifying the space, while a neon-trimmed bar glowed softly in a corner.

Angular furniture in bold blacks and silvers sat with geometric precision, softened by lush planters tucked into alcoves, their greenery a striking contrast to the sleek decor.

Jim toed off his shoes, feeling out of place in his cadet uniform, and followed Spock’s brief tour.

“This is the guest room,” Spock said, indicating a minimalist space with a low bed, a wide window framing the stormy city, and a single abstract sculpture on a nightstand.

“And my office, where I meditate and work.”

The office was austere, with a polished wooden desk holding a holo-display and a portrait of two figures—Spock’s parents, he explained, catching Jim’s curiosity.

He looked back at the portrait. At Spock’s parents. His father definitely screamed no nonsense, though Jim’s eyes lingered on Spock’s mother’s face, struck by the light in her eyes—so like Spock’s, he realized, a thought that sent an unknown wave of emotion through him. 

His eyes drifted to another frame on the wall—a photo of Spock and Pike in dress uniforms. Pike’s broad grin contrasted with Spock’s reserved posture, hands clasped behind his back, his dark eyes piercing even in stillness.

Jim’s stomach twisted, 

Pike’s words echoing in his mind: Let Spock in.

“Nice photo of you and Pike,” Jim said, forcing a casual tone.

“You speak of Admiral Pike casually?” 

Jim shrugged, heart racing, “Yeah, Pike got me into the Academy. Knew my dad.” He forced a grin, trying to downplay the weight of the connection, making it seem unimportant. 

“He didn’t mention me?” He asks, hoping it seems innocent. Though he’s sure Pike and Spock speak too regularly for this not to all seem suspicious. 

“Nor did you him,” Spock says, his eyes drilling holes into Jim’s. 

“I just did,” Jim quipped, rolling his eyes to play it off. He hoped Spock couldn’t sense the half-truth, trusting Pike’s discretion to cover the rest.

Spock inclined his head toward the door, and they moved down a short hallway lined with vibrant landscape art and small planters, the greenery softening the modern lines. The living room opened before them, dominated by floor-to-ceiling windows.

Spock tapped a panel, and the shades retracted, revealing a stunning view of the city and the churning ocean beyond, gray under the stormy sky.

“You have the best view in all of San Fran, Spock,” Jim said, whistling as he approached the glass. “This place is unreal.” His eyes caught the kitchen—a sleek expanse of marble countertops, chrome appliances, and a holographic recipe display shimmering faintly. “And this kitchen? Incredible.” He laughed, resisting the urge to touch the smooth surfaces.

Spock’s lips twitched, his hands clasped behind his back. “I am pleased you find my home satisfactory, Jim.”

“Satisfactory? Your place is nice,” Jim said, shaking his head. “Like, magazine-cover nice.”

“I did not decorate it,” Spock replied evenly. “It came furnished. I would accept your suggestions for improvement.”

Jim laughed, the sound echoing in the quiet space. “Me redecorate? Our styles might not mesh, Spock.”

Spock inclined his head, his gaze assessing in a way that made Jim feel he’d missed something. 

“Very well,” Spock said, gesturing to the living room. “Shall we begin our work?”

The rain had thickened, a steady downpour beating against the windows, turning the outside world into a hazy glow. They settled on a plush couch, its cushions far more inviting than Jim’s worn sofa. Their familiar rhythm of collaboration took over, the storm’s cadence cocooning them.

An hour in, Spock suggested a break, rising to prepare Vulcan spice tea and savory pastries. He returned, setting the tray on a glass coffee table. Jim sipped the tea, its warmth settling in his chest, and glanced at the windows, where raindrops streaked the glass.

“This is a big storm,” he murmured, the rain’s rhythm blending with the quiet.

Spock followed his gaze, “Indeed. Would you prefer to continue our work or engage in another activity?”

Jim’s eyes wandered the living room, landing on the massive holo-tv mounted against the mirrored wall, its black frame glowing faintly with standby lights. 

“Ever watch anything on this huge holo-tv of yours?” he asked, a teasing grin tugging at his lips.

Spock tilts his head, his tone matter-of-fact. “I enjoy documentaries. They provide insight into various subjects. Recreational media, however, is not a frequent pursuit.”

“Figures you’d go for the brainy stuff,” Jim said, laughing. “I know a film that might even make a Vulcan smile.”

Spock’s brow quirked, a glint in his eyes. “I am open to your selection, Jim.”

“Deal. Let’s take a break from nutrient formals.”

He grabbed the remote from the coffee table, flicking on the holo-tv and typing in the film name, and he preens at finding it and presses play immediately. A bouncy synth-pop soundtrack burst through the speakers as the movie—a colorful tale of fur-covered aliens crash-landing in a vibrant valley—began.

“This one’s perfect for a stormy night. I hope you like musicals.” 

They settled on the couch, the tea and pastries pushed aside as the holo-tv cast flickering lights across the room. The storm’s rumble grew louder, but Spock’s steady presence kept Jim grounded, thoughts far away from the storm. 

During a scene set in a pulsing nightclub, one alien extended an improbably long tongue for comedic effect. Jim laughs, then Spock’s voice cuts through the synth beats. 

“This film contains continuous sexual undertones. I am surprised that pre-warp humans exhibited such curiosity about interspecies relations.”

Jim laughed, the sound bubbling up as he leaned back, one leg tucked under him. “Well, there were definitely many who found the idea of an alien coming to Earth and abducting them for experiments exciting.” 

He feels his face grow hot at his own words, the conversation veering into territory that feels dangerous, for reasons he’s not sure why. He keeps his eyes on the screen, hoping to hide the flush creeping up his neck.

“Experiments?” Spock asked, his tone clinical but edged with curiosity. “What experiments would an alien perform on a Human?”

Jim grinned, his mouth outpacing his brain. “You know, studying human physiology. Like anal probes and stuff.” He burst into laughter at the absurdity, shoulders shaking.

Spock’s face remained impassive, but a faint wave of incredulity radiated from him. “It is unfortunate my people sought only to share knowledge during first contact, not fantasies.”

The deadpan hint of a joke sent Jim into another fit of laughter. They turned back to the movie, the aliens now stumbling through a dance routine. Jim shifted from sitting upright to lounging, sinking into the plush cushions. 

The day’s fatigue, the storm’s steady patter, and Spock’s quiet presence lulled him. His eyelids grew heavy, the images on the holo-tv blurring as he drifted off, head lolling against the couch.

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A sharp crack of thunder jolts Jim awake, his heart racing as he blinks into the dim room. Most of the windows were shaded, but the main one revealed the city, lightning streaking across the dark, churning clouds.

His breath caught, memories of being huddled in darkness, fear clawing at his chest as lightning struck above—flickering briefly before he registered the soft weight of a fluffy blue blanket draped over him, its edges embroidered with elegant script he was unable to decipher. 

A small orb glowed on the coffee table, casting a gentle, warm light that steadied his nerves. He focused on it, allowing the small light it gave off to anchor him.

His breathing slowed, and he rubbed his eyes, shaking off the remnants of sleep, and noticed Spock was gone. The holo-tv was off, the room silent except for the patter of rain. Light spilled from the hallway, and Jim rose, the blanket slipping to the couch as he made his way towards it.

He found Spock in his office, seated cross-legged on a crimson mat, his back to the door, the lights were dimmed and a few candles burned on Spock’s desk. Spock wore a loose, dark purple robe, its fabric shimmering faintly with gold threads.

The sight made Jim pause, his breath catching. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” Jim said, his voice soft, almost swallowed by the storm outside.

Spock uncrossed his legs and rose with fluid, mesmerizing grace, the robe clinging to his form like a second skin, its silken folds accentuating the broad sweep of his shoulders and the lean lines of his torso, stirring a forbidden heat in Jim’s core.“

You did not.” He said, his eyes met Jim’s, and Jim couldn’t help but take in the way the robe draped over Spock’s frame, accentuating his shoulders.

“Did you finish the movie? Or hightail it once you realized I was asleep?” Jim asked, injecting a playful lilt to mask the flutter uncoiling in his chest

Spock replied, “I continued watching, finding it unexpectedly engaging. The resolution of the film was logical, given its comedic framework.”

“Oh, really?” Jim grinned, leaning against the doorframe.

“Yes. I found the ending satisfactory,” Spock replied, his eyes holding Jim’s for a moment longer, and Jim broke the contact, unable to withstand its weight. 

“See, that’s why I like the ones with happy endings,” Jim said, his smile softening. “Gives you a bit of hope, you know?”

Spock inclined his head, as if considering the sentiment, then said, “I advise you to stay the night. The storm will not recede until morning.”

Jim smirked, “I wouldn’t want to disturb your tranquility.”

“You would not. The authorities have sent out an emergency alert urging all to stay indoors. It would be best if you stayed.”

Jim nodded, his smirk softening into a genuine smile. “You’re right. Safety first.” He points toward Spock’s desk, where one of the orbs sat. “Are these nightlights? Probably the fanciest ones I’ve ever seen.”

Spock inclined his head. “Yes. I purchased several after you showed me yours during the blackout at your apartment. My residence does not face power outages often, but they do occur.”

Jim’s heart stuttered, the gesture making his skin heat. Spock had bought nightlights because of him? 

He forces a chuckle to cover the sparks trailing over his skin. “You didn’t have to do that, Spock. But thank you.”

Spock’s gaze lingered on Jim, “You are welcome, Jim. Your comfort is important to me.” Spock’s words were measured, but there was a sincerity that made Jim’s throat tighten.

He swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of their closeness. The scent of the sharp, earthy incense - he realized, the same scent that always clung to Spock—curling around him. 

“You’re a great friend, Spock,” Jim managed, his voice soft, “Really. Thanks for the blanket, too.” He says, thinking back to it’s softness. The fact Spock had placed it over him….

He’d rather not think about how it made him feel. 

Spock’s gaze held steady, unwavering. “My mother crafted it,” he said, his tone low and resonant, imbued with a quiet reverence that hinted at something deeply personal. “It is a traditional Vulcan design, meant to offer comfort in solitude.”

Jim felt himself nod, though he couldn’t manage a word as Spock’s eyes didn't waver, dark and for a moment, neither of them moved, the air between them charged. Then a sharp crack of thunder shattered the silence, and Jim flinched, the spell broken.

Spock tilts his head slightly, as if recalibrating. “Come.”

Jim followed, his bare feet quiet against the cool floor, the storm’s rumble fading into the background. Spock led him down the hall to his guest bedroom. He opened the top drawer of the dresser, revealing neatly folded stacks of clothing, many bearing the Starfleet ensignia—some in styles Jim recognized from old academy holo-vids, others completely unfamiliar.

Jim let out a low whistle. “Quite the collection, Spock.” His eyes scanned the drawer, landing on a pair of vintage Starfleet sweatpants with faded gold piping. “They don’t even make these anymore.”

Spock raised a brow, retrieving a matching blue long-sleeve and pants set, the fabric slightly worn. “These are my old training clothes,” he said, handing them to Jim. “They should fit.”

Jim took them, his fingers brushing Spock’s for a fleeting second, the contact sending an unexpected jolt through him. “Limited edition, huh?” he teased, trying to keep his tone light. “Don’t expect these back.”

Spock’s lips twitched. “I do not mind you wearing my clothes, Jim.”

The words hit Jim like a phaser on low stun, his mind tripping over the implications of wearing Spock’s clothes. The thought was too close to memories of him going through Gary’s closet, pulling on his old jackets just to feel closer to him. 

He shook it off.

“Careful, I might start raiding your wardrobe regularly.”

“I would not mind,” Spock says, rising, his eyes following Jim as he rises and breaks contact as he opens the closet door, pulling out a thick comforter, a deep green fabric embroidered with subtle patterns.

“The guest bathroom only has a sonic shower,” Spock says, unfolding the comforter and laying it on the bed. “However, you are welcome to use my personal bathroom, which has a water-powered shower, if you prefer.”

Jim’s stomach flips. Spock’s bathroom. His private space. 

“Um, yeah, water sounds great. Thanks.” He tried to sound casual, but his voice betrayed a slight tremor.

Spock led him to his own bedroom, and Jim’s breath caught as the door slid open. Spock’s room was as elegant as the rest of his place. 

Glass panels framed the storm-tossed ocean beyond, its restless waves flickering under jagged streaks of lightning, casting fleeting shadows across the space. A low bed, draped in deep purple silk sheets that shimmered faintly under recessed lighting, anchored the room, its sleek frame carved with subtle geometric patterns evocative of Vulcan calligraphy. 

Above it, vibrant red and green banners adorned with flowing, alien script hung like silent guardians, their bold hues a striking contrast to the room’s muted palette. In one corner, a rack of sleek, sharp-edged weapons—polished to a mirror-like sheen—stood as both art and arsenal, their curves echoing ancient designs.

Against one wall, a narrow shelf held a small, obsidian sculpture, its angular artistry unfamiliar to Jim, paired with a delicate crystal chime that emitted a faint, harmonic resonance when stirred by the room’s air circulator. 

Jim turned his eyes away from Spock’s room, feeling like he should apologise for the obvious oogling, but Spock made his way swiftly across the space and Jim hurriedly trailed after. 

“The bathroom is there,” Spock said, gesturing to a panel that hissed open, revealing the space. “You may use anything you need. Though I suspect my skincare products are not as refined as yours.”

Jim laughed, “Oh, I’m sure everything you have is light-years beyond my drugstore stuff.” He steps into the bathroom, and he catches Spock’s lips twitching again, that almost-smile that makes Jim’s chest flutter.

“I will resume meditating,” Spock said. “Please call me if you need anything.” He turned to leave the door shutting behind him, and Jim exhaled, realizing he’d been holding his breath.

Jim leaned against the counter, gripping the edge. The space was pristine—black tiles, bright, clean mirrors, a glass-enclosed shower with multiple spouts, and Spock’s scent in the air. 

He undressed, folding his clothes haphazardly, placing them on top of the toilet seat, and stepped into the shower, turning on the water. It cascades from every angle, easing the tension in his shoulders, and he couldn’t help the sigh that fell from his lips.

His mind, though, wouldn’t settle. 

It drifted to Spock—those long, elegant hands, the way he’d draped a blanket over Jim while he slept, bought nightlights just for him. 

He reached for the soap—an unscented bar—and grabbed the loofah Spock had given him. As he scrubbed, his mind wandered, imagining Spock’s hands in place of the loofah, those precise fingers gliding over his skin. 

His breath hitches, and he feels a telltale twitch below. 

“No, Kirk, stop,” he mutters to himself, cranking the water to ice-cold. The shock bit into him, but he withstood it.“What the fuck is wrong with me?”

Spock was hot, sure. Those sharp cheekbones, that quiet intensity—it’d turn anyone’s head. But they were friends.

Jim’s mind flashed to the guy from the café, the one who’d slipped him his number with a flirty grin. Maybe he’d call him. A fling might burn off this… whatever this was. 

Better than pining over Spock like some lovesick cadet.

He shuts off the water, towels off, and pulls on Spock’s borrowed clothes. The soft, slightly loose shirt and pants clung lightly to his skin, carrying Spock’s scent—clean, with a faint trace of that incense. 

He caught his reflection in the mirror and groaned at the sight of himself - the bottom of Spock’s shirt clutched in his hands and brought to his nose for a couple of whiffs. 

He was in too deep, and he needed to get a grip before he made a fool of himself.

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Jim quickly stepped out of Spock’s bathroom, the faint steam from the shower trailing behind him. He kept his eyes fixed on the door, resisting the urge to let them linger on Spock’s bedroom.

He stepped into the hallway and followed the mechanical hum of a replicator to the kitchen. Spock stood at the counter, his back to Jim, as he worked with something just out of view. The light caught the sharp lines of his shoulders, still draped in that dark robe from earlier. 

“What are you whipping up?” he asked, resting his elbows on the countertop as he approached.

Spock turned, his dark eyes meeting Jim’s, and Jim shifted slightly.

“Whipping up would suggest I am cooking,” Spock said, “I apologize, I am not as adept in the kitchen as you.”

Jim’s smile widened, genuine now. “I’ll eat anything,” he said, leaning forward a bit, the casualness of the moment easing the tension that coiled in his gut.

Spock inclined his head, handing Jim a white scalloped plate piled with steaming pasta, a slice of golden garlic bread perched on top. “I have made us pasta and garlic bread for you.”

Jim raised an eyebrow, taking the plate. “You like Italian?” he asked.

Spock retrieved two glass cups from a cupboard. “My mother often cooked similar dishes, so my palate has adjusted to it.”

Jim laughed, “You could just say yes, Spock.” He accepted a fork, sure he saw amusement in Spock’s eyes as he gestured towards the living room. They moved together, settling onto the couch.

Spock placed his own plate on the coffee table, then rose, disappearing briefly, returning with two eating trays. Jim twirled a forkful of noodles, the savory scent filling his nose and helping to ease the tension still lingering under his skin. They ate quietly at first, the storm slightly drowned out by the clink of their forks. 

Then Spock spoke, “Jim, you may select something to watch if you like.”

Jim paused mid-bite, glancing over with a grin. “Are you sure you want me to put on another silly human flick?”

“I do not mind. I became accustomed to such films during my time on the Enterprise.”

“Really?” Jim asked, chewing around a mouthful of pasta.

“Yes,” Spock replied, setting his fork down with precision. “There were many I found illogical, though I understood the appeal among my crewmates. It was… nice to be included.”

Jim pauses in eating, taking in Spock’s words. A quiet admission that painted a picture of Spock on the edge of those late-night movie sessions, observing, analyzing, but always part of the crew.

"How was it like, living on a ship, being out in space for so long?" He asks.

"I started my career with Starfleet fairly young. As a science officer, I kept to myself. It was not until I served under Admiral Pike that I allowed myself to engage more with those around me."

“Not one for friends?” He asks, feeling similarly for different reasons. 

“Making acquaintances is…”

“Hard?” Jim suggests with a chuckle. 

Spock nods, his eyes turning to his plate, “Vulcans do not desire companionship in the same way as others, but we do desire it nonetheless. The isolation from my peers led me to withdraw, so I continued the behavior when I joined Starfleet.”

Jim nods, understanding. “Well, you have Pike and me now.” He says cheekily, somewhat joking but still serious. He likes being friends with Spock, and he does want him to know that. 

Friends.

“Yes.” Spock agrees. “I also have a close acquaintance, Uhura, who I enjoy spending time with.” 

“Well that’s good.” He says with a smile, returning his attention back to his food. 

“Do you speak with others besides Dr. McCoy and Admiral Pike?” Spock then asked.

Jim took another bite of pasta, chewing thoughtfully. “Not really,” he said, then hesitated. “I have a brother, Sam.” The mention felt trivial— it wasn’t like they even spoke on a consistent basis. 

Spock nodded, his expression blank, and they finished their meal in silence. With his usual efficiency, Spock cleared their plates, waving off Jim’s offer to help. Jim settled onto the couch, watching the rain—now a softer patter—streak the windows, the city’s light in the distance diffused into a hazy halo.

Spock returned, sitting close, “Perhaps we should resume reviewing our project notes,” he suggested. 

“My brain’s too fried for more work,” Jim admitted. “Got a chessboard? I could manage a few games if you’re up for it.”

Spock nods, lifting the coffee table up , revealing a cabinet filled with different belongings.

Among them, he pulls out a its white and red squares gleaming with a pearlescent sheen, accompanied by translucent red and clear pieces. He watches Spock set the board, ignoring how his fingers grip around the pieces.

“Where’d you get such a cool-looking board?” He asks as they begin, Spock giving him the red pieces. 

“Admiral Pike gifted it.” His tone was neutral but his gaze lingered on Jim, as if gauging his reaction.

At Pike’s name, Jim tensed, the earlier conversation about their shared connection stirring unease. He forced a casual nod, focusing on the board to bring his anxiety back down.“Nice gift,” he said lightly, moving a pawn.

They carry on playing, both exchanging wins. Time passes, the rain still coming down, and in no time hours pass by unnoticed. 

“Okay, that was the last game,” Jim said, finally, standing to stretch, and glancing at Spock, who is steadily watching him.

“Goodnight, Spock,” Jim says feeling his nerves from the shower dare to simmer and brew over. 

“Goodnight, Jim.”

With that, Jim turns and heads down the hall to the guest room, the scent of Spock’s clothes clinging to him as he goes. 

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Jim lay awake, unable to sleep. The guest bed was far better than the mattress in his apartment, but sleep eluded him.

The door silently hisses open as he slips out. He pauses, glancing down the hall, hoping Spock wouldn’t mind him wandering. The storm’s rumble had faded, leaving only the faint whistle of wind. 

Halfway down the hallway, he freezes. Through the living room, he saw Spock standing on the balcony, a heavy robe draped over his shoulders, its hem swaying slightly in the breeze.

The wind tugged at Spock’s hair, shifting it gently, and Jim’s breath caught at the sight—Spock, framed against the night sky, looked almost otherworldly.

He moved to the living room, grabbing the fluffy blue blanket Spock had draped over him earlier. As he approached the glass doors, Spock turned, his dark eyes locking onto Jim’s with that quiet perception that always made Jim feel stuck in place. Spock slid the door open, the cool air rushing in.

Jim stepped onto the balcony, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders, and they stood in silence, the city sprawling below. The storm had waned, the ocean below now calm, but the sky remained a starless expanse of black.

Spock spoke first, his voice low and steady. “Are you unable to sleep, Jim?”

Jim turned, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Always a bit hard for me to fall asleep in new places.” 

He thought then of the weeks it took to settle into his apartment, the late nights pacing or staring at the ceiling. He’d been grateful for Bones, who understood, saying nothing when he’d found Jim up at odd hours, doom-scrolling on the couch or cooking a twenty-step dish in the kitchen.

Spock’s guest bed was a dream, but the unfamiliarity kept him restless, exacerbating his usual insomnia. 

Spock tilted his head, considering. “Perhaps some tea will ease you into sleep.” His hand was already on the sliding door, ready to move.

“That’d be nice, thanks,” Jim said, and Spock disappeared inside, leaving Jim alone. He leaned against the railing, the blanket protecting him against the cool air. He shouldn’t have but he couldn’t resist - bringing a corner of the blanket to his nose to bury his face in its softness. 

It smells like Spock, he thinks, unable to suppress the fact that he really likes how Spock smells. 

He instead tells himself he is just tired, not thinking straight. 

Spock returns minutes later, carrying two steaming cups. Jim accepts one with a quiet ‘thanks’, the ceramic warm in his palms. They sipped in silence, the tea’s properties warming him. The wind stirred again, and Jim broke the quiet.

“Couldn’t sleep either, Spock?”

Spock’s gaze remained on the horizon. “Vulcans require less sleep, though I admit there is something that is occupying my thoughts.”

Jim shifted closer, nudging Spock’s arm gently, his smile teasing.“Like what? I’m a good listener.”

Spock’s eyes flicked to him, a hesitation in their depths. “My parents are visiting. It is the first time in many years since I have seen my father.”

Jim’s eyebrows lifted. “How long?”

“Seven years,” Spock replied, his tone measured but carrying a weight Jim could feel.

“Seven years?” Jim’s voice rose, surprise and exasperation coloring his tone. “What makes a father not see his own son for so long?”

Spock’s fingers tightened slightly around his cup. “I joined Starfleet. A decision he still disapproves of. I was intended to accept admission into the Ni’Var Science Institute.”

Jim nodded, pieces clicking into place. He’d done enough digging on Vulcan culture—mostly to avoid embarrassing himself—The Vulcan Science Academy was no small deal. It was a pinnacle of achievement, even by Starfleet’s standards.

“He’s seriously still upset about you joining the Fleet? Hasn’t it been over ten years since you joined?”

Spock’s gaze returned to the ocean. “Vulcans can be quite rigid in our thinking. My time among humans had shown me this about myself. Being half-human, I have always been regarded as… less than among some of my people, especially my peers. Acceptance into the Ni’Var Science Institute would—”

“Would’ve shown him you’re just as good as any of them,” Jim finished, his voice firm. “But you’re—” He shook his head, frustration bubbling up. “You’re awarded as the best first officer Starfleet’s ever had. You’ve—”

“All things that are regarded as inconsequential to my father,” Spock cut in, his voice quiet but sharp enough to stop Jim mid-sentence.

Jim huffed, nudging Spock again, this time with a grin. “Well, you’re pretty badass to me.”

Spock’s lips twitched, “Your assessment is appreciated.”

Jim’s grin softened, his fingers tightening around the blanket, its delicate embroidery a reminder of Spock’s mother. 

“Are you close with your mother?” he asked, his tone lighter but curious.

Spock’s expression didn’t shift, but his eyes softened. “Yes. She has always been understanding. She has always encouraged me to do what I desired." Spock pauses, "Are you close with your mother?"

Jim snorts, staring into his tea. His other hand gripped on the blanket, tightened, the memory of Winona’s last call flashing through his mind—her voice sharp, cursing him for joining Starfleet. 

“She hates that I’m in Starfleet.” He mimicked her tone, high and biting. “‘You’re just gonna blow up out there like your dad.’”

Spock’s brow furrowed, that small wrinkle appearing. “Why does she believe that?”

Jim shrugged, “She always blamed Starfleet for taking him away from her.” 

The hypocrisy stung—Winona had used her own Starfleet assignments to escape, leaving Jim and Sam behind, their faces too much like their father’s. He hated the pity that crept in when he thought of her, the wish that things could’ve been different, that she could’ve been happy.

Maybe then he wouldn’t be so fucked up.

Spock’s voice pulled him back. “You spoke of a brother earlier. Do you speak frequently?”

Jim shook his head, taking a sip of tea to buy time. “No. Not really.”

Sam had run from their fractured family, racking up juvenile charges under fake names, scars from street fights marking his path. He’d stowed away, survived his own bout of collapsed colonies - though free of maniacal rule - and eventually carved out a life on Deneva.

They talked maybe once a month. Sam’s guilt over Jim being a survivor of Tarsus IV lingered in the silences. Maybe if Sam had taken him with him, things would have been different. Maybe if Sam had stayed, he wouldn’t have ended up on Tarsus - Maybe they both would have ended there, a thought he always dismissed. 

It was better that only one of them had to go through that hell.

Either way, he had forgiven his brother a long time ago - he wished things were different, but they weren’t. 

Jim got pictures of his nephew, Peter, now and then—usually after a new milestone. Sometimes he stared at those images, hoping Peter might break the cycle of their family’s depressive curse.

He glanced at Spock, the wind stirring his hair again, and he felt a strange comfort in the shared stillness. 

“Family can be complicated, huh?”

Spock inclined his head, “It would seem so.”

Their shared confessions hung in the air, like the lingering dampness after the storm.

“Jim, why did you not tell me about your relationship with Admiral Pike?” Spock asked, his voice even but piercing, cutting through the quiet.

Jim raked his mind for an answer, settling on the familiar shield of half-truths. “Pike was the first person to encourage me to do something with myself,” he said, his voice steady despite the embarrassment creeping in. “In an odd way, he’s the closest I have to a parental figure.” He scoffed, partly at himself, the admission feeling a bit pathetic. 

“Dr. McCoy—”

“Is more of an overbearing, loud-mouthed uncle,” Jim cut in, laughing lightly. “Bones feels responsible for me in a way that’s more like you than Pike, I’m sure.”

Spock considered him, his gaze steady in a way that made Jim feel exposed, as if every half-truth was laid bare, exposed, and plucked apart to get to the truthful center. 

“Actually, I believe Dr. McCoy and I do not share much in common on this matter, Jim."

The comment sent a prickle across Jim’s skin, sharper than the cool wind whipping around them. He wondered if he was mishearing things, his exhaustion blurring the edges of Spock’s words, making them feel heavier, more pointed.

Shaking off the thought, he flashed a grin to cover his uncertainty. “Maybe not,” he said, his tone light but his heart giving a quick thud.

Spock’s brow arched slightly, but he didn’t say anything. 

Continuing, he said, “Pike found me drunk in a bar near a shipyard and told me to join Starfleet,” he continued. “He didn’t offer soft platitudes; he dared me to be more than the smartest drunk loser in town. Said he knew my father, and I guess it’s hard not to look up to him.”

He paused, glancing at Spock, “And for some reason, I never looked into his crew—his first officer.” His lips quirked into a half-smile. “When I saw your name next to his on your profile, it… freaked me out a bit.”

There was truth in that. The fact that Pike had mentioned ‘talking’ about Jim in conversations with Spock had rattled him, too.

“Though I think you should be grilling him too,” Jim added, half-joking to deflect. “From the sound of it, he didn’t tell you about our relationship either.”

Spock’s eyes narrowed slightly, searching Jim’s face. “He did not. I will question him about it as well.” He paused, his tone softening. “Jim, I understand my position may carry certain expectations, but I wish you to understand that I value our friendship deeply.”

Right. Friendship.

He needed to get a grip. Especially when Spock was here, being open and vulnerable in his own way, and here Jim was, dodging full honesty.

He forced a grin, “Good to know, Spock. I’d hate to think I’m just your annoying sidekick.”

Spock’s lips twitched, “You are far from annoying, Jim.”

Jim’s heart skipped, but he covered it with a playful lean closer, his smirk sharp. “Now I get to ask you a question. Why do you care so much about what your dad thinks?”

A gust of wind swept between them, and he seemed to consider the question, his gaze distant.

“I regard my father as the embodiment of Vulcan discipline,” he said finally. “Is it odd for one to strive for their father’s approval?”

Jim shook his head, his thoughts drifting to his own father—gone, yet a shadow he chased through every decision he made at Starfleet.

“Not odd at all,” he said quietly. He spent years trying to live up to a legacy he barely understood, one he was pretty sure he put on himself.

“We have spoken a few times across comm calls. Our conversations are formal. Reserved.”

Jim nodded, sensing the unspoken strain. “How does your mom feel about all this?”

“She has encouraged us to speak on many occasions,” Spock replied, his tone softening. “She has voiced her displeasure with our dynamic, urging reconciliation.”

Jim let the silence settle, the kind that didn’t need filling. He stared into his empty cup, tea long gone.

“Well, my lack of parentals makes me the least qualified to give family advice,” he started, chuckling softly, “but it sounds like your mom’s got the right idea. Maybe you and your dad just need to… I don’t know, hash it out over some tea.”

Spock tilted his head, considering. “An unlikely scenario, but your perspective is noted.”

“Ahh, I think I see the problem,” He says, pointing slightly at Spock with his finger, “You both are just stubborn.” 

At Spock’s clear disapproval of the accusation, both brows lifting to his hairline, Jim lets out an honest laugh. 

“I mean...you know your dad better than me, but there's no way he's not proud of you. You're ridiculously cool." Jim says, feeling himself blush.

So much for not looking like a lovesick cadet, he thinks.

"Cool?" Spock asks, inclining his head.

"Yes, you basically told the Science Academy to kick rocks."

He watches as the corners of Spock's lips twitch, feeling the heat from the sight spread from his head to his toes. 

“I partly did so as they congratulated my success; admission to the institute despite my regressive genes.”

“Regressive genes?”

"Yes, my human biology. Specifically, they named my mother's heritage as a deficit."

Jim huffs at this, “Well, now I’m even more glad you told them to screw off.” 

Spock says nothing to this, and they both stand there looking out at the city. “Thank you, Jim,” Spock says, breaking the moment, his voice low but sincere.

Jim’s lips curved into a smile, “Hey, it’s about time I gave you a pep talk.” He yawned, stretching his shoulders, the blanket slipping slightly.

Spock tilted his head, noting the gesture. “It appears you have grown weary.”

“Right about that,” Jim admitted, another yawn escaping. 

“I’ll leave my cup in the sink, okay?” He turns, catching Spock’s slight nod, the Vulcan’s dark eyes tracking him with that quiet intensity that never fails to make goosebumps rise on his skin.

“Goodnight, Spock. Again.” He says with a small chuckle as he crosses through the door frame, stepping back into the living room. 

“Jim,” Spock’s voice carries from the open balcony door. Jim halts, looking back. Spock’s face remains impassive, as usual, but his eyes hold a searching intensity that makes him freeze in place. 

“Yes?” Jim asks, finding his voice after a moment.

Spock hesitates for a moment, then shakes his head slightly. “It is nothing. Rest well.” 

Spock doesn’t seem like a ‘never mind’ type of guy, but who was he to push someone to talk? He gives a small nod, a quiet smile, and heads down the hall.

The bed welcomed him, and this time, sleep felt closer. As he closed his eyes, the faint echo of Spock’s voice lingered, lulling him to sleep. 

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Jim woke slowly, the guest room’s dim light filtering through the shaded window on the opposite wall. For the first time in weeks, he felt rested—truly rested, like the weight of sleepless nights had finally lifted.

He stretched, the soft fabric of Spock’s shirt shifting against his skin, and glanced at the clock on the wall. His eyes widened. 1:06 PM.

“Shit,” he muttered, all but leaping out of bed, the sheets tangling briefly around his legs. He was out the bedroom door in seconds, feet hitting the cool floor, but he froze mid-step in the hallway.

Spock was in the living room, his back to Jim, mid-motion in an exercise that radiated effortless power. He was lifting a massive, gleaming metallic weight—easily twice the size of what any human could handle without strain—up and out in smooth arcs, his strength making the feat look as casual as breathing.

The fitted black t-shirt he wore was a tantalizing veil, concealing his physique while revealing just enough to ignite the imagination: the fabric stretched taut over his broad shoulders and a sculpted back, hinting at the coiled muscles beneath that remained dutifully hidden under his instructor's uniform.

With each precise rep, those hidden ridges and valleys flexed into sharp relief, the shirt clinging like a second skin, damp with a subtle sheen of exertion that only amplified his otherworldly allure—and made Jim's pulse kick up a notch.

Spock paused, clearly sensing him, and lowered the weight, his chest rising and falling slightly. He turned, his dark eyes meeting Jim’s with that steady intensity that always made Jim feel caught.

“Sorry,” Jim said, his voice rougher than intended. “I wasn’t trying to interrupt.”

“You did not,” Spock replied, his hand still gripping the weight.

Jim shifted, scratching the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to sleep all day.”

Spock tilted his head, setting the weight down with effortless grace. “I checked on you earlier. You appeared to be resting deeply, so I decided not to disturb you.”

Jim nearly choked on a laugh, the logic so perfectly Spock it was almost comical. “Yeah, guess I was out cold.” His heart pounded, and he tried to ignore the way his brain spun that simple act into something more.

Anyone would let someone sleep. It’s nothing.

“Perhaps I should have woken you?” Spock asked, one eyebrow quirking slightly.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Jim said quickly, waving a hand. “I just… didn’t want to overstay my welcome.”

Spock’s expression didn’t shift, “You would not be. You are always welcome in my home, Jim.”

He swallowed, focusing on the floor to avoid staring at the way Spock’s shirt hugged his torso. “Thanks, Spock. That’s… good to know.”

“I will take you home whenever you are ready,” Spock said smoothly, stepping away from the weight. Jim’s eyes betrayed him, catching the subtle flex of Spock’s arms as he moved. “But perhaps you would like something to eat first?”

“Nah, I’m not hungry, surprisingly,” Jim said with a chuckle, patting his stomach to keep his hands busy. “Guess I’m still full from that pasta.”

Spock nodded, his gaze lingering as if assessing him. “I could prepare tea, and we could discuss our research further."

Jim’s brain tripped over the offer. Is he trying to get me to stay? He shook the thought off, scolding himself. No, Spock was just being a good host. 

“No, it’s fine, Spock. I need to get started on some work for my classes.”

“As you wish.” Spock gestured toward his uniform, stacked neatly on a nearby chair. “I have washed your uniform, though you may keep my clothes if you prefer.”

Jim glanced at his uniform; its stiff fabric had nothing on the worn comfort of Spock’s training sweats. “Thank you. But If you don’t mind, I’ll stick with these,” he said, tugging at the sleeve of the shirt. “Cadet uniforms aren’t exactly cozy.”

Spock inclined his head, a faint twitch at the corner of his lips. “I do not mind. They suit you.”

Jim’s heart stuttered, and he forced a grin to cover it.

He doesn’t mind because they’re old clothes. Vulcans don’t get attached to stuff. It’s nothing. 

“Thanks. Might have to borrow from your wardrobe more often.”

“As stated before, you would be welcome to,” Spock said, his tone so matter-of-fact it made Jim buzz all over.

He cleared his throat, desperate to keep things light. “Alright, let me grab my stuff, and we can head out."

"Well, I'll let you finish your workout while I gather my things?" He suggests, and Spock lets him know he'll be done in a few minutes. 

He heads back to the guest bedroom, making a beeline to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. When he looks up at the mirror, he notices his face is beet red. 

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It had been a week since Jim left Spock’s place, their balcony conversation lingering like an itch he couldn’t scratch. He’d spent the rest of that day sprawled on his bed, staring at the ceiling, contemplating texting Gideon from the café. 

But the idea fizzled out, and he shoved his card into a far corner of his desk drawer. The restless haze followed him into Sunday, when he finally dragged himself out of bed to tackle his classwork. Even then, his focus wavered, Spock’s voice—steady, measured, yet heavy—echoing in his mind and overtaking his thoughts, a persistent pull that neither work nor sleep could fully dispel.

Now, in the volunteer center of the children’s clinic in the Academy’s medical wing, Jim felt truly like himself for the first time all week. The bright chaos of the playroom enveloped him, filled with giggling kids chasing a dozen squirming kittens from the neighboring animal shelter, their tiny paws skittering across the colorful mats as laughter bounced off the sterile yet welcoming walls.

He knelt on the rainbow rug, laughing as a tiny tabby swatted at his fingers, the kids’ giggles drowning out his thoughts.

During a pause in the fun, he slips his communicator out of his pocket, firing off a quick text to Spock: “Hey Spock, why don’t we meet at my place today?”

Spock’s reply was almost instant: “I find that acceptable, Jim.”

Jim grinned, typing back: “Hope you’re hungry—I’m making veggie pasta .”

“I’m curious to see what you whip up, Jim.”

He ignores the way Spock’s response sent a flutter through him, shaking his head as he responds: 

“Cool. Think you can meet me at the clinic north of the academy? I’m finishing up my volunteer hours with the kiddos.” He typed, his fingers quick over the screen. 

“I will be there shortly,” Spock responds. 

Jim tucks his communicator away, diving back into the fray of kittens and kids. He loved volunteering here, the way the children’s energy pulled him out of his own head. For a few hours, his mind didn’t wander to Tarsus, heartache, or to his fractured family.

The playroom door slid open, and Jim looked up to see Spock standing there, dark instructor uniform—standing out against the colorful chaos. 

“Hey, Spock,” Jim said, rising from the rug and stepping over the divider that kept the kittens contained.

Spock’s gaze swept the room, taking in the kids chasing fluffballs across the floor and some using the toys to play with the kittens.

“I was unaware of such occurrences.”

Jim chuckled, brushing fur off his uniform. “Yeah, well, I try to carve out a few hours a month to volunteer here.” 

He caught Spock’s gaze lingering on the kids, his face blank, but those eyes softening—a look Jim knew well. He gave Spock a light nudge.

“Don’t worry, these kids are headed home soon.”

Spock’s brow arched, his attention flicking to Jim. “Your care for their welfare is admirable.”

Jim shrugged, deflecting with a grin. “Just doing my part.” 

He pointed to a lone black kitten curled in the center of the rug, its green eyes glinting. “Look, that one looks like you.”

“It does not,” Spock said, the slightest wrinkle forming between his brows.

Jim laughed, scooping up the kitten, which squirmed in his hands, mewling at the disruption. 

Bones strolled over, skipping the small talk to scratch the kitten’s head in Jim’s hands. “Cute, isn’t he?” he teased, finally breaking his silence.

“Indeed,” Spock agrees, his gaze sliding to Jim, holding his gaze a beat too long. 

Jim’s heart did a quick flip, and he shoved the kitten into Bones’ hands, who kept up his baby-talk cooing.

You’re acting delusional, Kirk. Reading into nothing. 

“The team’s gotta get the kids back to their unit,” McCoy says, nodding as the staff begins ushering the children out, their groans filling the air. 

He watches as Bones leaves with them, and as the staff from the animal sanctuary catch the kittens to put them back in their carriers. 

“Let’s wait for Bones outside.” He says when the team's halfway done. Hands in his pockets, gripping one of the handkerchiefs Spock had given him. 

They stepped into the evening breeze, the campus bustling with cadets eagerly headed to their weekend plans. Jim leaned against the clinic’s exterior, the air crisp, hitting his cheeks. 

“You got any plans for Halloween?” he asks, glancing at Spock.

Spock tilted his head. “I am not one to partake in such festivities.”

Jim’s laugh rang out, bright in the open air. “Never got dragged to a ship holiday party by Pike?”

“He succeeded on several occasions, though the crew grew accustomed to my early departures from such events,” Spock replied, his tone dry.

Jim snorted, picturing Spock surrounded by garish decorations. 

“Do you have any plans for the holiday, Jim?”

“I’ll be working,” Jim said, then corrected himself. “Well, not the whole night.”

Spock’s brow arched. “I was under the impression you only worked shifts at the library.”

“Yeah, that’s my main job, but bartending’s extra dough.” Jim grinned. “I bartend two weekends a month.”

“Perhaps I could visit your workplace, and we could spend time together after your shift,” Spock suggested.

Jim froze, caught off guard by the idea. “You sure? It’s a bar, and we only serve those alcoholic, saccharine beverages you’ve mentioned.” He chuckled, echoing Spock’s words. “It’ll be nothing but loud music and skimpy costumes,” he added, smirking.

“Skimpy?” Spock asks, his brow creasing slightly.

Jim laughed, deciding not to explain. Better to let Spock figure that one out himself. “If you’re up for it, it’ll be fun. I usually end up alone on Halloween since Bones is always working.”

“More reason for us to spend the holiday together. I would prefer you not be alone,” Spock says.

He forces himself to ignore how Spock’s words sent a flutter through his chest. “Alright then, just don’t comment on my costume.”

“Costume?” Spock asked, his brow arching once more. 

“Yeah, the girls at the bar voted on a group staff costume. You got one?”

Spock said nothing, but his expression was almost comically puzzled.

Jim laughed, pulling out his communicator to send Spock the digital flyer for the event. “It’s mandatory—everyone’s gotta wear one to get in.” He watched as Spock’s eyes scanned the screen, his eyebrows rising in an almost hilarious way.

“What are you two yammering about?” Bones asked, strolling up as he tugged at the collar of his uniform, fresh from the clinic.

“Spock’s joining me for some Halloween fun,” Jim said as they started walking toward the shuttle waiting area.

“Oh, this’ll be rich,” Bones said, throwing his head back with a laugh. “Now I’m wishing I wasn’t stuck working.”

He rolls his eyes at Bones and flashes Spock a quick grin, his pulse quickening and cheeks burning, under the familiar intensity of Spock’s enigmatic stare, like always. 

Chapter Text

The holo-tv blared a dramatic scene from the dimly lit confines of McCoy and Jim’s living room, where a cluttered coffee table littered with half-empty mugs and padds fought for space amid the glow of city lights filtering through the rain-streaked window. 

A team of surgeons scrambled in a tense operating room, working feverishly to save a teenager trapped inside a massive block of cement. 

Tools clattered, monitors beeped frantically, and the lead surgeon shouted instructions to chip away the stone without harming the patient, whose life hung by a thread. 

The screen flickered slightly, casting erratic shadows across the couch where Jim sprawled, his legs stretched out, and McCoy slouched beside him, fully engrossed. 

The only sound besides the show’s swelling soundtrack was Bones’ occasional grumble about ancient surgical techniques, punctuated by the distant horns of city traffic seeping through the walls.

Once a month, when Bones had a night off from the hospital's sterile madness, they’d hole up like this in their modest apartment, devouring grilled cheese sandwiches—crispy on the outside, gooey with melted cheddar—and Jim’s homemade tomato soup, simmered with fresh basil.

The rich, tangy aroma still hung in the air, mingling with the faint earthy scent of Bones' half-forgotten herbal tea steeping on the side table.

Jim usually teased Bones mercilessly about his obsession with the show, mocking the over-the-top drama with exaggerated gasps, but tonight, his mind was elsewhere—tangled up in dark eyes and a certain Vulcan’s even voice.

Halfway through the episode, Jim’s resolve cracks. “I may have… a small crush on Spock,” he blurts, barely audible over the show’s dramatic crescendo.

Bones stops mid-chew, grilled cheese crumbs clinging to his scruffy chin, eyes wide. Jim might’ve laughed if his heart wasn’t pounding in his throat.

“May have?” Bones swallowed, grabbing his soup bowl with a skeptical smirk. “That’s like saying a warp core breach may cause a hiccup.” He eyed Jim up and down, “When you planning on giving him his sweats back?” he asked, chuckling.

“Yes, may have,” Jim shot back. He fidgeted with his plate’s edge, avoiding Bones’ gaze, but his eyes landed on Spock’s sweatpants clinging to his legs.

His face heated. Maybe he wasn’t hiding it well.

Bones snorted, leaning back against the couch's sagging cushions. “What’s the big deal? He’s head over heels for you, probably already picking out colors for the wedding.”

“Bones! Spock’s not into me,” Jim protested, voice rising, as he sets his plate down on the coffee table with a clatter that rattles the nearby stack of medical journals Bones is always leaving around.

“Not yet,” Bones teases, waggling his brows.

Jim starts to stand, ready to bolt and drop the conversation, but Bones grabs his forearm, tugging him back to the couch. 

“Honestly, Jim,” he says, laughter fading, eyes serious under the glow of the overhead lamp. “You really can’t see that the hobgoblin’s got it bad for you?”

Jim sank back, mind spinning. He’d been replaying Spock’s behavior all week—those lingering looks, the way Spock stood just a little too close, the shift in his voice when Jim had mentioned Gideon at the café. 

Spock’s jealousy had been palpable. But gauging Spock was like reading a star chart in a storm.

Jim had dodged him last Friday, claiming a stomachache, too nervous to face him in the engineering lab where the lights always seemed to accentuate Spock's unshakable poise.

“Even if he does, Bones, it doesn’t change anything,” Jim said, quieter now, staring at the holo-tv where a nurse was tearfully confessing to a comatose patient, her holographic tears shimmering like stardust.

“That’s the part that matters most,” Bones countered, setting his bowl down with a frown on the cluttered table, nearly knocking over a forgotten hypospray from his last shift.

“How do you even know he's interested in me?” Jim asks, skeptical, crossing his arms over his chest as if to shield himself from the possibility.

Bones leans forward, pointing his spoon for emphasis, the utensil still dripping with soup that leaves a small red spot on the couch arm.

“For one, he’s not subtle. Vulcans don’t just stand that close to anyone. You know their deal—personal space is sacred, reserved for family or partners.”

He arched an eyebrow. “And don’t even get me started on that jealous streak over what’s-his-name at the café. Then there’s how he eyed me when we first met during your drunken sob-fest—piercing, like he was scoping out threats. Kept it up until his first visit to our apartment for that data chip, probably because he figured out I wasn’t into you.”

Jim scoffs, palms sweating, face burning as he glances at the window where the city's skyline seems to pulse, mirroring his heartbeat. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” Bones presses, undeterred, his doctor’s instincts kicking in as he gestures emphatically. “You can’t deny something’s going on, Jim. His behavior is screaming it. He calls you pretty and smart every chance he gets.” 

Jim shook his head, clinging to denial. “Spock’s never called me pretty or smart or whatever you’re implying.”

Bones flicked his spoon with a light chuckle. “Maybe not in those precise words, but that Vulcan’s feelings shine brighter than a supernova.” He pauses to slurp another spoonful of soup. “I’m a doctor, Jim—I know these things. Xenophysiology’s my wheelhouse; Vulcans bury their emotions, but their bodies don’t lie. That green blood of his probably boils a little hotter near you.”

“Oh, really, Doctor?” Jim scoffs, sarcasm masking his nerves.

“Yes, really. His vitals would spike if I hooked him up to a tricorder right now. Elevated copper levels in his blood, suppressed adrenaline surges. Classic signs of infatuation, buried under all that restraint.”

“Whatever, Bones,” Jim shoots back, though his voice wavers as he picks at a loose thread on one of the couch cushions.

“Don’t whatever me. Vulcans don’t do casual,” Bones says, setting his spoon down and taking another bite into his sandwich, chewing thoughtfully, crumbs tumbling onto his shirt. “Most are bonded by age eight. Spock’s not married, thank God, or he wouldn’t be trailing you like a lovesick dog.”

“You’re watching too much of this,” Jim mutters, gesturing at the holo-tv, where the surgeons were now celebrating a miraculous recovery, the room's ambient lighting shifting to a triumphant blue hue.

Bones laughs, “Maybe. But Vulcans take romance seriously—strictly monogamous. Spock’s not just flirting for fun.”

“If he was into me—and that’s a big if, because he’s not,” Jim says, ignoring Bones’ eye roll, “it still wouldn’t matter.” He stares at the screen, dodging Bones’ scrutiny, the distant wail of a siren outside amplifying his unease.

“Spock’s perfect. I’m not.” He sighs, “Vulcans value harmony; I’d just disrupt it.”

“Jim—” Bones starts, voice softening, setting his sandwich down to lean in closer.

“No, really,” Jim cuts in, words tumbling out as he gestures wildly, “He’s kind, funny in that dry way, and so damn smart. He’s one of the few people who doesn’t make me feel like garbage for being… broken.”

“Jim,” Bones tried again, but Jim shakes his head, dodging the inevitable pep talk, his eyes fixed on the flickering holo-screen as if it held the answers.

“If we dated, he’d see how messed up I am because of…” Jim says, his voice breaking. “Then the one person who feels right for me wouldn’t want me either. And I couldn’t handle losing him as a friend too—or the project, the late nights in the lab, all gone because I couldn’t rein in my feelings.”

Bones leans in closer, gentler now, his hand resting on Jim's shoulder with a reassuring squeeze.

“You’re sounding like someone who’s just guessing, Jim. And as your doctor and more importantly your friend, I’m telling you: that’s hypochondria talking. Spock’s seen glimpses of your ‘mess’ already—the alleyway incident, your unhealthy work ethic—and he’s still orbiting you like a moon. Vulcans don’t invest without intent; their neurology wires them for deep bonds. You think he’d stick around if he didn’t see the strength under all that self-doubt?”

“My point is,” Jim says,  “He’s too perfect. Unobtainable. We date, he sees the real me, and it’s over.”

Bones arched an eyebrow. “What about Gary? You thought you could bare it all to him, every side of you. Why not Spock?”

“That was different,” Jim says flatly, his gaze dropping to the floor where a stray crumb has fallen. “My past is too ugly for someone like Spock. He’s all about balance. I’d throw it off, and he’d logically decide I’m not worth the trouble.”

“And besides,” Jim adds, “Gary made it clear what he thought of my nightmares, of my…other habits.” He pauses, “He only acted like he cared while I was sleeping with him.”

“That bastard,” Bones grumbles, “You and ugly don’t belong in the same sentence. I bet Spock’d agree. And as for balance, Vulcans thrive on challenge; it’s in their katra or whatever they call it. You’re not a disruption, Jim; you’re the variable that makes his equation worth solving.”

“Whatever,” Jim mutters again, more resigned, sinking deeper into the couch as the show's credits begin to roll. 

No point getting worked up over something that wasn’t happening.

“I like being his friend,” Jim says, grabbing his soup from the table, swirling the remnants with his spoon. “Spock’s a great friend, and I don’t want to ruin something that’s still relatively new. Pushing for more could make everything fall apart.”

“I bet you’d love being more than friends,” Bones said with a smirk. “And he definitely would.” He sighed, unconvinced. “So, what? You’re just gonna dance around him? How long till this little crush of yours fizzles out?”

Jim raked a hand through his hair, exasperated. “I don’t know, Bones. Just drop it. It’s not like Spock’s said anything straight to me about… this.”

“So, you’re pinning it all on Spock?” Bones groaned, scooping up more soup. “Lord, you two are gonna turn my hair gray.”

“If he liked me, he’d say something,” Jim shot back. “Which is why I told you—he’s not into me.”

Bones set his bowl down with a sharp clink, his tone turning serious. “Jim, if you’d let me hook you both up to a monitor next time he’s here, I’d prove it. Your biometrics would sync like a finely tuned warp drive. That’s not just friendship—that’s potential.”

⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚

Jim and Spock sit at a rectangular cluttered table in the dimly lit engineering lab of Starfleet Academy's auxiliary research wing, a cavernous space vibrating with the low whir of cooling fans and the faint beep of diagnostic equipment scattered across the metal workbench. 

Surrounding them are flickering holo-displays projecting their project notes on the colonies’ fluctuating water system—intricate webs of glowing blue and green graphs with data points hovering in the air like ethereal constellations, detailing pressure variances, flow rates, and hydraulic simulations. 

The room's lights are dim, causing the displays to cast shadows on the walls lined with shelves of diagnostic tools, coiled cables, and half-assembled prototypes, while the faint scent of ozone from the holo-emitters mingles with the metallic tang of the lab's recycled air. 

Beyond the reinforced windows, the campus grounds stretch out under a clear afternoon sky, dotted with cadets hurrying between classes.

Jim’s leg bounces under the table, his fingers tapping the edge of his padd in a restless rhythm that echoes softly against the hard surface. He’s knocked their knees together twice already, each time earning a raised brow from Spock and a hurried apology from Jim. 

His focus is fraying— the relentless numbers swirling in the holograms, the subtle warmth of the room from the overworked processors—it’s all churning his stomach into knots, making it harder to ignore the way Spock's composed presence seems to fill and take over the space.

“These readings are still off,” Jim mutters, scrolling through the data on his padd, his brow furrowed in concentration. “If we don’t stabilize the output, the whole system could collapse under peak demand.”

“It is alright, Jim,” Spock interrupts, his voice an anchor, cutting through the lab's ambient noise like a calibrated signal. 

He leans closer, pointing to a specific graph on Jim’s padd with a slender finger, his sleeve brushing Jim’s arm in a light touch that sends an unexpected spark up Jim's skin. 

“The fluctuations are within acceptable parameters. We can adjust the regulator settings to compensate. Your concern is noted, but unwarranted.”

Jim exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, mussing it further into disarray. “Yeah, okay. You’re right. I just… don’t want to screw this up. If it doesn’t stabilize…” He trails off, his leg bouncing faster, the motion vibrating the table slightly and causing a nearby stylus to roll toward the edge.

Spock tilts his head, “You are not ‘screwing this up. Your diligence is commendable. It is one of your more admirable qualities—your ability to anticipate variables with such passionate precision.”

Jim’s lips quirk into a small grin, the knot in his stomach loosening just a fraction, though his heart gives a traitorous flutter at the compliment. 

“Thanks, Spock. Appreciate it. You always know what to say to keep me from spiraling.”

Spock’s response is a subtle nod, but then, unexpectedly, he rests his hand on Jim’s knee to steady its restless motion. The contact is firm, and the heat of Spock’s palm sears through Jim’s uniform pants like a plasma conduit, startling him. 

His breath catches, eyes widening as he looks down at the hand—long fingers splayed just enough to convey intent—then up at Spock’s impassive face, where a faint glint lingers in those dark eyes.

“Damn, Spock, you’re hot,” Jim blurts, the words tumbling out before he can stop them, his mind scrambling to process the warmth radiating from Spock's touch.

His face flushes crimson as the double meaning hits him like a photon torpedo. “I-I mean, your hand, it’s… warm. Like, really warm. Vulcans run hotter than humans, huh?”

Spock’s eyebrow arches, “Does the temperature of my touch bother you, Jim?” he asks, his voice dipping lower, a subtle resonance that vibrates through the air between them, making Jim's pulse spike.

“Nah, your touch doesn’t bother me,” Jim spews, too quickly, his grin lopsided and flustered as he realizes he’s dug himself deeper. He laughs it off, while his heart races like an overclocked engine. 

It's just Spock being helpful, steadying him like he’s sure he’d do for any friend. 

No big deal. 

“It’s, uh, fine. More than fine. You know.” His pulse hammers, but he forces a casual shrug.

Spock regards him for a long moment, his hand still on Jim’s knee, the heat a grounding point amplifying the charged silence. 

“I am glad.” he says, his tone measured.  “It is gratifying to know I can provide such equilibrium in moments of unrest. Your presence, Jim, has a similar effect, though it is uniquely stimulating.” His gaze holds Jim’s, a faint curve at his lips suggesting intent.

Jim’s heart lurches, his mind reeling.

Stimulating? Just Spock’s way of describing teamwork, right?

Jim clears his throat, trying to regain his footing, his cheeks still burning as he gestures vaguely at the holo-displays.

“Right. Uh, anyway.” He swallows hard, forcing his mind back to the project. “Let’s finish this up before I knock over half the lab.”

They dive back into the calculations, the silence comfortable, broken only by the soft chimes of the holo-interface. Spock’s adjustments to the regulator settings are methodical, his fingers moving deftly over the controls and Jim can’t help but admire, stealing glances at the line of Spock’s jaw, and the focused tilt of his head. 

The numbers align, graphs stabilizing into harmonious green lines, and Jim leans back, stretching his arms with a relieved sigh that echoes in the lab’s vast space.

“Oh, almost forgot,” Jim says, reaching into his bag slung over the chair’s back, pulling out two glass containers with a clink. 

He slides them across the table to Spock, who examines them with immediate curiosity, his fingers tracing the containers’ edges as if analyzing a new specimen.

Jim chuckles softly, “It’s stuffed peppers in the bigger one—vegetarian, of course, with quinoa and herbs. The smaller one’s sugar cookies, just popped those in the oven this morning.” He grins, though a faint blush creeps up his cheeks. “I always make something festive for Halloween, wrap up a plate for Bones since our schedules don’t sync much. Figured you might like some too.”

He doesn’t mention how he’d stood in his apartment kitchen at 2 a.m., carefully measuring ingredients, his heart racing at the thought of giving Spock something he made.

 It’s no big deal, he tells himself—he’s cooked for Spock before, just friendly gestures.

But the way his stomach flips says otherwise.

Spock’s gaze lingers on the containers of cookies, his eyebrow arching slightly as he took in the ghost and bat shapes dusted with powdered sugar. “Your enthusiasm for this holiday is evident in these preparations, Jim,” he observed, his tone neutral yet observant. “The thematic designs suggest a particular fondness.”

“Oh yeah, guess I’m making up for lost time,” Jim said with a laugh, then, without thinking, added, “Didn’t really get to celebrate as a kid.”

Before Jim could mentally kick himself for the slip, Spock tilted his head. “Why not?”

Jim’s mind flashed to memories of Frank—shitty, absent, without a paternal bone in his body—and later, Kodo’s stern insistence that he and the others leave their previous frivolous traditions behind in their new home, their so-called paradise. 

He quickly blurted, “Family just wasn’t one for it. I guess that’s why I’m so into it now.”

Spock’s gaze lifts from the containers, piercing through Jim with an intensity that felt like a sensor scan. 

“You are very kind, Jim,” he says, his voice low making Jim’s breath hitch. “I anticipate trying these. Your thoughtfulness is most appreciated, and I find myself intrigued by the care you invest in such gestures. It is a quality I find increasingly compelling.” His eyes held Jim’s for a beat longer, the faintest tilt of his head suggesting more than gratitude.

Jim’s heart races, his mind scrambling to dismiss the warmth in Spock’s tone as just politeness.

He’s just being nice about the food, that’s all.

“Uh, yeah, no problem,” he manages, his grin shaky. “Hope you like them. Let me know if the peppers need more kick next time.”

He busies himself with his padd, pretending to check a notification to hide the flush creeping up his neck.

“Hey, also thanks for shifting our meeting to today, Spock,” Jim adds, his tone grateful. “Thursdays aren’t our usual, but I’ve gotta head to the bar early tomorrow for holiday setup. My boss has us prepping like it’s a red alert.”

Spock inclines his head, his dark eyes meeting Jim’s with unflinching steadiness. “It was logical to accommodate. Your schedule is of importance, and our collaboration benefits from flexibility.” He pauses, then adds, “My friend, Nyota, she is familiar with one of your coworkers, a cadet named Gaila, who provided insight into the lounge’s atmosphere and its… sartorial expectations.”

Jim smiles softly, the tension in his chest easing at the familiar name. “Yeah, we work together most of my shifts. Small world.”

He chuckles, picturing Gaila’s infectious energy, her teasing grin likely fueling Nyota’s stories about the lounge’s chaos.

Spock nods, his expression unreadable but his eyes glinting with interest. “Indeed. Gaila’s accounts, as relayed by Nyota, suggest a dynamic environment. I am intrigued to experience it, particularly given the influence of your presence within it.”

Jim chuckles, leaning forward on his elbows, “So, about tomorrow night,” he starts, his tone lighter, though his heart’s still racing from Spock’s earlier words and the lingering warmth of his hand. 

“You sure you want to show up at my workplace? It’s Halloween, Spock. It’s gonna be a zoo—costumes, music, people acting like lunatics. We could meet up later, do something low-key.”

Spock considers this, his hands folding neatly on the table, “I have already obtained the necessary items for my costume,” he says, his voice even but with a trace of determination that spikes Jim’s curiosity. “Nyota was insistent on the details.”

Jim’s eyebrows shoot up, a grin spreading despite the nervous twist in his gut. “I can’t wait to see it. What’s it gonna be? No, wait, don’t tell me—I want the full effect.”

Spock’s eyebrow arches a glint in his eyes, sharp and knowing, as if calculating every variable in Jim’s reaction.

“I am eager to observe your response to my attire. I, in turn, find myself intrigued by what you will choose to wear." His voice lowers, each syllable deliberate, landing like a pulse against Jim’s racing heart.

Jim’s face flushes, his mind flashing to the bunny costume—tight black pants, a fluffy tail, long satin opera gloves —waiting in his closet.

He shifts in his seat, hyper-aware of Spock staring at him, waiting for a response. “It’s gonna be something alright. Curiosity’s gonna get you in trouble, Spock,” he teases, his voice shaky, fingers fidgeting with his padd as his heart pounds.

“Perhaps,” Spock replies, his tone dry but his gaze lingering, pinning Jim in place. “However, I find the prospect of trouble to be an acceptable risk. I anticipate it will be most illuminating.” He says, sending a shiver down Jim’s spine.

Jim’s laugh is half-choked, his leg is bouncing again as he tries to dispel the tension coiling in his chest. 

Illuminating? Just Spock’s curiosity, nothing more. 

He shakes his head, grinning despite the flush creeping up his neck. “Okay, fine. Halloween it is.”

Spock inclines his head, “I shall endeavor to maintain my composure, Jim."

They pack up their notes, and Jim powers down his padd, the holo-displays flickering brighter before dimming, winking out one by one, leaving the lab in a quieter hum. 

Jim’s still grinning as they part ways, his mind a chaotic split between the stabilized water system, Gaila’s connection to Spock’s friend Nyota, and the thrilling, nerve-wracking thought of Spock seeing him in that damn bunny costume tomorrow night.

Jim’s not sure whether to dread or crave what Halloween will bring.

⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚

The lounge is a kaleidoscope of Halloween chaos, transformed into a vibrant, otherworldly carnival. 

Orange and purple string lights drape across the ceiling, casting a festive, flickering glow over velvet-cushioned booths and high-top tables decorated with carved, intricate pumpkins. Holographic ghosts shimmer in the corners, their translucent forms drifting lazily through the air.

A massive chandelier, shaped like a grinning jack-o'-lantern, pulses with soft amber light, while fog machines tucked beneath the bar spill wispy tendrils across the polished floor. 

The air is filled with a pulsing synth beat, not quite deafening but loud enough to force voices to rise in competition. A small food menu—sliders with glowing edible glitter, spicy wings dusted with crimson seasoning, and vegan skewers threaded with vibrant, bioluminescent vegetables—flies off the counter as fast as Jim can plate it.

Jim, in his bunny costume, moves like a whirlwind behind the bar. The outfit is a bold departure from the women’s version: low-slung, tight black pants cling to his hips, the glossy fabric catching the lounge’s lights, with a fluffy white tail pinned just above his backside. 

A sleek black satin choker, accented with a delicate bow, encircles his neck, adding a touch of elegance to the ensemble. Perched atop his head are long, velvety black bunny ears, styled to complement his hair, which is swept into a neat tousled side, strands artfully falling to frame his face. 

His bare chest shines under the neon glow, his nipple ring and costume jewelry of silver chain necklaces glinting as he works. Long, black satin gloves sheath his arms, the fabric ruffling slightly as he slides beers and mixes Cardassian Sunrises—vibrant orange drinks with a swirl of red grenadine.

His feet ache in his boots, and the relentless pace of orders has his hands trembling slightly as he checks the clock: forty minutes left of his shift, and he’s free.

He slings out a few more orders before his attention is drawn to the door, as Spock enters, cutting through the crowd.

His presence is sharp and commanding, and others quickly part to let him through. 

Spock’s costume is a flowing black tunic with billowing sleeves, laced loosely at the chest, revealing a hint of his lean torso. Tight pants accentuate his lithe frame, hugging his legs with precision.

A wide belt cinches his waist, a scabbard hanging from it, the fake rapier in his gloved hand gleaming with a sharp, poised edge. Sturdy, polished boots rise to mid-calf, grounding his elegant stance. A black hair covering, drapes over his head, leaving his pointed ears uncovered—much to Jim’s quiet appreciation.

A black mask obscures the upper half of his face, lending an air of mystery to his typically stoic demeanor.

Spock takes a seat at the far end of the bar, his posture impeccable, the mask glinting under the flickering bright lights.

Jim pauses, the cocktails in his shaker momentarily forgotten, as he stares admiringly at the way Spock carries himself. 

Their eyes meet, and Spock’s eyes linger—on his face, his bare chest, maybe lower. Jim’s mind scrambles.

He’s not checking me out. And he's definitely not staring at the nipple ring. Get it together, Kirk.

He forces a grin, walking over and leaning over the bar, “Hey, nice getup. You look like you’re about to duel someone for a lady’s honor.”

Spock’s eyebrow arches above the mask, “My friend Nyota selected it. She insisted I view the source material. Are you familiar with the film?”

Jim wipes a glass, his grin widening, though his cheeks warm under Spock’s steady gaze. “Yeah, I know the one. Suits you. Protective, swashbuckling, all that.” 

He’s teasing, but the truth slips through—Spock is the protective type, and the thought sends a thrill down Jim’s spine.

Spock tilts his head, his eyes tracing Jim’s costume with deliberate slowness. “Your attire is… unconventional.”

Jim laughs, gloved fingers tugging at the choker. “Yeah, well, the girls wanted us all to be ‘sexy bunnies.’ Convinced our boss, Tony, it’d sell more drinks."

Before Spock can respond, Gaila bounces over, her green satin bodice sparkly and bright under the lights, the plunging neckline barely containing her curves.

Her own bunny costume mirrors the women’s classic style: a strapless corset, stockings, a fluffy tail pinned to the back, and long satin gloves. Her long curly red hair is swept up into an updo, and a pair of velvet emerald-green bunny ears perched atop her head.

She leans over the bar, placing dirty glasses in the sink, and she casts a sidelong glance at Spock. “We wanted the guys to match us,” she says, her voice teasing, her eyes flicking to Jim’s bare chest. “But Jim and the boys said they weren't about to crush his balls in our version.”

Jim snorts, catching the faint twitch of Spock’s lips, “Yeah, no way,” he shoots back, rolling his eyes. “These pants are tight enough as it is.”

Gaila laughs, her gaze sliding to Spock, her tone turning coy, “I think you’d look cute in a blue one, Jim. Don’t you, Professor?” She leans closer to Spock, her fingers brushing the edge of the bar, “Or maybe you prefer Jim’s look just the way it is?”

Spock’s head tilts, his masked eyes narrowing slightly, as he meets her gaze head-on. “I find Jim’s attire adequate for the occasion,” he says, each word precise.

The air between them crackles, Gaila’s smile sharpening as if she’s scored a point.

Jim, oblivious to the undercurrent, feels his face heat up. “Glad you agree,” he mutters, shooting Gaila a look that screams knock it off. 

Her expression reminds him of Bones, that same knowing smirk when they’d talked about his not-so-subtle crush on Spock.

The lounge’s lights bounce off the bar area, and Jim prays they mask the flush creeping up his neck.

Gaila’s grin widens, undeterred. “There’s a club nearby that gives students their first drink free. That includes cadets, too, as long as you flash your ID.”

She pulls her communicator from the cubby beneath the register, her eyes darting back to Spock. “I’ll send you the details, Jim. Maybe we can dance later.” 

She winks, her gaze lingering on Spock for a beat longer before she laughs and saunters off to one of her tables, her tail bouncing with each step.

Jim shakes his head, sliding an ice-water across to Spock. “About thirty-five minutes left on my shift. You good with hanging out? This place is loud. I know it’s probably a lot for you.”

Spock sips the water, his gloved fingers steady around the glass, unperturbed by the chaos. “I am capable of enduring the auditory environment, Jim. Proceed with your duties.”

Jim nods, flashing a grin before diving back into the fray—pouring shots, dodging flailing costume capes, and shouting orders over the pulsing music. The crowd’s relentless, but he steals glances at Spock, who sits calmly.

During a rare lull, Jim ducks behind the bar and pulls his communicator from the staff drawer, ignoring Tony’s no-device rule. A quick scroll through his timeline, and his gut clenches. 

There’s Gary, smirking in a matching vampire costume with some chiseled hottie, fangs glinting under club lights. Gary, who always shot down Jim’s Halloween plans, who scoffed at his couples’ costume ideas. The nerve of him, out there living it up. 

Jim’s blood boils, and he slams the communicator back into the drawer, the thud louder than intended. He glances up, and Spock’s watching him, eyes sharp and unreadable behind the mask.

Great. He definitely saw that.

Jim forces a smile, scanning the lounge for empty glasses or waving hands, trying to shake off the sting. 

The night drags on, and Jim’s patience frays. 

A group of four guys in the corner, sprawled across the raised platform section with its low, cushioned seats and glowing skull-shaped lanterns, has been a headache all night. Their tacky skeleton costumes—black jumpsuits with glow-in-the-dark bones painted on—clash with their loud, drunken behavior. 

Their leader, a burly guy with a fake skull necklace swinging from his neck, keeps tossing sleazy comments Jim’s way—about his tail, his “hop,” his bare chest. Jim grits his teeth, plastering on a smile as he collects their credits.

As he leans over to clear their table, the leader 'accidentally' drops his fork. It clatters to the floor, and Jim knows the trick—drunk guys pulling the old “oops, dropped something” routine to get handsy. He stifles an eye-roll, bending to pick it up, bracing for the inevitable.

But before the leader’s hand can graze him, there’s a blur of black.

Spock is there, his gloved hand clamped around the leader’s wrist, twisting it just enough to make the man yelp. The other three skeletons lurch to their feet, shouting, but freeze as Spock’s eyes sweep over them. 

“You will refrain from touching him,” Spock says, his voice low and dangerous, each word a warning.

The leader, red-faced and snarling, tries to yank his arm free. “Get off me!” He swings his other fist, clumsy but forceful. Spock sidesteps effortlessly and twists the man’s wrist harder, forcing him to his knees with a pained grunt. 

The crowd around them quiets, heads turning, the music suddenly too loud in the tense silence.

“Spock, let him go!” Jim shouts.

One of the skeletons lunges, grabbing Spock’s shoulder, but Spock pivots, using the man’s momentum to shove him back into his seat. The leader, still on his knees, swings wildly again, clipping Spock’s side. Spock doesn’t flinch.

Tony emerges from the crowd, flanked by two burly security guards wielding flashlights that sweep over Spock and the skeleton crew, casting stark beams across the scene.

“Gentlemen, what’s going on?” Tony’s voice slices through the tension, steady and authoritative, his gaze shifting between Jim, Spock, and the trembling skeleton leader and his rattled companions.

“Nothing, Tony,” Jim starts, his voice tight, but Spock interrupts, his tone clipped.

“This patron was about to touch Jim inappropriately,” Spock says, his grip on the man’s wrist easing slightly but remaining firm.

The leader attempts to protest, his words a slurred jumble. “I wasn’t—” He cuts off with a yelp as Spock’s hand tightens again.

“Enough.” Tony raises a hand, his tone cutting through the air to halt the exchange. “Let him go. Now, please.”

Spock releases the leader’s wrist, and the man stumbles back, cradling his arm and muttering curses under his breath. The security guards swiftly herd the group toward the exit, their glow-in-the-dark bones flickering as they disappear into the crowd.

"Ok, everyone, back to partying!" Tony shouts, and the DJ kicks in with a quick, upbeat track, reclaiming the crowd’s energy.

Tony jerks his head toward the backroom, and Jim follows, throwing a quick glance at Spock. “Go back to the bar,” he says. Spock nods, and Jim turns, trailing Tony to the back.

In the backroom, harsh bulbs cast a stark light over two vanities lined against one wall, their mirrors streaked with makeup smudges. A row of lockers stands opposite, and Jim heads to his, pulling out a tight black long-sleeve to layer over his costume. He tugs it on, the bunny ears tilting as he adjusts them with a frustrated scowl.

Tony crosses his arms, his bald head shining under the glare. “Jim, you know the rules. No jealous girlfriends—especially boyfriends—starting fights in my lounge.” He mutters.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Jim snaps, his cheeks flushing hot. “He’s just a friend. Not used to sleazy customers, that’s all.”

Tony snorts, unconvinced. “Jealous friend, then. Either way, don’t bring him around anymore. First and final warning.” He turns to leave but pauses at the door, his voice lowering. “By the way, I’ve been in this business long enough to know ‘not my boyfriend’ is bullshit.” With that, he’s gone.

Jim stands there, face burning. Tony’s words dig under his skin, and he’s not sure why. Shaking it off, he smooths his shirt, adjusts the choker, the bunny tail still bobbing as he moves.

Back at the bar, he finds Spock, his mask glinting under the jack-o'-lantern chandelier. The music thumps on, the crowd over the earlier scuffle.

Jim leans in close, “Ready to get out of here? There’s this spot I know. Open late, outdoor BBQ. They’ve got a ton of vegetarian options.”

Spock nods, his eyes steady behind the mask. “That would be agreeable, Jim.”

⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚

The hovercar glides through the city, its sleek interior aglow with the soft blue pulse of the dashboard.

Outside, lights from towering skyscrapers streak past, blending with the blur of costumed pedestrians—witches in glowing capes, androids with flickering LED implants, and a rowdy group of civilians in makeshift Starfleet uniforms, staggering and laughing as they weave through the streets.

Jim slouches back in the passenger seat, Spock driving with his usual precision, his half-mask now resting on the console between them, revealing his chiseled features under the flicker of passing streetlights.

“I hope I have not caused issues with your employer,” Spock says, eyes fixed on the road, his gloved hands steady on the wheel.

“Nah, you haven’t,” Jim replies with a chuckle, aiming to lighten the mood. “Though you’re basically banned.” He flashes Spock a teasing grin, but the subtle clench of Spock’s jaw doesn’t slip past him.

Spock’s expression tightens, his grip on the wheel firming until the leather creaks faintly. “I see.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Jim says quickly, catching the shift. “Tony doesn’t tolerate fighting at the lounge. Fights scare off customers, and too many cop visits could jeopardize our liquor license.”

Spock’s brow furrows. “I do not find your workplace suitable. The behavior of that patron was unacceptable.”

Jim sighs, resting his head against the cool window, the city lights smearing into a smear of color.

“Hey, I gotta pay rent, Spock,” he says, his tone softening. “The guy was a perv, sure, but he’s not the worst I’ve dealt with.”

His mind flickers to darker nights—hands grabbing where they shouldn’t, slurred come-ons that left his skin crawling—but he shakes it off with a forced shrug. “Yeah, I’ve handled much worse.”

Spock’s eyes dart toward him, sharp and probing, though he focuses on the road. “Who has hurt you, Jim?” His voice is low, laced with a fierce edge. “I will ensure they will not again.”

Jim laughs, the sound bursting out before he can rein it in. “Really living up to your costume, Spock.” He grins, but the intensity in Spock’s return stare sends a flutter through his stomach. “Don’t worry about it. I’m fine.”

He silently chides himself, the weight of his words sinking in. Can’t let Spock dig too deep into that mess. Those uglier memories needed to stay buried and locked away.

Spock’s silence stretches, then he offers, “You may live with me.”

Jim erupts into laughter, a full, belly-shaking burst that has him clutching his sides. “You hate me working there that much?”

Spock’s brow quirks slightly. “I know I should not pass judgment. I simply do not like the idea of such individuals in your workplace.”

Jim softens, leaning his head against the window again. “Well, like I told you, I only work there two weekends a month. Covers rent, leaves me free for the library, the clinic, and—” he tosses Spock a cheeky smile “—working on the project with you.”

Spock seems to mull this over, the tension easing from his posture. Jim’s grin fades to something gentler as he points ahead. “Make this right. It’s at the end of the corner.”

Spock turns smoothly, and soon they pull up to the BBQ spot, a lively outdoor haven buzzing with energy.

The restaurant sprawls as a vibrant oasis, its edges lined with flickering tiki torches and fairy lights strung through wooden trellises. Tables are draped in black and orange cloths, each topped with tiny holographic pumpkins pulsing softly.

A massive bonfire roars at the center, casting wild shadows over the crowd—glittery fairies with glowing wings, pirates with cybernetic eye patches, all mingling in the smoky air thick with grilled meat, spices, cornbread, and a hint of citrus from nearby cocktails.

A host in a shimmering rainbow unicorn onesie flashes a wide grin, guiding them to a small table draped in a tablecloth adorned with black cats and pumpkins. Chatter and laughter blend with the low strum of a live band playing Halloween covers on a stage draped in fake cobwebs and lit by glowing green lanterns.

A waiter, decked out as a zombie chef with fake blood streaking his apron, swings by, explaining the holo-order system before leaving menus. A comfortable silence settles between them, the bonfire’s warmth cutting through the cool night.

Jim’s bunny ears tilt as he leans forward, scanning the menu, while Spock sits upright, his tunic still crisp despite the night’s chaos.

Just as Jim opens his mouth to ask about ordering, Spock speaks first, his voice low. “You appeared upset earlier. Did someone—”

Jim winces inwardly. Of course, Spock noticed.

“It’s no big deal, just my ex,” Jim says, brushing it off as he sets the menu aside. He pulls up the holo-order screen, tapping in three chicken skewers with chili glaze, a side order of fries, and a citrus cocktail with two extra shots.

Spock mirrors his actions, selecting vegetarian skewers with grilled mushrooms and peppers, a side salad, and a water, then sends their order off.

“Has he contacted you?” Spock asks, his tone even but his eyes keen, tracking every nuance of Jim’s face.

Jim snorts, gazing at the sizzling grills nearby where flames kiss rows of skewers.

“No, I saw a picture of him at some party, dressed up with some guy.” He shrugs, but his voice tightens with a sharp edge. “Gary never did Halloween with me. Never dressed up—called it ‘childish.’ Seeing him like that just pissed me off.”

Spock tilts his head, his gaze unwavering. “That night I came across you in the alleyway…” he begins, trailing off as their waiter returns with drinks.

Jim chuckles, leaning back once they’re alone. “Y’know, I wondered when you’d ask me about it.” He sips his cocktail, the liquor biting his tongue.

“I do not wish to bring up something emotionally taxing,” Spock says, his eyes locked on Jim’s.

“It’s fine, Spock. Friends talk about this stuff. I don’t mind.” Jim means it—conversing with Spock feels natural. “We’d been arguing for over an hour, and at the end… I thought getting wasted would dull the pain.”

Their waiter reappears, delivering their drinks and sizzling plates—Jim’s chicken skewers dripping with sauce, fries salted to perfection - Spock’s vegetables perfectly charred. Jim takes a bite, stalling as he gathers his thoughts.

“I think I saw what I wanted to with Gary. He could be charming, but he had this ugly side—controlling, dismissive. I stuck around way too long.”

Spock’s fork hovers, his expression unreadable but attentive. “You believed he shared your goals.”

“Yeah,” Jim says, poking at his half-eaten skewer. “When I joined the fleet, I thought everything would just… click. Like I’d find my place, my people. Gary seemed serious about me, more than anyone else had. But it was all surface-level.” He downs a shot, the tequila scorching his throat, loosening his tongue. “Guess I’m not great at picking ‘em.”

Spock leans in slightly. “I was under the impression you had more experience with romantic relationships.”

Jim laughs, startled. “What gave you that idea?”

“You are aesthetically pleasing,” Spock states, matter-of-fact, his gaze steady. “And your demeanor suggests confidence in social interactions.”

Heat surges down Jim’s spine, and he fixes his eyes on his food to mask the flush creeping up his neck.

“Well, I get hit on plenty,” he says, grinning to hide the flutter. “But those aren’t exactly fairy-tale moments. Booty calls and takeout in some guy’s apartment don’t count as relationships. Learned that the hard way.”

Spock’s brow arches, his stare intensifying. “You speak of being pursued only for physical—”

“Yeah,” Jim cuts in, shrugging, though it stings. “Guess people don’t take me seriously.” He sips his cocktail, the buzz settling in, loosening his words further.

The bonfire’s glow dances in his eyes. “Well, what about you? Bones mentioned Vulcans are married off young. Got a spouse you’ve been hiding?” He tosses it playfully, a grin on his lips, but heat coils in his gut as Spock’s hard, analyzing stare pins him.

Spock’s brow lifts. “What conversations have you and the Doctor had to discuss such matters?” His voice is low, probing, making Jim feel like prey under scrutiny.

Jim’s grin wavers, his mind racing. No way he can admit that Bones was teasing him about his crush on Spock.

He laughs, deflecting. “It just came up, y’know. Casual talk over grilled cheese. Nothing deep.” His fingers toy with the menu’s edge, the holo-text flickering.

Spock’s brow rises higher, but he nods slightly. “I was bonded as a child, as is customary on Vulcan. However, my bond-mate dissolved our arrangement before I entered into Starfleet.”

Jim blinks, curiosity overriding his nerves. “Why?” he asks, unable to fathom anyone letting Spock go.

Spock’s gaze shifts to the bonfire, flames reflecting in his eyes. “She cited my half-human nature as incompatible with her expectations. She believed a fully Vulcan partner would better fulfill the telepathic and cultural obligations of our union.”

His tone is steady, but a faint trace of something—resignation, maybe—slips through, and Jim catches it.

Jim’s chest tightens, sympathy and anger flaring. “Sorry, Spock. That must’ve hurt.” He leans closer, voice softer. “Sounds like she didn’t know what she was losing.”

Spock’s eyes return to Jim. “Apologies are not necessary. There was truth in her rejection. I would not have provided the life she envisioned.” He pauses, his gaze sharpening. “I believe a partner for me would be non-Vulcan, someone whose emotional vitality complements my own disposition.”

Jim’s heart stumbles, his mind screaming not to read into it, not to foolishly hope for more.

He downs his second shot. “Well, whoever that person is, they’ll be lucky to have you,” he says, voice light but smile strained, the flutter in his chest betraying him. He sets the glass down with a clink, focusing on the menu’s glow.

“Guess we’ve both had our share of romantic missteps, huh? You with your bond-mate, me with… a string of bad calls.” He chuckles, a bit forced, tapping the table to shift gears. “Makes me wonder if I’m just not cut out for romance. My list of requirements is probably too much.”

Spock tilts his head. “Your… list?”

Jim laughs, tipsy now, his grin lopsided. “Oh, you know, my dream guy checklist. One: nice. Two: super smart. Three: slightly obsessed with me. And four…” He leans in, whispering playfully, “A huge dick.”

He laughs at Spock’s blank expression, which somehow reveals more than it hides.

“Guess I can’t find a guy who checks all four boxes,” Jim laughs, finishing his drink and nodding thanks as their waiter clears their glasses and plates. “That’s why I suggested you be my wingman slash matchmaker.”

Spock processes this in silence, the pause heavy until he speaks. “I still must refuse, as I do not wish to be your wingman.” He pauses again. “Though your list does not seem overly zealous.”

Jim laughs softly, relieved his absurdity hasn’t scared Spock off.

“Yeah, you’d think it wouldn’t be that hard to find a guy. But maybe I should take my own advice and just stay single.” He leans back, fairy lights reflecting in his eyes.

And heartache, he thinks, his jaw tightening as Gary’s memory stings the corners of his eyes.

Spock’s voice breaks through. “Your former partner’s refusal to participate in the holidays’ festivities is unfortunate. Gaila mentioned a club nearby. Would you like to go?”

Jim blinks, surprised, “You know my job’s a lounge, but what Gaila mentioned is a three-story club. Dark vibe, flashing lights, loud bass, sweaty bodies everywhere. You sure you can handle that?”

“And if we go, I’m having more than a couple shots,” he adds with a cheeky grin. "It's been a while since I had a night out." 

“As I will be there, no harm will come to you. You may indulge without worrying about being vulnerable to others.”

That flutter hits Jim’s chest again, stronger now, undeniable despite the liquor’s haze. He blames the shots, but it’s Spock—the way he says such things with unshakable certainty, shaking Jim to his core.

“You’re really nothing like I expected, Spock,” Jim says, his grin softening, eyes lingering on Spock’s face.

“Meaning?” Spock asks, tone neutral but gaze piercing.

“Don’t worry,” Jim says, “It’s a good thing.”

The warmth lingers, growing as they finish their meal, the bonfire crackling, the crowd’s laughter and music enveloping them. For once, Jim lets the feeling settle, deepening in his chest.

⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚

The club is a feverish, electric maelstrom, its three floors throbbing with life under strobe lights and laser grids. The air hums with a relentless bass line, vibrating deep in Jim’s chest as he weaves through the writhing crowd. 

The first floor is a chaotic swirl of holographic bats swooping overhead, their wings glinting in neon pinks and blues, while the second floor, where Jim and Spock head, is draped in shimmering silver curtains that ripple like liquid under the pulsing lights. 

Blacklight chandeliers shaped like skeletal hands dangle from the ceiling, casting eerie ultraviolet glows over the crowd—a mix of glittering capes, androids with glowing circuit tattoos, and a trio of warriors in faux leather armor.

The third floor looms above, its balcony railing lined with glowing jack-o'-lanterns, where silhouettes of dancers move like shadows against a backdrop of crimson fog.

Jim's bunny costume attracts attention as he moves. His sheer black long-sleeve shirt reveals a hint of his nipple ring, and his bunny ears wobble precariously as he weaves through a pair of witches throwing glitter into the air.

Spock follows close behind, his black pants and polished boots move with intense silence, and he's wearing the half-mask again; his sharp features and gaze cut through the crowd.

They reach the second-floor bar, a polished crimson counter lined with glowing vials of luminescent cocktails.

Jim flashes his Starfleet ID with a grin, securing a free drink as Gaila promised—a vivid blue concoction that tastes like lime and stings like tequila. He turns to Spock, batting his best puppy eyes.

“Come on, Spock, flash yours. Get me another one.”

Spock’s eyebrow arches, but he complies, sliding his ID to the bartender—a woman in a glowing cyberpunk catsuit—with a look that screams she’s humoring Jim. 

Two drinks land in front of them: Another blue cocktail for Jim and Spock’s sparkling water, the glass frosted with condensation.

Jim clinks his drink against Spock’s untouched glass, grinning wider. “Don’t worry, Spock, it takes more than this to get me to that mess you picked up in the alley.”

Spock’s expression doesn’t waver. “You are not a mess, Jim.”

Jim laughs, the warmth of the alcohol mixing with the warmth of Spock’s words. “You’re too nice to me, Spock.”

He takes a couple of sips, the burn welcome, finishing one drink. He tries to coax Spock onto the dance floor, throwing in a playful lasso motion with an imaginary rope. “Come on, live a little!”

Spock doesn’t budge, his posture rigid but his eyes glinting with something Jim’s too tipsy to name. “I prefer to observe.”

Jim laughs, undeterred, and dives into the crowd, the music pulling him in like a tide.

The dance floor is a sea of bodies—glitter-dusted fairies spinning with glowing wands, a group in superhero costumes grinding to the beat, a surprisingly accurate 16th century pirate swaying stiffly with an empty bottle of vodka pressed to their face.

Jim lets the rhythm take over, his hips moving to the pulsing bass, the bunny tail bouncing with each step. He dances with a stranger in a glowing astronaut suit, then spins to a woman in a holographic mermaid dress, her scales shimmering with every move.

Between songs, he's back to the bar for extra shots, the liquor swimming in his head and loosening his limbs. He swings back to check on Spock, who’s perched at the bar, his calm detachment a stark contrast to the frenetic energy around him.

Jim leans in, breathless, pressing their shoulders together. “You sure you don’t wanna join? I’m having too much fun out there.”

Spock’s lips twitch, “I am fine, Jim. I wish for you to enjoy yourself.”

Jim grins and heads back to the dance floor when a familiar voice cuts through the noise. “Jim!”

He turns, spotting Gaila weaving through a cluster of dancers, her green satin bodice gleaming under the blacklights, her fishnet stockings catching the glow.

Her emerald bunny ears bounce as she moves, and her fluffy tail sways with her hips. She’s a vision of confidence, her red hair loose and wild now, a drink in one hand.

“Gaila! Hey!” Jim shouts, dancing through a small group in glowing face paint. He meets her on the dance floor, their movements syncing to the thumping beat.

“You came!” Gaila says, her eyes sparkling as she sways closer, her voice teasing. “And with Professor Spock? I’m shocked.”

Jim laughs, his mood still light, though her tone piques his curiosity. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Gaila’s hips sway to the rhythm, her smile knowing. “Vulcans and Orions share much in common.” She leans in, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “When we set our sights on someone, everyone else better move out the way.”

Jim blinks, caught off guard, but the alcohol keeps his grin in place. “What are you talking about, Gaila?” he asks, matching her movements, his bunny tail bouncing as he spins.

Gaila laughs, her eyes flicking toward Spock at the bar. “Oh, you know.” She emphasizes the last word, her hips bumping against his playfully. “You had a taste of it back at Tony’s.” She spins closer, her voice teasing. “I can’t even believe he’s not boiling over, just watching you dance with all these people. If looks could kill, half this dance floor would be toast.”

Jim’s brow furrows, the liquor clouding his thoughts. “Boiling over? Gaila, you’re not making sense. Spock’s just… Spock. He’s fine.”

Gaila rolls her eyes, her laugh bright. “Sure, Jim. Keep telling yourself that.” She pulls him into a quick spin, her energy pulling him along.

Jim shakes his head, laughing despite the confusion swirling in his alcohol-soaked brain. “You’re crazy, Gaila.” He says and the song shifts, and she pulls him into another spin, her laughter mingling with the music.

They dance for a moment longer, but the crowd’s heat and the liquor’s buzz start to weigh on him.

Soon, Gaila waves him off, heading toward a friend in a skintight black cat outfit. Jim stumbles back to the bar, smiling as he approaches Spock.

“I’m just gonna hit the bathroom real quick,” he says, leaning close to be heard over the music.

“I will accompany—”

“It’s just over there, Spock,” Jim cuts in, grinning as he points to the neon-lit sign across the floor. “Besides, if you get up, you’ll lose your seat.”

He winks and slips away before Spock can argue, weaving through a pair of girls in angel wings, their drinks sloshing as they laugh and spin.

In the bathroom, the fluorescent lights are harsh against the bright-colored tiled walls, the air thick with the scent of cologne and sanitizer. Jim heads to a stall, sure that the couple in the one next to him are getting busy.

He hurries up, flushes the toilet, and heads to the sinks. He splashes water on his face, the bunny ears tilting as he leans over.

His communicator buzzes in his pocket, and he pulls it out, his heart warming at the message from Spock: "Are you well, Jim?"

Jim smiles, his fingers tapping out a quick reply: "All good, just finished up. Be right out 😗.”

He pauses, staring at the screen. Spock’s protective streak—throughout the project, at the lounge, and now here—is fanning that small crush into something bigger.

Gaila’s words echo in his head, muddled by the liquor. He shakes his head, shoving his communicator back into his pocket, but the thought lingers as he steps out of the bathroom.

The second he’s out, he hears a familiar laugh, sharp and grating, cutting through the music. Gary’s there, weaving through the crowd, his black cape swirling around a tight red vest and leather pants.

The chiseled blonde from the photo is at his side, dressed as a matching vampire, their arm looped through Gary’s. Jim watches as the blonde enters the bathroom, with Gary staying outside to wait.

Jim’s stomach twists, and he tries to maneuver around a pair throwing their hips in a circle, their pink cocktails sloshing as they laugh.

But luck’s not on his side.

“Jim!” Gary shouts, his voice slurred, his breath reeking of whiskey as he closes the distance. His hand lands heavily on Jim’s shoulder. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Looking really good in that costume. My dick’s hard just looking at you.”

Jim’s stomach churns at the crude remark, and he forces a tight smile, stepping back to shake off Gary’s hand.

Gary’s wasted, he thinks, which means he’s gonna be more of an ass than usual. “Yeah, well, it’s Halloween,” Jim says, his tone clipped. “You usually don’t come out.”

“You’re out too,” Gary fires back, his eyes glinting. “With who?” His smirk falters when Jim doesn’t respond, “Oh, with him.”

“Why do you care?” Jim snaps, crossing his arms, “You looked fine, hugged up with that blonde. I saw you two in a picture.”

Gary’s smirk returns, sharper now, and he leans in too close, his fake fangs glinting under the neon lights. “Aw, is that what this is about? You got jealous, so you brought the weirdo to get me riled up.”

Jim rolls his eyes, shoving Gary’s chest lightly to create space. “I didn’t even know you were at this club. Spock has nothing to do with it.”

Gary laughs, a harsh, condescending sound, and steps closer again, crowding Jim’s space. “Come on, Jim. Ditch the stiff and come home with me. We can—”

A gloved hand closes around Gary’s wrist with a grip like steel. Spock materializes at Jim’s side, his presence a storm cloud. “You will step back,” he says, his voice low and dangerous, slicing through the pounding music.

Gary yanks his hand free, glaring, his fangs bared in a drunken sneer. “What’s your deal, freak? You think you’re his bodyguard or something?”

Spock’s posture stiffens, his hand twitching as if ready to grab Gary again. “You will not speak to him in this manner,” he says, his tone cold, each word precise and edged with warning.

Gary laughs, stepping closer, his chest puffed out, undeterred by Spock’s intensity. “Oh, yeah? What’re you gonna do about it?” He shoves Spock’s shoulder, his smirk widening as a small crowd gathers, their costumes—glittery wings, glowing masks—forming a loose circle around them.

Spock’s eyes narrow, his voice dropping to a lethal calm. “Your behavior is illogical and unbecoming of a member of Starfleet. I suggest you reconsider your actions before you embarrass yourself further.”

Gary scoffs, swaying slightly, his whiskey-soaked breath pungent. “Don’t lecture me. And have you forgotten you’re in Starfleet? You look more like a jealous boyfriend, ready to fight.” He gestures toward Jim, his hand brushing Jim’s arm again, lingering too long.

Jim’s had enough. He steps forward, his voice sharp despite the alcohol fog clouding his head.

“Gary, back off. You’re making a scene. Look around.” He nods toward the back of the crowd, where two security guards in black uniforms are starting to push through, their eyes locked on the commotion.

Gary’s smirk falters, but he doesn’t back down, his drunken bravado holding firm. “What, you need the Vulcan to fight your battles now, Jim?” He steps closer to Spock, jabbing a finger at his chest. “You think you’re tough? Let’s see it.”

Spock doesn’t flinch, his gaze unwavering, but his hand twitches again, fingers curling as if restraining himself. “I do not require physical altercation to demonstrate my resolve,” he says, his voice a low growl. “However, if you persist in disrespecting Jim, I will ensure you regret it.”

The air crackles with tension, the crowd’s murmurs swelling, some onlookers whispering excitedly, others craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the unfolding drama.

Jim’s heart pounds, the memory of the lounge fight surging to the forefront—Spock’s controlled strength, the way he’d effortlessly put that creep on the floor.

He might seriously injure Gary, Jim thinks. He spots the security guards closing in, walking the edge of the small crowd that’s formed.

“Gary, stop it,” Jim says, stepping between them, his hands raised, his voice firm despite the alcohol burning in his veins.

“We’re all in Starfleet, so let’s all act like it. You’re embarrassing yourself.” He turns to Spock, his tone softening but urgent. “Spock, let’s just go. He’s not worth it.”

Gary laughs, but it’s weaker now, his eyes flicking nervously to the approaching guards.

“Whatever, Jim. You’re wasting your time with this guy.” He takes a step back, hands raised in mock surrender, but his sneer lingers. “You’ll come crawling back when you’re done playing with the Vulcan.”

Spock’s jaw tightens, his eyes burning into Gary with an intensity that makes Jim’s skin prickle. Jim grabs Spock’s arm, tugging him toward the dance floor, away from the bathrooms and the looming security guards.

“Spock, come on. Let’s get out of here before this gets worse.”

The crowd parts slightly, some onlookers whispering, others returning to the music as the tension diffuses. Spock hesitates, his gaze still locked on Gary, his body rigid. Finally, he nods, allowing Jim to pull him through the sea of costumes—toward the exit, the club fading behind them.

⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚

The cool night air hits them as they spill onto the street, the club’s noise fading behind the sound of hovercars and distant laughter.

Jim’s head swims, the drinks catching up with him, and he sways slightly, grinning at Spock despite the tension from earlier. 

Jim laughs, the sound bright and unsteady. He pulls out his communicator, squinting at the time: 3:02 AM. “This is the longest I’ve stayed out in a while. Had a lot of fun, despite… well, whatever. Thanks for humoring me for a night out.”

Spock’s gaze shifts to him, “I hope your previous partner has not diminished your enjoyment.”

“Gary’s an idiot,” Jim says, waving a hand dismissively, his words slurring slightly. He pauses, a teasing grin spreading across his face. “And so are you. You shouldn’t have let him get to you like that. You’ve got too much to lose with the Fleet.”

Spock’s brow lifts, his voice carrying a steely edge. “His behavior was unacceptable, Jim. My standing with Starfleet is irrelevant when it comes to ensuring your safety.”

Jim opens his mouth to fire back a teasing remark, something to stamp down the protectiveness still radiating from Spock, but he stops short.

Under the streetlights, Spock’s posture is still rigid, his dark eyes burning with something Jim can’t quite name—anger, yes, but deeper, fiercer, his eyes scanning the street as if Gary might reappear.

He’s pissed, Jim realizes, pissed about me. The thought sends a jolt through him, heat pooling in his gut despite the cool air.

He shouldn’t find it hot—they’re friends, right?

Just friends.

“Hey, Spock,” Jim says softly, reaching out to touch Spock’s arm, stopping them both in their tracks. “Thank you. Not just for Gary, but for hanging out with me. I really had fun with you.”

Spock tilts his head, his gaze softening, and it seems like his words have worked to simmer down the heat. “No thanks are necessary, Jim. Being with you is preferable.”

Jim pauses, unsure if he heard that right, the alcohol fuzzing his thoughts.

Gaila’s words from earlier reverberate in Jim’s mind: “If looks could kill, half this dance floor would be toast.” And then Bones, last week at the academy during lunch, smirking over his sandwich: “That Vulcan’s got a jealous streak a mile wide when it comes to you, Jim.” Even Gary’s drunken taunt: “You look more like a jealous boyfriend.”

Everyone seems to see something in Spock’s actions that Jim’s been too oblivious—or too stubborn—to acknowledge.

The way Spock stepped in tonight, not just with Gary but at the lounge, every time someone got too close, his presence a shield, his eyes blazing with something unspoken.

It’s not just protectiveness for a friend, is it?

It’s something deeper, something that sets Jim’s heart racing and his skin flushing.

“Well, I hope you had fun too,” Jim says after a beat, pulling himself from his thoughts.

Spock’s lips twitch, “It was… interesting. Ship gatherings were far more tame in comparison.”

Jim laughs, the sound bubbling up easily. “Oh, I’m sure.” They reach Spock’s hovercar, “I’m sure you didn’t pick fights with anyone either,” he snorts, leaning against the door, hand at the handle.

Spock pauses, his hand hovering over the unlock controls, “No, though I have not had reason to prior.”

The words carry an edge, a weight that hits Jim square in the chest. He’s not imagining it—the way Spock’s eyes linger, dark, unreadable but charged with something that always makes Jim’s pulse stutter.

He shouldn’t find it hot, shouldn’t let his mind wander to what it means that Spock’s ready to throw down for him, that Spock’s been watching him all night, not just observing but protecting.

They’re friends. Right?

“Let’s go home, Spock,” Jim says, his eyes locking with Spock’s.

“Home?” Spock asks, his tone neutral but his eyes sharp, searching.

“Your place, I mean. If you don’t mind.” Jim clarifies, his words slurring slightly. “We’re closer to yours, and Bones probably won’t be home for another four hours.”

He’s not sure why he adds that last part, why he’s pushing so hard to stay with Spock. Because you don’t want the night to end, his mind whispers. Because you want to know what Gaila meant, what Bones saw, what Gary mocked.

He shakes it off, climbing into the passenger seat, but the thought lingers, heavy and warm, like the alcohol in his veins.

“You are always welcome, Jim,” Spock says, sliding into the driver’s seat, his voice steady but laced with something that sends another jolt through Jim. “I would prefer you rest at my home, especially so you will not be alone.” His hand hovers near Jim’s knee for a moment, the unmade touch electric, before gripping the wheel.

“Thanks, Spock,” Jim mumbles, his eyes drooping as he leans against the window. 

Friends, right? 

⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚

Spock pulls into the underground garage of his high-rise building, the hovercar gliding into a spot with silent precision. The garage is a cavernous expanse of polished concrete, lit by stark, cold LEDs that cast long shadows across rows of sleek vehicles.

The air smells faintly of metal and ion exhaust, the distant hum of the city muffled by thick walls. Jim slumps in the passenger seat, his bunny ears askew, the fluffy tail slightly flattened from the car ride.

“Come, Jim,” Spock says, rounding the car and opening the passenger door, steadying Jim with a firm grip on his arm. The contact sends a faint jolt through Jim’s drunken haze, Spock’s gloved hand hot even through the fabric.

The walk from the garage to the lift is a slow, wobbly affair. Jim leans heavily into Spock, one arm slung over his shoulder, his legs betraying him with every step. He mumbles something incoherent about his bunny tail getting caught in the car door, his words slurring into a soft laugh.

Spock’s arm tightens around his waist, guiding him past rows of parked hovercars. The lift waits at the far end, its steel doors gleaming under an overhead panel.

Inside the lift, the harsh light makes Jim squint as he sways, catching himself on the mirrored wall. Spock stands close, his features softened slightly by the low light. Jim’s head lolls against Spock’s shoulder, his scent mixing with the lingering alcohol on Jim’s breath.

They reach Spock’s apartment, the lift door swishing open to reveal his hallway bathed in soft ambient light. The living area’s windows are shuttered, the room lit by the faint glow of a star chart projected on the wall, its constellations casting delicate patterns. The air smells faintly of incense, grounding and calm.

“Jim,” Spock says, his voice clipped but gentle, “you would benefit from a shower. It may help clear your mind.” He steers Jim toward the bedroom.

“Yeah, hot water sounds great,” Jim slurs in response.

Spock guides Jim inside, his hand steady on his shoulder. “I will retrieve clothing for you.” He turns to leave, the door swishing shut behind him.

Jim tugs at the bottom of his shirt, pulling it over his head, the bunny ears falling to the floor. His fingers fumble with the zipper of his pants, the fabric sliding down his hips as he works them off.

He’s just about to push them past his thighs when the door swishes open again, and Spock halts in the doorframe, a folded pile of clothes in his hands.

A dark green flush creeps across Spock’s features, his eyes briefly widening before he averts his gaze.

Jim freezes, the pants halfway down. “You okay, Spock?” he asks, his voice slurring but laced with concern. He’s never seen a color like that grace Spock’s face.

Spock’s jaw tightens, and he steps forward. “You should finish undressing in the bathroom,” he says, gesturing toward a door across the room. “This way.”

Jim nods, a little dazed, and shuffles toward the bathroom, the pants still clinging to his thighs. Spock hands him the clothes—a soft gray shirt and loose pants—and retreats. “I will meditate while you shower.”

He nods, and Spock's out the door. 

Steam rises as Jim turns on the shower, the water cascading from the different showerheads, hot and steady, filling the room with a thick, humid cloud. Jim strips off the rest of his costume, his pants and underwear pooling on the floor, and steps under the spray, the heat soaking into his skin.

His drunken mind swirls, unable to let go of Spock. Those dark eyes, the way they seemed to darken when he faced off against the creep at the lounge, or the quiet, smoldering heat when he confronted Gary in the club.

It’s not just protectiveness, Jim realizes, his breath catching. It’s something possessive, something that makes Spock step in, again and again, whenever someone gets too close to him.

The thought sends a shiver through him, not from the water but from the image of Spock’s gloved hands—gripping his arm, steadying his waist, ready to shield him.

He imagines those hands sliding lower, the leather against his skin, Spock’s eyes darkening with desire, not anger.

Jim’s hand slides down, wrapping tightly around his throbbing cock, stroking with a desperate, frenzied rhythm. The shower’s scalding water pounds against his back, steam billowing thickly around him as he twists his wrist, pumping hard and fast, setting a needy pace while his other hand roams his chest.

He pinches and pulls on his nipple ring, the sharp jolt of pleasure sparking through him, before his fingers trace the taut lines of his abs, slick with water and suds.

“Spock,” he moans, his name ripping from his throat,  barely muffled by the roar of the water. He bites his lip hard, a fleeting worry crossing his mind—could Spock, meditating in the next room, somehow hear the way his name spills out, laced with lust?

His hips buck forward, chasing the filthy fantasy of Spock’s gloved hands gripping him, pinning him, the leather hot against his bare skin.

He imagines Spock’s deep voice growling filthy commands, that intense stare burning into him, stripping him bare. Jim writhes under the spray, his movements wild and unrestrained, the heat coiling tight in his balls, driving him toward the edge with relentless force.

He comes with a choked groan, his vision blurring as thick ropes of cum spurt across his fingers, splattering against the tiles. He steadies his breathing, holding his hand under the spray, watching the water wash his release down the drain.

His legs tremble, weak from the alcohol and the raw intensity of his orgasm, his body still buzzing with the aftershocks.

As he presses against the tiled wall, its cool surface steadying him, a heavy truth anchors in his chest: his feelings for Spock aren’t new. He’s been falling for a long time, and tonight—Spock’s fierce protectiveness, the way he confronted Gary —only made it undeniable, igniting a spark into a blaze.

He finishes washing, stepping out, and he dries off with a plush towel, the fabric grazing his still-sensitive skin.

He slips into Spock’s clothes—the gray shirt draping loosely over his frame, the pants soft but slightly too long, bunching at his ankles.

The subtle scent of Spock lingers in the fabric, enveloping Jim like a warm hug.

He stumbles back to the bedroom, collapsing onto the dark sheets, burying his face in them. Spock’s scent surrounds him, intoxicating, lulling him into sleep as his body yields to exhaustion.

It feels like only minutes later when a gentle nudge pulls him from sleep. Spock’s voice, calm but close, cuts through. “Jim, you have fallen asleep in my bed.”

Jim blinks, the room spinning as he props himself up on his elbows. “Can’t we just share your bed?” The words spill out, drunk Jim fully in control, reckless and unfiltered.

Sober Jim would’ve bolted, knowing suggesting they sleep together is a terrible idea, but drunk Jim’s all in.

His grin is lopsided. “Friends share beds all the time. Bones and I have done it tons. What’s the difference with you?”

Spock’s brow arches, his voice sounding slightly strained. “You and the Doctor have shared a bed?”

“Yeah,” Jim mumbles, collapsing back onto the bed with a sloppy wave of his hand, the sheets tangling around him. “Loads of times. Usually, after Gary ripped my heart out or I woke up shaking from a nightmare.”

Spock’s gaze softens, his voice dropping to a quieter, almost intimate tone. “Nightmares, Jim? Do they trouble you frequently?”

“Hmm?” Jim’s brain catches up, a faint alarm bell ringing through the fog. Shit. Why’d I bring that up?

He laughs, too loudly, trying to deflect. “Spock, no more questions.” He pats the bed beside him, his grin sloppy but genuine. “Just get in.”

Jim shuts his eyes, partly because they’re too heavy to keep open, but mostly because Spock’s gaze feels like it’s unraveling him, layer by layer.

He hears Spock command the lights off, the room dimming. The bed dips as Spock settles on the other side, the faint rustle of his nightclothes brushing the sheets.

Jim laughs slightly, the sound slurred and sleepy. “You can tell me no, Spock.”

“I find myself unable to do so,” Spock says, his voice a murmur. “Particularly when your requests are mutually beneficial.”

Jim laughs again, the words sinking into him like the warmth of the sheets, their meaning slipping past his hazy mind. “You’re such a good friend, Spock,” he slurs, probably for the hundredth time that night, his voice thick with impending sleep. “Night.” He rolls onto his side, a drunken smile tugging at his lips.

“Jim—” Spock begins, but Jim’s already gone, lost to sleep before Spock can finish. 

⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚

Jim stirs, his head pounding from last night’s drinks, the haze of the club, the confrontation with Gary, and Spock’s presence piecing together in fragmented flashes.

He’s sprawled across the bed, the dark sheets tangled around his legs, Spock’s borrowed clothes soft against his skin. His fingertips trace the fabric of the loose gray shirt, the faint scent of Spock clinging to it.

He groans, scrubbing a hand over his face, and manages to peel his eyes open. A small amount of light streams through the half-drawn windows, casting faint patterns across the room.

His thoughts shift, the fog clearing just enough to recall the night before: dancing with strangers, Gaila’s teasing, Gary’s sneer, Spock’s almost getting into two fights over him.

He sits up, the sheets sliding off, and glances to his right. A nightstand holds a collection of polished knives—curved blades with intricate engravings, their handles shining under the morning light.

Knife collection? Jim’s brow furrows. Spock didn’t have that in the guest bedroom. He’s in—

His eyes widen as the realization hits: he’s in Spock’s bed. His heart lurches, but before he can form another thought, the bedroom door swishes open.

Spock enters, his posture as composed as ever, dressed in a simple dark navy shirt and pants set.

His dark eyes hold a flicker of something warm, almost tender, gone before Jim can pin it down.

“How are you feeling, Jim?” Spock asks, rounding the bed with a glass of water in hand. “I suspected you would wake at this time and prepared plomeek soup.” He offers the glass, his movements precise but gentle.

Jim sits up, taking the glass with a “thanks,” his fingers brushing Spock’s briefly, sending a jolt through his already erratic heartbeat. He takes a grateful sip, the cool water soothing his parched throat.

“You remembered I said it’s the perfect hangover killer,” he says, forcing a grin to mask the flutter in his chest.

Spock tilts his head, his expression unreadable but soft. “I apologize, as I do not have the ingredients for a more comprehensive remedy.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jim says, waving a hand. “I like the soup, and Bones has an assortment of hypos he’d happily stick me with if I need it.”

He takes another sip, setting the glass on the nightstand beside the knife case, his eyes lingering on the blades. “Nice collection, by the way. Didn’t peg you for a knife guy.”

Spock’s brow arches slightly. “They are ceremonial, passed down through my family. I find their craftsmanship meditative.”

Jim nods, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed, rising to stretch. His voice is rough with sleep and embarrassment as he mutters, “Sorry for taking over your bed.”

“It is of no consequence,” Spock says, his tone even, almost gentle. “I require minimal sleep, and you did not disturb my rest.” He gestures toward the door, leading Jim out of the bedroom.

The windows in the living room are drawn up, and Jim squints slightly at the light streaming through. A steaming bowl of plomeek soup waits on the kitchen bar counter, flanked by two stools with sleek metal frames.

A single holo-plant flickers on the counter, its leaves shifting between shades of green and violet.

Jim takes a seat, the stool cool against his thighs, and Spock settles beside him, scrolling through a padd with small flicks of his fingers.

Jim digs into the soup, its light taste cutting through the last of the alcohol’s fog. He glances at Spock every so often, catching those dark eyes meeting his, each look sending a quiet spark through him.

His hangover makes his head throb, but it’s the memories of last night that hit harder—About Spock and the way he stepped in without hesitation.

They’re friends.

But the way Spock’s been there, every time, guarding him like he’s someone worth doing so for—

They’re friends. He tells himself again firmly. 

“Did I say or do anything stupid?” he asks, bracing himself, his cheeks heating as he spoons another bite of soup.

Spock tilts his head, considering. “There is nothing you could say or do that I would depict as stupid, Jim.”

Jim lets out a shaky laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, Spock's shirt shifting against his skin.

“Well, in the event I said anything even slightly stupid, I didn’t mean it.” He pauses, then adds, his voice lighter, “Did you have fun last night? You know, despite me dragging you into all that?”

Spock’s gaze softens, “I always enjoy myself in your presence, Jim.”

Jim’s heart skips, a sharp jolt that he tries to dismiss as a hangover’s lingering buzz. He wants to chalk up Spock’s words to a simple nod to their friendship, to keep things easy and uncomplicated, but the heat blooming in his chest calls him out on the lie.

His feelings for Spock are swelling, growing more undeniable with every word, every glance, every moment Spock’s presence anchors him.

“Me too,” he says, the words tasting like half-truths as he scoops up another spoonful of soup, ducking Spock’s gaze to hide the flush creeping up his face.

He’s certain they both mean it in separate ways.

He stands, the empty bowl and spoon in hand, trying to play it cool despite the nerves clawing at him, making his movements feel clumsy.

He steps to the sink, rinsing the bowl under warm water, the task grounding him as he avoids those dark, piercing eyes that seem to see right through him.

“Your list,” Spock says from his seat, Jim’s back still to him.

Jim freezes, the bowl slipping slightly in his hands. “My list?”

His mind scrambles, heart sinking as it clicks—the list. The drunken ramble about his dream guy, spilled in a haze of alcohol and reckless honesty. He turns, leaning against the counter, grinning despite the heat crawling up his neck

He shifts to face Spock, his grin lopsided, teasing. “Oh no, I was very serious about that. Especially number four. Non-negotiable.”

Spock’s brow arches, a faint glint in his eyes. “I see,” he says, his voice steady but laced with something that sends Jim’s pulse racing, a spark that feels dangerously close to intent.

Jim laughs it off, placing the bowl on the drying rack with a clink. “Just gonna grab my things, and we can head out, if you don’t mind. I’ve got a couple of hours to recover before my next shift.”

Spock nods, and Jim moves toward the bedroom, his heart still hammering, the memory of last night’s shower crashing over him—Spock’s intense eyes, the ghost of his gloved hands, the way Jim had groaned his name under the scalding spray, desperate and undone.

He shakes his head, trying to banish the thought, and grabs his crumpled bunny costume from the floor.

He pauses, his gaze catching on the knife collection again, the polished blades gleaming with intricate engravings.

They’re a perfect reflection of Spock—calm, precise, but with a hidden edge, sharp and unyielding.

Just like him, Jim thinks, the realization stirs a deep, restless ache in his chest.

“Ready?” he calls, stepping back into the living area, his grin a little too wide, a little too forced, as he meets Spock’s gaze.

Spock rises from the stool, his movements fluid, graceful. “I am prepared, Jim,” he says, his voice calm but carrying a subtle undercurrent, something barely restrained that keeps Jim’s pulse spiked through the entire lift ride down to the parking garage.

⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚

Outside, the morning sun glints off buildings, their reflective surfaces casting fleck light across the streets below, where early risers—some still in faded Halloween costumes—shuffle toward coffee shops and transit hubs. 

Jim slumps in the passenger seat, his head pounding from last night’s drinks, his bunny costume stuffed into a bag at his feet.

Spock drives, his hands, no longer gloved, grip the wheel with steady control, the faintest tension in his knuckles betraying something unspoken.

Jim steals glances at him, the dull throb in his head doing little to dull the warmth that flares every time he catches Spock’s profile, composed against the city’s blur.

Spock pulls into the parking lot of Jim’s apartment complex, and before Jim can protest, Spock cuts the engine and says, “I will walk you to your apartment door.” His tone is firm, and his dark eyes flick toward Jim.

Jim’s too hungover to fight it. He smirks, sliding out of the car with a wobble, his legs still unsteady from the night’s excesses. “You don’t have to, you know,” he says, but there’s no real protest in his voice, just a tired grin as he grabs his bag.

Spock doesn’t respond, simply falling into step beside him. The parking lot is quiet, save for the distant sound of a delivery drone and the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze.

They cross the lot and enter the building’s lobby—a modern space with white floors, a holographic fountain bubbling in the center, and a row of potted ferns lining the walls.

The lift ride is silent, the hum of the mechanism filling the space as they ascend. The walls are mirrored, reflecting Jim’s disheveled state—his hair a mess, his eyes bloodshot from the night.

Spock stands close, his shoulder just a fraction nearer than usual, the heat of his presence making Jim’s skin prickle despite the hangover. Jim steals another glance, catching the faintest tightening of Spock’s jaw.

They reach Jim’s floor, the lift doors swishing open to a hallway lined with soft gray carpet and recessed lighting. Jim’s apartment door is at the end, its sleek panel marked with a simple silver number. When they reach his door, he stops, rubbing the back of his neck, his heart kicking up a notch as he turns to face Spock.

“Thanks again for last night, Spock,” he says, his voice rough but genuine. 

Spock suddenly steps forward,  closing the space between them with a magnetic pull that envelops Jim completely. He presses closer, their chests brushing, the heat of his body overwhelming, heady, and inescapable, pinning Jim against the apartment door.

The cold metal bites into Jim’s heated skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth radiating from Spock, making Jim’s breath hitch. The hallway shrinks, the air is thick, and the faint hum of the building’s systems fades into nothingness.

Spock’s dark eyes lock onto Jim’s, his warm breath ghosting across Jim’s face, sending a shiver through him.

“S-Spock—” Jim starts, his voice catching, cracking under the weight of Spock’s proximity, his back pressed harder against the door.

But Spock cuts him off, his voice low and resonant, carrying that same dangerous edge from last night, sharp as a blade brushing skin. “Your list,” he says.

“List?” Jim echoes, his mind scrambling, thrown off by Spock’s closeness, the way he fills the space, making the world tilt and spin.

Their bodies are flush now, Spock’s lean frame pressing against him, the heat of him searing through the fabric of Jim’s borrowed clothes.

“While all of your requirements are subjective and based on your own opinion,” Spock continues, his eyes never wavering, pinning Jim in place, “I meet them. You should begin a romantic relationship with me.”

Jim’s brain short-circuits, his jaw dropping as the words sink in. “W-what?” he stammers, his voice breaking, his face flushing hot, a wildfire spreading across his cheeks.

Spock presses even closer, enclosing the space completely, their bodies melded together, the heat of his frame making Jim’s head spin faster than the hangover ever could.

The door at his back is the only thing keeping him upright, his knees weak under the intensity. 

Spock’s gaze is unrelenting, daring Jim to look away, his breath a steady rhythm that syncs with Jim’s racing pulse, each exhale brushing against Jim’s lips.

“I am quite intelligent, empathetic, have a strong interest in you, and…” Spock pauses, his voice dropping to a husky whisper, each word deliberate and loaded, “I have an above-average-sized phallus.”

Jim’s jaw hits the floor, his mind reeling, the hallway spinning wildly around him. He’s gotta be hallucinating, still drunk, maybe sedated in some medbay somewhere, because there’s no way Spock—Spock—just said that.

His heart hammers, his face burning, shock and desire flooding his system. He’s half a second from stammering something incoherent, his lips parting, when the apartment door slides open unexpectedly, the sudden motion making him stumble backward.

Jim crashes into McCoy, who’s standing there in his scrubs, a medical bag slung over his shoulder, ready for his next shift at the clinic.

“Oof, ouch, Jim!” Bones steadies him, pushing him upright with a scowl, his drawl thick with irritation. “Watch where you’re going, kid!”

“Bye, Spock!” Jim yelps, breathless and gasping, his face a furnace as he practically shoves himself and Bones into the apartment, the door swishing shut behind them.

Bones stumbles back, catching himself on the edge of the couch. “What the hell, Jim?” he snaps, adjusting his bag. “I’ve got to get to work!” His scowl softens, a hint of concern creeping into his gruff tone as he takes in Jim’s flushed face and wide eyes. “What happened?” He asks. 

Jim collapses against the wall, his bag dropping to the floor with a thud, still processing. “He… Spock said... he wants to date me,” he says, stuttering over his words.

Bones throws his head back and laughs, a deep, bellowing sound that fills the room, echoing off the walls.

Chapter Text

Jim leans against the wall, his heart hammering from Spock’s words in the hallway, his face burning as if he’d been caught in a plasma flare. His bag lies in a heap at his feet, his crumpled costume spilling out like a guilty secret.

Bones drops his medical bag onto the couch with a thud, his eyes narrowing as he studies Jim’s flushed, wide-eyed expression. 

“You look like you just saw a Klingon in a tutu,” he drawls, crossing his arms. “Spock wants to date you? And you’re acting like he confessed to a murder. What the hell happened out there?”

Jim rakes a hand through his hair, his voice unsteady, tripping over itself. “I—I don’t know, Bones! One minute we’re talking, and the next he’s… he’s pinning me against the door, saying he checks all my boxes, including—” 

He cuts off, his face flaming hotter, the memory of Spock’s low, matter-of-fact mention of his ‘above-average-sized phallus’ searing through his brain. He groans, sliding down the wall until he’s sitting on the floor, knees drawn up.

 “I can’t believe he said that. I can’t believe I told him about my stupid list last night.”

Bones snorts, barely containing another laugh as he leans against the arm of the couch, his tone thick with amusement. “You and that damn list. I told you that Vulcan’s got it bad for you, but you didn’t listen.” He shakes his head, though the grin tugging at his lips falters. “What’d you do, Jim? Run like a spooked cadet?”

Jim winces, rubbing his temples, the pounding in his head matching the frantic beat of his heart. “He was so close, Bones. Like, no super close. And then you opened the door, and I just… bolted.” His voice drops, softer now, laced with guilt. "And shut the door in his face.”

Bones sighs, the amusement fading as he crouches in front of Jim, his doctor’s gaze scanning him like a tricorder. “Let me get this straight. The guy lays his cards on the table—hell, sounds like he laid you against the door—and you ran?” 

He rubs a hand over his face, exasperated. “Jim, I’m late as it is. Halloween misfits kept me up all night at the clinic—had to reconstruct some idiot’s hand after he tried to ‘enhance’ his costume with a modified plasma cutter. But I’m not leaving until you understand how serious Spock is. Vulcans don’t just propose dating for kicks.”

Jim’s stomach twists, his eyes fixed on a stray coffee stain on the rug, its brown edges bleeding into the faded blue fibers. 

"Look, I get it, okay," Jim mutters, "But what was I supposed to do? He’s… Spock. He's probably never made a wrong move in his life—And me?" He waves a hand at himself, a bitter half-smile tugging at his lips.

“An idiot who can’t keep his mouth shut when he’s drunk, who’s got an ex like Gary and a whole list of screw-ups trailing behind him. He’d see right through me and realize I’m not worth the trouble."

Jim presses his palms to his eyes, a shaky chuckle escaping as he murmurs in disbelief, “I don’t even know what he sees in me.”

Bones’ expression softens, but his tone stays firm, cutting through Jim’s self-doubt like a laser scalpel. 

"Don’t start with that nonsense, Jim. Spock’s seen you at your lowest—hell, he hauled your drunk ass out of an alley, didn’t he? And he’s still here, treating you like you’re the only star in his orbit. That’s not someone who thinks you’re ‘not worth it.’”

Bones pauses, his hazel eyes narrowing as he leans closer, his voice dropping to a low, pointed drawl, “You’re not dumb, Jim. You know he’s into you. So why are you running from this? You like him too—don’t even try to deny it. What’s the real problem here?”

Jim’s breath catches, his fingers tightening on his knees, the fabric of his sweats bunching under his grip. “It’s not that simple, Bones,” he says, his voice rough, almost pleading, cracking under the weight of his own doubt. 

He shifts, pulling his knees closer to his chest, curling in on himself as if to shield the raw edges of his fear. “What if he sees the real me—the mess, the scars, all of it—and—” He cuts off, shaking his head, the words too heavy, too jagged to finish, sinking like stones in his throat.

Bones stands, slinging his medical bag over his shoulder with a grunt, the weight of it tugging his coat askew, the faded leather creaking softly. “You’re overthinking this, kid. Spock’s not some fling who’s gonna bolt at the first sign of trouble. He’s a Vulcan, for God’s sake—they don’t do feelings lightly. If he’s in, he’s in, and you know it.”

His communicator beeps, a shrill chirp cutting through. Bones fishes it out of his pocket, glancing at the screen with a sigh, his brows furrowing. “Clinic’s swamped—gotta go,” he says, adjusting his bag, his boots scuffing against the worn rug as he steps toward the door.

He pauses, turning back, his gaze steady and firm. “Do me a favor, Jim—use that big brain of yours and think. Would dating Spock really be that bad? Or are you just letting your fears call the shots?”

Jim opens his mouth to protest, but Bones is already halfway to the door, his broad silhouette framed against the hallway lights, the faint buzz of the building’s wiring humming in the background.

“And don’t just sit there wallowing, kid,” Bones calls over his shoulder, muffled as the door begins to slide shut. “Think!”

The door seals with a soft hiss, the sound sharp and final in the quiet apartment, leaving Jim alone with the weight of his thoughts.

A few minutes tick by, the silence pressing in, heavy and suffocating. Jim drags himself to his feet, the room tilting slightly from the lingering hangover, a dull ache throbbing behind his temples. He shuffles to his room, the worn floorboards creaking under his socks.

His bedroom is a chaos of his own making—padds and notes strewn across a desk littered with empty coffee mugs, a half-folded cadet uniform draped carelessly over his chair. He tosses his costume bag toward the laundry hamper, the fabric thudding softly against the wall. 

The bunny ears from last night flop out, their fluffy tips mocking him, and he groans, the sight twisting the knot in his chest tighter.

He pulls his communicator from his pocket, his hand tightening around it. He sets it on the nightstand, the screen flaring to life with a new message notification.

The single initial S blazes brightly, sharp and unmistakable, like a distress signal cutting through the dark. Jim’s heart skips, a jolt of adrenaline spiking through him, and he jabs his thumb against the power button, snuffing out the glow, the screen fading to black.

He stumbles into the bathroom, the cool tiles pressing aganist his feet as he splashes water on his face, the cold shock biting his skin but doing little to clear the fog of the hangover—or the shock of Spock’s confession, still burning through his veins.

The mirror reflects his flushed cheeks, his messy blond hair sticking up in wild tufts, and the faint shadows under his blue eyes, deepened by a night of too much liquor and not enough sleep.

Jim grips the sink, his knuckles whitening against the cold porcelain, his reflection staring back from the mirror, “Get it together, Kirk,” he mutters, but his voice wavers, a fragile thread betraying the chaos roiling in his chest—a storm of longing, fear, and something he’s been dodging since the moment he met Spock, something too big, too real to name.

Spock’s words replay, unbidden, relentless: “I meet them. You should begin a romantic relationship with me.”

His knees weaken, his pulse racing as the memory floods back—the heat of Spock’s body so close, the air between them charged, shrinking the world to just the two of them. Those dark eyes pinned him, unflinching, like Spock had already calculated every possible outcome and chosen this one, chosen Jim. 

The intensity of it, the unyielding certainty in Spock’s voice, sends a shiver through him, a volatile mix of desire and dread that coils tight in his gut.

He turns on the shower, the hiss of water filling the bathroom as steam curls upward, fogging the mirror until his reflection blurs into a ghostly outline, the edges of his face dissolving into the haze.

He strips off Spock’s clothes—the soft fabric, still carrying the faint, spiced scent of Spock, makes Jim’s head spin. He folds them carefully, almost reverently, setting them on the counter, his fingers lingering on the gray shirt, tracing the worn hem as if it could anchor him against the questions tearing him apart.

How long have I wanted this? How long have I been running from it?

Stepping under the hot spray, the water pounds against his head and shoulders, cascading over his skin in scalding rivulets, but it does little to wash away thoughts of Spock—his voice, thick and precise, cutting through Jim’s defenses; his closeness, left no room for escape; the heat radiating from him, warming the air between them; the way he asserted his interest with calm, pointed focus, all directed at Jim.

It’s overwhelming, intoxicating, like standing too close to a star and feeling its pull—beautiful, dangerous, inevitable.

Jim groans, leaning his forehead against the tiled wall, the ceramic a stark contrast to the heat swirling inside him—a fire stoked by Spock’s words, his gaze, his want. 

His skin prickles from the memory of those dark eyes, burning with an intensity.

He wants me. Me. The thought is a spark, igniting a warmth that spreads through his chest, but a shadow chases it—I’m not enough for someone like him.

He shakes his head, flinging droplets against the tile. His shift at the lounge is in a few hours, and he’s got to pull himself together.

Tonight’s Halloween festivities mean another costume, this time a cowboy outfit—less revealing than the bunny getup from last night, but still snug, with a Stetson hat and a denim vest that Gaila insisted on, claiming it “screams you, Kirk.”

He can already picture her teasing grin, her knowing looks about Spock, the way she’ll nudge him with a wink and say, “So, you and the professor, huh?” The thought makes his stomach flip.

Those dark eyes are seared into his mind, stirring a confusing tangle of desire and fear.

Desire, because the thought of Spock wanting him—really wanting him, not just as a lab partner or friend, but as something more—sets his blood on fire, a heat that pools low in his belly, making his breath hitch and skin rise.

Fear, because what if he lets himself fall and it all crashes down? What if Spock sees the real Jim—the Tarsus scars, the nightmares, the kid who couldn’t save anyone—and decides he’s too broken?

Spock, with his logic and his unshakable calm, deserves better than a man haunted by ghosts, a man who’s spent years building walls to keep the past at bay.

He closes his eyes, letting the water run over his face, hot and relentless, but those eyes—Spock’s eyes—follow him, pulling him under like a riptide.

He wants to give in, to drown in the possibility of Spock—late nights spent in each other’s arms, quiet mornings sharing breakfast, debates over quantum mechanics that end in laughter or something softer, something real.

But the fear clings, a cold weight in his chest, whispering that he’ll ruin it, like he always does. Frank’s venom, Mom’s absence, Tarsus’s screams—they’re all still there, clawing at the edges of his mind, waiting to spill out.

What if Spock sees that and walks away? What if I’m too shattered to be what he needs?

The shower doesn’t wash away the doubt, but it dulls the edges, just enough for him to breathe. He shuts off the water, the sudden silence deafening, and steps out, toweling off as steam swirls around him.

He can’t avoid it forever—not Spock, not this. Maybe I don’t want to. The thought is quiet but stubborn, a flicker of hope pushing back against the fear, fragile but persistent.

He doesn’t get any sleep before he’s due at Tony’s, and in no time, he’s pulling on his cowboy costume and out the door for his shift.

⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚

The lounge carries a subdued energy, the Halloween chaos from last night dialed down to a pre-shift murmur as Jim arrives for early prep. 

Orange and purple string lights drape across the ceiling, their soft glow casting a festive warmth over the space. The holographic ghosts that bobbed and wailed last night are powered off, leaving the air still and heavy with the mingled scents of stale beer and sharp citrus cleaner, a faint chemical tang that clings to the back of Jim’s throat.

The jack-o'-lantern chandelier hangs above the bar, its carved faces glowing faintly, their eerie grins casting jagged shadows across the floor, the light dancing with every subtle sway.

Fog machines sit dormant in the corners, their hoses coiled like sleeping snakes, while the tables are being dressed with fresh black tablecloths, their edges crisp against the kitschy decor—plastic skulls with chipped paint, glow-in-the-dark spiderwebs stretched taut, and flickering LED candles.

The bar counter is cluttered with crates brimming with glassware and bottles waiting to be restocked, their labels—Andorian ale, Saurian brandy, Terran gin—glinting under the low, amber light.

A few early customers trickle in, claiming tables before the inevitable surge of the party crowd. A pair in matching bee costumes—striped onesies with bobbing antennae—huddle near a booth near the bar, their translucent wings catching the string lights’ glow, shimmering yellow and violet as they laugh over their drinks.

A lone patron in a tattered neural-interface suit, its exposed wires faintly sparking with erratic pulses, nurses a dark drink at the corner table, his eyes fixed on a padd.

The suit’s cracked visor flickers with distorted holographic static, casting ghostly patterns across his face, giving the impression of a mind half-lost to some invasive digital specter.

The DJ booth sparks to life, a young Andorian with electric-blue hair spinning a poppy, sultry beat that pulses through the lounge. The bassline thrums low and inviting, vibrating through the floor, promising a wild night as the energy builds, the air already tingling with anticipation.

Jim, in his cowboy costume, moves stiffly behind the bar, the snug black shirt beneath his denim vest clinging to his frame, accentuating every shift of muscle as he reaches for a bottle as a new order comes in.

His hat tilts slightly, casting a shadow over his eyes as he fumbles a cocktail shaker, the metal clattering loudly against the counter, the sharp sound drawing curious glances from the bee couple and a passing server in a tattered nurse costume.

His hands tremble, the tremor betraying the storm in his head—Spock’s confession, that searing moment against his apartment door, the way his voice had dropped to a husky whisper, “I meet them.” The memory sends a jolt through him, his pulse quickening, and he grips the shaker tighter, trying to focus on the task at hand.

He’s already botched two cocktails, the grenadine swirling into a muddy mess instead of the clean gradient he was aiming for, the drinks looking more like engine coolant than the festive specials they’re supposed to be. 

He pours the drink from the shaker, and the crimson liquid pools unevenly in the glass, mocking his distraction, and he sets it aside with a frustrated huff.

Tony, wiping down the far end of the bar with a rag, shoots him a warning glance, his bald head catching the orange glow of the jack-o'-lantern chandelier, the light glinting off his scalp. His apron, streaked with lime juice and smudges of blue curaçao, swings slightly as he shakes his head. 

“Kirk, focus,” he mutters, his tone sharp but carrying that familiar undercurrent of patience, “or I’m docking you for those messed-up drinks.”

Jim forces a grin, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in a practiced charm that feels hollow. “Sorry, boss,” he says quickly, grabbing another glass to remake it, his fingers unsteady.

His head’s a mess, replaying Spock’s words over and over—the heat of his body pressed close in that hallway, the air between them shrinking until it was just the two of them, those dark eyes burning with a certainty that made Jim’s knees turn to jelly. 

“I meet them. You should begin a romantic relationship with me.”

 Another jolt shocks Jim, his pulse spiking. He just hopes tonight’s crowd doesn’t bring another table of assholes like last night’s skeleton crew.

Party guests begin to trickle in as the sun dips further, their costumes a vibrant parade flooding the lounge with color and life. A medieval warrior in spiked armor, the metal gleaming dully under the string lights, clinks mugs with a friend in a rainbow clown costume.

A Betazoid in a flowing witch robe, her black hat adorned with tiny glowing stars that pulse in time with the music, sways near the dance floor, her eyes scanning the crowd with a loose smile.

The DJ’s beat picks up, the poppy rhythm giving way to a bass-heavy track that vibrates through the floorboards, the low thrum pulling the early crowd to their feet. The lounge hums with energy, the air growing warmer, thicker, as laughter and chatter weave through the music, the scent of spiced cocktails and perfume mingling with the lingering citrus cleaner.

The lounge door swings open and Gaila sweeps in, a vision in her pink glittery fairy costume. Her bodice sparkles under the lights, the plunging neckline catching every glint, accentuating her curves with unapologetic flair. Delicate, translucent wings shimmer at her back, their rosy hue matching the dusting of glitter across her cheeks, sparkling like stardust scattered across her skin.

Her red curls bounce loosely, framing her face as she saunters toward the bar, her emerald eyes locking onto Jim with a teasing grin that promises trouble, her every step radiating confidence and mischief.

“Looking good, cowboy,” Gaila says, her voice bright and lilting as she leans against the counter, her wings fluttering slightly, casting soft pink shadows across the polished bar, the light catching the glitter dusting her shoulders. 

“That hat’s doing things for you.” She pauses, her grin turning suggestive, “Have a nice night with Professor Spock?”

Jim’s hand jerks, nearly dropping the glass he’s polishing, the cloth catching just in time to save it from clattering to the floor. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, his voice pitching higher than he’d like.

His cheeks are flushing hot as he focuses on the glass, rubbing it harder than necessary, the squeak grating through the lounge’s growing buzz.

Gaila laughs, a bright, unrestrained sound that cuts through the chatter and the DJ’s sultry beat, “Oh, come on, Jim. Did you two get it on or what?” She leans closer, elbows propped on the counter, her wings shimmering as the DJ’s colorful booth lights sweep over them, painting her in fleeting hues of violet and gold.

Jim’s face burns, the glass squeaking under his rag, the sound grating against his frayed nerves. “Why would you even think we would?” he sputters, his heart racing.

Spock’s voice echoes in his mind—“above-average-sized phallus”—the memory hitting like a photon torpedo, sending a flush of heat down his spine.

He nearly chokes, gripping the glass tighter to keep his hands from shaking.

Gaila’s laugh deepens, her eyes sparkling with amusement, like she’s savoring every second of his discomfort. “The naive human thing is so cute on you, Jim. No wonder you got the professor revved up.”

She reaches over, plucking the rag from his hands with a playful tug. She takes the glass from his other hand and sets it on the bar, then clasps his trembling hands in her palms, “You’re shaking like a leaf, Jim,” she says, her voice teasing but laced with concern.

Jim huffs, focusing on the coolness of her touch to anchor himself, though his voice remains unsteady. “Gaila, please start making sense.”

She rolls her eyes, squeezing his hands gently before letting go to lean back, her wings scattering flecks of glitter onto the counter. 

“Fine, I’ll spell it out. Orions and Vulcans? We’re not so different when it comes to our partners. Sure, Vulcans don’t do casual hookups like we might, but once they’re set on someone—really set—it’s like a warp core locking onto a target. They’re the one.”

Jim nearly chokes, his voice cracking as he echoes, “The one?”

His hands tremble again, and he grips the edge of the counter, the wood cool and solid under his fingers, steadying him as his mind reels.

Spock, the one? The thought is too big, too heavy, like a starship crashing through his chest, splintering every defense he’s built, leaving him raw and exposed under Gaila’s knowing gaze.

Gaila snorts, grabbing a stack of glasses to help polish, her movements fluid and effortless, her wings dropping flecks of glitter with each movement.

“Yes, Jim, the one,” she says, fixing him with a knowing look, her voice softening but still laced with that teasing edge that makes his cheeks burn. “You know what I mean. He really likes you, Jim. Like, ‘would’ve put Mitchell in the hospital last night’ likes you. His feelings are real—deep, Vulcan-level deep. They don’t just pick someone and walk away.”

Jim winces, his shoulders hunching as he grabs another glass, his fingers still unsteady, the cloth trembling slightly in his grip.

“You saw that?” he mutters, his face heating again, the memory of Spock’s grip on Gary’s wrist flashing vivid—those dark eyes blazing with barely restrained fury, his body a shield between Jim and the world.

Gaila laughs again, tossing her red curls, “The whole second floor saw it, Jim. Professor Spock was ready to throw down for you. Again.” She sets a glass down with a sharp clink, her eyes narrowing playfully, her grin wicked. “And don’t think I didn’t notice you dodging the question. Something happened, didn’t it? I can smell it on you.”

Jim’s heart skips, but he shakes his head, his grin shaky as he polishes faster, avoiding her prying gaze.

He can’t bring himself to admit Spock’s confession—not when it’s still burning through him, a fire he’s not sure he can contain. But Gaila’s knowing smirk tells him she’s already pieced it together, her instincts sharp as ever.

She leans in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, her wings still as she holds his gaze. “Vulcans, Jim—they’re quite the romantics. Obsessive, even. They bury it under all that logic,” she laughs softly, the sound warm and teasing, “I mean, they have to, or we’d all be in trouble. But it’s there, simmering, like a star about to go supernova.”

Jim’s mind flashes to his drunken list—slightly obsessed with me— Heat floods his cheeks, and he fumbles the glass, nearly dropping it, the clink loud against the counter, drawing a glance from the patron in the corner.

“Obsessive? Are you messing with me, Gaila?” he asks, his voice a little too high, trying to play it off as he grabs another glass pint, his hands betraying his nerves.

Gaila shakes her head, her grin widening, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “Messing with you? I’m giving you info you can’t find on the web. For Vulcans, it’s different—telepathic bonds, mental compatibility, all that jazz. When they choose a partner, it’s not just physical attraction; it’s a connection that runs deep. Trust me—his feelings are true, all-consuming, the kind that don’t fade.”

Jim swallows hard, his pulse quickening as he picks up another glass, rubbing it absently, the cloth squeaking against the rim. “Is that why you were poking at him the other night?”

“Oh yeah,” Gaila admits with a sly wink, “Kind of hard not to goad a reaction out of him. He knew I wasn’t into you like that, but just tossing a small compliment your way got him ready to bite my head off. Territorial—classic Vulcan in love.”

Jim’s face flushes deeper, and he switches to restocking bottles, his hands fumbling with a crate of Andorian ale, the blue liquid sloshing slightly as he sets it down too hard. 

“Love? Now you’re definitely messing with me.”

Gaila’s eyes gleam, undeterred. “And don’t get me started on the looks he was giving everyone ogling you all night,” she continues, her voice dripping with relish. “Glaring at anyone who got too close, marking his territory, making sure everyone knew who’s claimed you.”

“Claimed?!” Jim exclaims, his voice loud enough to draw attention from the two bee-costumed patrons, their antennae bobbing as they glance over from their table.

He lowers his voice, scanning the room, but the DJ’s beat drowns out his outburst, the crowd growing thicker as more guests arrive—a half-dressed pirate in a leather eyepatch swaggering toward the bar, a Tellarite in a garish outfit laughing boisterously, their voices blending with the music.

Gaila ignores his outburst, pouting dramatically, her lower lip jutting out as she leans closer, “Though I was hoping he’d claim you more openly, like with a searing lip lock in front of us all.” She sighs theatrically, fanning herself with one hand, her glitter catching the light like a halo. “A girl can dream.”

“Claim… what do you mean by that?” Jim asks quietly, his heart still racing, eyes darting to ensure no one’s eavesdropping, the noise of the lounge a chaotic shield around them.

“Well, I mean, he’s letting everyone know you’re off limits. Just his,” Gaila says, her voice teasing but earnest, her wings giving a playful flutter that sends another sprinkle of glitter drifting down. “Professor S has serious feelings for you—and, let’s be real, a raging libido.” She winks, her voice dropping to a teasing purr, making Jim’s face flush further as he nearly drops a bottle, the glass clinking loudly against the shelf.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” Jim mutters, his voice barely audible over the thumping music, his hands gripping the bottle tightly.

“Welllll,” Gaila drawls, laughing as she leans back, her wings shimmering in the shifting lights, “you could take him up on his offer, become the hottest couple on campus, have great sex—then come and tell me all about it.”

She grins, but her expression softens, catching the storm in Jim’s eyes. Her voice quiets, her gaze turning stern, almost maternal. “He wants you, Jim, and he’s not giving up on his one. Vulcans don’t do half-measures. You’re it for him.”

Jim exhales shakily, setting the bottle down with a soft clink, his eyes drifting to the string lights flickering, their glow a faint echo of the hope sparking in his chest.

Spock’s one. Me?

The thought is exhilarating, terrifying, a supernova of possibility that threatens to burn away every doubt. 

But the fear lingers—clawing at the edges of his mind, whispering that he’ll ruin it.

He wants to believe Gaila, but his scars run deep, and the idea of letting Spock in, of risking it all, feels like stepping off a cliff into the unknown.

He knows he can’t dodge it much longer—not from Spock, not from himself.

The lounge pulses around him, the DJ’s beat thumping through his bones, the crowd growing louder, wilder, but all he sees is Spock—those dark eyes, that unyielding want, calling him to take the leap.

⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚

The mess hall buzzes with the controlled chaos of a Monday morning, a symphony of clattering trays, muffled laughter, and the hum of overlapping conversations.

Starfleet insignias and motivational slogans line the walls, their bold letters fading into the background amidst the sea of red-uniformed cadets weaving between tables, trays piled high with replicated breakfasts. 

The air carries the mingled scents of synthetic coffee, slightly overcooked eggs, and the faint, chemical tang of replicators working overtime, their soft whir a constant undercurrent to the morning rush.

Jim sits alone at a corner table, tucked near a viewport framing the foggy skyline, the mist blurring the distant spires into ghostly shapes.

He’s hunched over a bowl of oatmeal, the spoon lazily stirring the congealing mess, his coffee mug steaming beside it, untouched.

His red cadet uniform is slightly wrinkled, the collar askew, and his blond hair’s a touch messier than regulation, strands falling into his eyes. His blue eyes are sharp but distracted, scanning the room absentmindedly.

He’s not in the mood for company—too much on his mind after the weekend—but the mess hall’s too crowded for solitude to last.

A tray clatters onto the table across from him, jolting him from his thoughts. He looks up to see a familiar face—the first-year from his subspace mechanics class. They’ve spoken maybe three times, brief exchanges about assignments or passing comments during lectures. 

Her blonde hair is pulled into a neat bun, and her uniform is crisp, a contrast to his own disheveled state. She’s balancing a tray loaded with buttered toast, a pile of grapes, and a cup of orange juice that sloshes slightly as she settles.

“I’m Rand. Janice Rand. Subspace mechanics,” she says, not really asking as she slides into the seat, her movements confident. “Mind if I join you for breakfast?”

Jim blinks, caught off guard, his spoon pausing mid-stir. “Uh, sure. Yeah, go for it,” he says, forcing a half-smile as he straightens up, brushing a hand through his hair.

She pops a grape into her mouth, chewing with a grin that’s equal parts friendly and mischievous, her hazel eyes glinting under the mess hall’s harsh lights.

“Heard you had a wild Halloween.” Her tone is light, but there’s a curious edge as she leans forward slightly, resting an elbow on the table. 

“Didn’t know you were hanging out with Professor Spock. What’s the deal with that? You two, like, a thing now?”

Jim nearly chokes on his coffee, the mug clinking loudly against the table as he sets it down too fast, a few drops splashing onto his tray. His face flushes, embarrassment and irritation heating his cheeks.

“What? No, we’re just… working on a project,” he says, his voice too quick, too defensive. He stabs at his oatmeal, the spoon scraping the bowl with a harsh grind. “Just a research thing. That’s it.”

Rand raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, her lips twitching with amusement. She leans forward, resting her chin on one hand, her gaze sharp.

“You’re a real go-getter, Jim. A few months ago, I saw you looking up his profile in class, and now you’re… what, dating? You gotta teach me your ways.”

“Ways? Janice, we’re not dating,” he says firmly, glancing around, hoping his voice hasn’t drawn attention from the nearby cadets—a group of engineering students laughing over pancakes, a cadet eating alone with a padd in hand.

His heart pounds, the denial sounding weaker every time he says it.

She squints, her grin teasing. “Are you sure? ‘Cause the way he was looking at you at Tony’s?” She laughs, a short, playful sound, and pops another grape into her mouth. “Kinda intense for ‘just a project.’”

Jim’s stomach lurches, a knot of unease tightening. “You were at Tony’s last weekend?”

His voice is tighter than he means it to be, his mind flashing to the crowded lounge, the pulsing music, and Spock—calm, composed Spock—grabbing that perv's arm with a grip that could’ve snapped bone, his dark eyes blazing with quiet fury.

“Oh, yeah. Lots of us were,” Rand says, her grin widening as she leans back, twirling a grape between her fingers. “I was near the bar, saw the whole thing. Professor Spock almost broke that guy’s arm. Not exactly the quiet vibe most assumed, huh?”

She tilts her head, studying him, her expression softening slightly. “You okay?”

Jim stares at his oatmeal, the grayish mush suddenly the most fascinating thing in the room. His throat feels tight, and he swallows hard, his voice low. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… didn’t expect it to be news.”

Rand shrugs, buttering a piece of toast with deliberate care, the knife scraping softly against the bread. “It’s not news news, but people talk. Especially when a professor goes off like that.” She pauses, her knife hovering, her eyes flicking up to meet his. “So, you’re sure you two aren’t a thing?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Jim snaps, pushing his bowl away, the oatmeal untouched and unappealing. His appetite’s gone, replaced by a knot of unease that sits heavy in his gut. He leans back, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. 

“Spock and I are friends. That’s it. Can we drop it?”

She tilts her head, her eyes narrowing slightly, a spark of skepticism in her gaze. “Funny, you said you guys were project partners, now you’re ‘friends.’” She makes air quotes with her fingers, her grin teasing but not cruel. “You don’t even call him ‘Professor.’ Just ‘Spock.’ That’s pretty friendly.”

Jim feels his face heat again, the flush creeping down his neck. Gaila’s voice flashes through his mind, calling him Professor Spock, and now he’s realizing how easily Spock slips out, how natural it feels.

“We’re… close. As friends,” he says, but the words feel flimsy, and Rand’s raised eyebrow tells him she thinks so too. He rubs the back of his neck, trying to shake the discomfort, his fingers catching in his messy hair. “Look, did you just come over here to grill me about Spock?”

Rand laughs, holding up her hands in mock surrender, the toast still clutched in one.

“Okay, okay, I’ll back off. I did actually want to ask about something else.” Her tone shifts to something more practical, her posture relaxing. “You got notes from last class? I missed the bit on subspace field harmonics, and I know you’re good at keeping up.”

Jim exhales, grateful for the change in topic, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Yeah, I’ve got ‘em. I can send you my notes after breakfast.” He forces a smile, but it’s strained, his mind still tangled with thoughts of Spock.

“Nope, that’s it.” Rand pops another grape, her expression softening fully now, her eyes warm but still playful. “You’re alright, Kirk. Just… maybe figure out what’s going on with you and Professor Spock before the whole Academy starts betting on it.” She winks, but there’s no malice, just a classmate’s gentle ribbing.

Jim snorts, grabbing his tray as he stands, the metal cool against his palms. “Thanks for the advice,” he says, his tone dry, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

He heads for the tray return, the mess hall’s noise—clinking dishes, overlapping voices, the hum of replicators—fading into a dull roar behind him.

Everyone sees it.

The thought twists in his gut, a mix of exhilaration and fear. It’s worse that everyone else seems so certain of Spock’s feelings, while he’s still caught in a spiral of doubt, terrified of what it means to let himself believe.

⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚

Tuesday afternoon, the fog clings low to the ground, wrapping the neighborhood in a cool, damp haze that muffles the world.

Jim laces up his running shoes, the worn soles scuffing against his apartment’s threadbare rug.

He needs to move, to outrun the thoughts chasing him—Spock’s dark eyes, piercing and steady; his voice, calm yet heavy with intent; the weight of those unread messages piling up on his communicator.

He steps outside, the air sharp with the briny tang of the bay and the slick scent of wet pavement. His breath clouds faintly in the chill as he starts jogging, the rhythm of his footsteps a steady thump against the cracked sidewalk.

The neighborhood blurs past—low-rise buildings with peeling paint, neon signs flickering through the fog, the low trill of hovercars weaving through the mist above.

A street vendor’s cart, steaming with roasted nuts, sends a warm, sugary scent drifting by, and a lone cyclist pedals past, their reflective jacket glowing briefly before vanishing into the haze.

But his mind is elsewhere, stuck on Spock.

He misses him. The realization hits like a phaser blast, sharp and undeniable. The silence he’s imposed, his stonewalling, has severed the easy rhythm of their connection—the late-night lab sessions poring over project schematics, Spock’s dry humor sparking laughter over a shared padd, the quiet check-ins that always felt like more than just a friend’s concern.

Spock’s voice echoes in his head, and Jim’s chest aches, a hollow pang of loss. He’s halted it all, too scared to face his own feelings, too terrified of what it means to want someone like Spock—someone who sees him, really sees him, past the charm and bravado, and doesn’t flinch.

And it’s not just the words. It’s his gestures—deliberate acts that linger in Jim’s mind like stars in a clear sky. 

Spock buying those nightlights, a quiet acknowledgment of his fears without judgment. Or the way Spock never saw his panic attacks as weakness, sitting with him through the worst of them, his steady presence adding security when Jim’s chest felt like it would cave in. 

“You are not diminished by this, Jim.”

Friendly acts, no doubt—kind, thoughtful—but with Spock, they always meant more, carried a weight Jim refused to look at fully.

Each gesture was proof he cared, proof he saw Jim not as the reckless cadet or the charming troublemaker, but as someone worth protecting, worth knowing.

And Jim’s been running from it, just like he’s running now, his sneakers pounding the pavement, trying to outrun the truth that he wants Spock—wants him in a way that terrifies him, because what if he’s too messed up to deserve it?

His pace quickens, his breath coming in sharp bursts, sneakers pounding harder against the pavement, but he can’t outrun the guilt. He’s been dodging Spock’s messages, acting like a coward instead of facing the Vulcan’s confession head-on. 

“I meet them. You should begin a romantic relationship with me.”

The words loop, relentless, stirring a heat that battles the fear in his gut. What if he’d stayed in that hallway? What if he’d leaned into Spock’s warmth, let his firm hands pull him closer, instead of running?

Lost in his thoughts, Jim doesn’t notice the figure ahead until a voice cuts through the fog like a knife. "Jim!”

He stumbles, nearly tripping over a curb as he rounds a corner into a small park, the grass damp and slick underfoot, skeletal trees looming like ghosts through the mist, their bare branches dripping with condensation.

Gary stands there, leaning against a rusted lamppost, his black leather jacket slick with fog, dark hair mussed by the wind, curling slightly at the ends.

His grin is sharp, familiar, and it sets Jim’s teeth on edge, a reminder of old wounds and broken promises.

“Gary,” Jim says, slowing to a stop, his hands on his hips as he catches his breath, the air cold in his lungs. “What do you want?”

Gary pushes off the lamppost, sauntering closer, his boots crunching on the gravel path, his eyes glinting with that same cocky challenge Jim used to fall for.

“Saw you running like you’re escaping something. Or someone.” His grin widens, but there’s a tightness to it, a flicker of longing in his green eyes that Jim recognizes. “Just wanted to say hi. You look… good.”

Jim’s jaw tightens, his hands clenching into fists at his sides, the damp air clinging to his skin. “You acted like an ass at the club, Gary. Seriously. Spock’s still your superior—you could’ve gotten into real trouble.”

Gary snorts, stepping closer, his boots scuffing the gravel, the sound grating in the quiet park. “Trouble? For what? Calling out your boyfriend?” He laughs, but it’s strained, his eyes searching Jim’s face, hungry for a reaction. “Nah, he’s not the type to pull rank.” 

A brief silence falls then, “You and that Vulcan..seriously together?”

They’re not. And Jim’s about to fire it back for the billionth time, his frustration boiling over.

His face heats, pulse spiking. “What if we were?” he snaps, exhaustion and frustration cracking his restraint like thin ice.

He’s tired of this—the constant overthinking, the back-and-forth with everyone, with himself, with what he wants.

What does he want? The question burns, searing through, and he can’t shake the image of Spock—the way he makes Jim’s heart race and his thoughts scatter into chaos.

What if he gave them a chance? 

Gary’s grin falters, his eyes narrowing as he reads the storm behind Jim’s gaze, the conflict written in the tense set of his shoulders. “I could always tell when you’re thinking, Jim,” he says, his voice quieter now, laced with a raw edge of pleading that catches Jim off guard. 

“You’re thinking about him now, aren’t you? That Vulcan. I know I messed up, Jim. I was an idiot—pushing you away, acting like you were just another fling when you weren’t. You never were. I was too caught up in my own ego to see what I had. But I want you back. I’m not letting you go without a fight.”

Jim steps back, shaking his head, his breath ragged, the fog swirling around him like a shroud. “Gary, you can’t get me back. I told you we’re done. You insulted me, made me feel like crap too many times. There is no us anymore.”

Gary’s expression shifts, defiance and desperation flickering across his face, and he steps closer, invading Jim’s space, his voice low and intense.

“I messed up, Jim, I get that now. I see what we could have had, and I was wrong. I’m owning up to it. I still care about you—more than he ever will.”

Jim exhales sharply, frustrated and confused by Gary’s persistence. He takes a few steps back to create some space, relieved when Gary doesn’t close the gap.

“Your boyfriend seems the jealous type, and I’m not scared to face him if he tries to stand in my way. For now, I’ll back off, but I’m not giving up. You’re worth the fight.”

“He’s not—” Jim starts, but the words catch in his throat, his heart pounding so loud it drowns out the drip of water from the trees.

Jim’s heart skips at the thought—He’s not my boyfriend. But what if he was? The idea sparks a shiver, desire, and fear twisting together, radiating through his chest and pulsing across his body.

Gary smirks, stepping back, his hands raised in mock surrender, his jacket catching the faint lamplight as it cuts through the fog. “Maybe he’s not. But he will be. See you around.”

He turns, his figure fading into the mist, leaving Jim standing alone in the park, his breath uneven, the silence heavy except for the distant drip of water and the faint sounds of the city.

Jim watches him go, legs feeling like lead, the damp grass soaking through his sneakers. His chest heaves, but he starts running again, slower now, the rhythm unsteady, each step a struggle against the weight of his thoughts.

His mind spirals. 

Should he give them a chance?

He runs faster, the fog blurring his vision, stinging his eyes, but Spock’s presence is everywhere—in the ache of missing him, in the guilt of his silence, in the pull of wanting more, so much more.

By the time he reaches his apartment, his shirt is damp with sweat and mist, clinging to his skin, his chest heaving as he leans against the door. 

The questions remain, unanswered, heavy as the fog that wraps the building in its cold embrace, but Spock’s voice—“You should begin a romantic relationship with me”—lingers, a beacon in the haze, calling him to take a chance.

⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚

Wednesday evening, and still, Jim hasn’t responded to Spock.

The apartment is dimly lit, the holo-tv casting flickering shadows across the cluttered coffee table, where half-eaten plates of replicated burgers and fries sit abandoned, their greasy scent mingling with the faint tang of spilled soda mixed with whiskey. 

Rain patters relentlessly against the window, the city lights blurring into streaks of neon beyond the glass, mirroring the haze in Jim’s mind.

Jim slouches on the sagging couch, legs stretched out, arms crossed tightly over his chest as if to hold himself together. His sweats hang loose, the hem frayed, his hair a messy tangle from a restless nap that did little to quiet the storm in his head.

His communicator lies face-down on the side table, each notification flash a reminder of the unread messages from Spock.

Guilt gnaws at his insides—ignoring Spock, not hearing him out, acting like a kid instead of facing the truth.

The embarrassment burns hotter now, the delay stretching into days, making every potential reply feel like an apology too late to matter. 

What do I even say? He thinks, “Sorry I ran from your confession”? “Sorry I’m too scared to want you back”?

Bones pauses his show mid-scene, the frozen image of a doctor mid-scapel hovering in the air. He turns to Jim, exasperation etched in the furrow of his brows, his hazel eyes sharp under the soft glow of the overhead lamp, its light pooling on the faded rug.

“Jim, you can’t keep ignoring Spock. I mean, you guys still have to meet up for the project.”

“I know,” Jim mutters, his voice low, barely audible over the rain, his gaze fixed on a scuff mark on the coffee table to avoid Bones’ piercing stare.

Bones leans forward, setting the remote down with a clatter that rattles the nearby mugs, “Now that I think about it, he’s been interested in you from the start.”

Jim’s head snaps up, his cheeks already warming, a flush creeping up his neck. “What do you mean?”

Bones smirks, counting off on his fingers, his Southern drawl thick with that knowing edge that always makes Jim squirm. “Well, why didn’t he just give you his office location? Had you look him up—see all his achievements, his status. All to impress you.”

“What—” Jim starts, but Bones barrels on, undeterred.

“Well, weren’t you impressed?” Bones asks, his grin cocky because he knows damn well Jim was, those dark eyes and composed demeanor hooking him in—the accolades, the intellect, all of it pulled Jim in.

It had been more than impressive; it had been magnetic.

“And don’t get me started on him showing you his fancy hovercar, his cool apartment—all an effort to get your attention, to put his name at the top of your list,” Bones continues, laughing softly, shaking his head. “Blind as a bat, kid.”

Jim’s face burns hotter, the flush spreading down his chest, his fingers twitching against his crossed arms.

He had stopped telling himself days ago that Spock’s feelings weren’t real. And hell, he knows he likes Spock. Likes him a lot.

The thought sends a flutter through his chest, warm and insistent, but it’s tangled with a cold knot of dread that tightens with every heartbeat. 

Could we really work? What about the project if it goes to hell? What about him—could he keep it together if Spock walked away?

The risk of getting attached, of it ending because he's haunted by ghosts—it terrifies him.

“Come on, kid,” Bones says, his tone softening, leaning in closer, his elbow brushing the couch’s armrest. “Can’t you let yourself enjoy something? Why not go after what you really want?”

Jim shifts on the couch, uncrossing his arms to run a hand through his hair, his fingers trembling slightly, catching in the tangled strands.

“Bones, it’s not that simple. What if… what if he finds out about everything?” His voice drops, barely above a whisper, as if saying it louder might make it real.

“Tarsus—it’s not just a bad memory. It’s in me, every day. The screams, the bodies, the way I just… stood there, too small to do anything while Kodos—”

He cuts off, his throat tightening, the words choking him as the memory surges, unbidden: the acrid smell of smoke, the cold pain of starvation, the faces of kids he knew, gone in a flash of phaser fire. 

“I was thirteen, Bones. Thirteen, and I watched them die. Pike carried me out, half-dead, and I still see it every night. The nightmares, the panic attacks—they’re not going away. Ever. A shitty ex like Gary, I’m sure Spock could handle… but this? Tarsus? That’s something I can’t ask anyone to carry.”

Bones’ expression shifts, exasperation giving way to a deep, quiet understanding, his eyes softening as he leans back against the couch cushions, the fabric creaking softly.

“Jim, I get it. I do. Tarsus… that’s a kind of hell no one should’ve gone through, especially not a kid. That’d break anyone, and you’re still here, fighting. That’s not broken; that’s strength.”

He pauses, his drawl gentle now, like he’s coaxing a wounded animal. “But Spock? He’s not some fair-weather friend. He’s seen glimpses already—the panic attacks, the way you push yourself too hard—and he’s still here, still pushing for you. Vulcans don’t do half-measures. If he’s in, he’s in. You gotta trust that.”

Jim shakes his head, his voice quieter, laced with anxiety, his fingers gripping the edge of the couch. “But what if I let him in, and it all falls apart? Tarsus left scars, Bones—not just the kind you see. I wake up screaming some nights, feeling the hunger, hearing the phasers. I feel… safe with Spock, like he could anchor me through it, but what if he sees all that and decides I’m too much?” 

He sighs, “Risking our relationship, possibly losing him as a friend,… I don’t know if I can handle losing him entirely.”

Bones nods slowly, reaching over to squeeze Jim’s shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring, “That’s the fear talking, kid. And yeah, it’s valid. Tarsus left you with ghosts, and they’re loud. But think about how you feel around him—that safety, that spark. Doesn’t that mean something? Spock’s offering you a shot at something real, not some fling. Don’t throw it away because you’re scared. Look at it fully—you deserve to be happy, Jim. Give it a real shot.”

Jim sighs, the conversation draining him like a leaking power cell. He’s lain awake all night the last few days, thinking of every moment they could share—what they could be.

But with those fantasies come the ugly doubts, the memories that claw at him—Tarsus’s screams, the hollow ache of hunger, the guilt of surviving when so many didn’t. 

What if Spock sees every side of me and decides I’m not worth keeping?

He rises abruptly, grabbing his communicator. “I’m beat,” he mutters, heading toward his room, his feet scuffing against the rug.

Bones shouts after him, his voice echoing down the short hallway, “At least read his messages!”

Jim doesn’t respond, his bedroom door swishing shut behind him with a soft hiss. He face-plants onto his bed with a muffled groan. He turns to lay on his side, eyes fixed on his communicator still in his hand.

After a long moment, he scrolls to Spock’s messages, his heart pounding, the unread count—five, now six—glaring at him in judgement. He taps the thread open, the words blurring slightly until he forces himself to focus.

The first message, sent right after the hallway: Jim, if my actions or words have caused you discomfort, I apologize. It was not my intent to unsettle you.

The next, two hours later: I find myself compelled by your presence, Jim. Your intellect and spirit draw me in ways I cannot ignore.

Another on Monday: Each moment apart reinforces my desire to be near you, to explore what we might become.

Tuesday morning: Your absence is keenly felt. I want to reaffirm the depth of my feelings for you.

Later, Tuesday evening: I wish to see you, Jim. To speak of this directly, if you will allow it.

And a new one, sent just hours ago: Jim, the absence of our communication is intolerable. I find myself compelled to seek the cadence of your voice and your touch. My thoughts are singularly occupied by you.

Jim’s breath catches, Gaila’s words about Vulcans and their laser-sharp focus echoing in his mind—that all-consuming intent.

He shouldn’t find it so hot, this subtle ownership in Spock’s words, but it sends a shiver down his spine, heat pooling in his gut despite the tangle of worries twisting there.

This longing he's caught up in, it's exhilarating, terrifying, a spark that could ignite everything or burn it all down.

But Tarsus lingers, a shadow that clings to every hope. 

What if I let Spock in and he sees it all? The scared kid who just stood there, frozen, while Kodos’s goons opened fire, only alive because Pike dragged me out, half-starved, shaking like a leaf, too weak to push off those damn hands. What if I’m just too messed up to be loved?

He sets his communicator down, burying his face in the pillow, Spock's messages burning in his mind, keeping him up all night.

Spock’s words remain—daring him to face his fears, to believe he might be enough.

⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚

Thursday morning, Jim sits in one of the campus libraries, tucked into a corner desk surrounded by towering shelves of glowing data chips, their faint hum a quiet backdrop to the storm outside.

The simulation for his tactics class flickers on his padd, a warp coil model spinning lazily, but his focus is shot, the equations blurring into meaningless lines.

Outside, rain lashes against the tall windowpanes, fat droplets racing down the glass, blurring the view of the foggy campus. The wind howls, rattling the panes, and the dim light casts long shadows across his desk, mirroring the storm in his head—a tempest of guilt and longing.

He’s been dodging Spock for days—since the hallway, since Gary’s taunts, since the weight of those messages piled up, each one more intense than the last. 

“My thoughts are singularly occupied by you.” The words loop in his mind, stirring a heat that battles the guilt and fear knotting his chest.

He misses Spock—but he’s terrified of what it means to let Spock in, to risk exposing the broken pieces his family left behind—the nightmares that wake him gasping, the guilt of surviving when so many didn’t, the kid who watched friends die and could do nothing but hide.

A sudden motion out the corner of his eye interrupts Jim’s thoughts—a tall, slight cadet, her dark ponytail swaying as she hesitates by a shelf, sifting through data chips. Her brown eyes catch his, widening like she’s been caught, sparking Jim’s curiosity

He turns, thinking maybe he startled her, but his gaze lingers as she hesitates, then starts walking toward him.

She stops a few feet away, clutching a padd, “Um, hi,” she says, her voice soft but clear, carrying a confidence that puts him on edge.

“Hi,” Jim replies, his tone cautious, one eyebrow raised as he leans back in his chair. “You are?”

She shakes her head, her ponytail swaying. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have bothered you.” She turns to leave, her boots scuffing lightly on the carpet.

“Wait,” Jim calls, his curiosity winning out over the unease twisting in his gut. “Who’re you?”

She turns back, hesitating, then offers a small smile. “I’m Nyota Uhura.”

Time seems to freeze.

Spock’s friend.

Jim’s stomach lurches, his mind racing. Spock’s no doubt told her everything—his confession, Jim’s silence. The thought of Spock confiding in her, maybe hurt by Jim’s avoidance, sends a fresh wave of guilt crashing over him.

His face heats, and he shifts in his chair, the simulation forgotten, the warp coil spinning uselessly on his padd. “Oh,” he says, his voice tighter than he’d like. “Uh, hi.” He forces a grin, but it feels shaky, his fingers tapping nervously on the desk, the rhythm uneven.

She nods, stepping closer, her expression kind but searching, like she’s trying to read the storm behind his eyes. “Yeah. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I saw you here and… you just looked a little lost.” Her eyes flick to the padd, the untouched simulation, then back to him, her gaze steady but not prying.

Jim laughs, a short, nervous sound that echoes in the quiet library. “Yeah, guess I am.” He pauses, his throat tight, the question burning, clawing its way out despite the fear it drags up. “Is he… mad at me?”

He’s sure Spock’s shared what happened, and the thought of Spock’s disappointment—or worse, hurt—

Nyota snorts, her ponytail swinging as she shakes her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Mad at you? Not possible.” Her smile grows, genuine and warm, and she leans against the edge of his desk, her padd resting against her hip. “But you are missed, Jim.”

Jim’s breath catches, his eyes dropping, where his fingers trace the edge of the padd. “Missed,” he echoes, the word heavy, stirring the guilt of his silence.

He’s the one who’s been running, who’s left Spock’s messages unanswered, who’s let fear call the shots. And yet, Spock misses him? The thought feels impossible, like he doesn’t deserve it. 

But that means Spock meant what he said in his message—how his absence was keenly felt. He flushes, stamping down the flurry of want and desire that crowds his chest at the realization. 

Nyota tilts her head, studying him with a quiet intensity that reminds him, unsettlingly, of Spock. “Do you not like him?” she asks, her tone gentle but direct.

Jim’s head snaps up, his face flushing, the heat creeping down his neck. “I do,” he admits, the words spilling out before he can stop them, surprising him with their ease.

This conversation—with a near-stranger who’s probably Spock’s best friend—should feel like a trap, but there’s a strange comfort in her gaze, like she’s not here to judge.

“I’m just… scared.” His voice cracks, and he looks away, the rain’s steady drum against the windows filling the quiet.

Nyota’s expression softens, her lips curving into a smile that’s warm but tinged with amusement. “You two are both hopeless,” she says, her voice light but kind. “Spock’s not exactly a master at hiding his feelings, you know. Not when it comes to you. And you—” She pauses, her eyes narrowing playfully. “You’re not so good at it either.”

Jim huffs, rubbing a hand over his face, his cheeks still warm, the gesture doing little. “Everyone keeps saying that,” he mutters, “I just… I don’t know what to do. He’s Spock. He’s… perfect. And I’m—”

“Not perfect?” Nyota finishes, her tone teasing but kind, her eyes softening further. “Nobody is, Jim. Not even Spock. He’s just as tangled up over you as you are over him. Trust me, I’ve seen him pacing his office, checking his communicator like crazy.”

She laughs softly, shaking her head, her ponytail swaying. “I can’t tell you what to do, or what’s best. But can you at least talk to him? Answer his messages?”

Jim swallows, his throat tight. Tarsus left him with scars—deep, jagged ones that bleed in the quiet of the night—but Spock’s care, feels like something that could hold him together, if he let it.

Maybe.

He nods, his fingers brushing the padd, the warp coil still spinning, forgotten. “Yeah,” he says, his voice quiet but resolute. “I’ll… I’ll message him.”

Nyota’s smile widens, and she straightens, adjusting her padd against her hip. “Good. You’re not as hopeless as I thought.”

She turns to leave, but Jim calls out, a flush creeping up his cheeks. “You won’t tell him…”

“What?” she asks, turning back with a light scoff, her eyebrow raised. “That you like him? The very thing he wants to hear?”

She laughs again, adjusting her padd in her hand. “Don’t worry, Kirk, scout’s honor.” She winks, then strides off toward the shelves, leaving Jim alone with the rain and his thoughts.

He turns back to the simulation, but his focus is gone, the warp coil a meaningless blur.

He pulls out his communicator, the screen lighting up with Spock’s messages. His thumb hovers, heart pounding, and he types a quick reply: Hey, Spock. Let’s talk tomorrow, at our usual meet up time.

He hits send before he can overthink it, his breath shaky as the message zips off into the ether. A response comes almost instantly—he doesn’t check it, can’t bring himself to.

His nerves are shot but the first time in days, Jim feels a flicker of resolve.

Tomorrow, he’ll face Spock. Tomorrow, he’ll face himself.

⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚

It’s late that Thursday evening, the library is closed to students, and Jim is finishing his shift in the auxiliary archive wing, stocking data files and other resources before he’s free. Towering shelves surround him, lined with glowing data chips and holographic indexes that hum softly, casting ethereal blue flickers across the carpeted aisles. 

The air smells faintly of polished metal and recycled air, cool and sterile, the silence broken only by the occasional beep of a scanner or the faint thud of Jim’s boots against the carpet.

Outside, through the wide windows high on the walls, the night presses in, rain pattering against the glass, blurring the campus lights into hazy orbs.

His cart is piled high with data chips—mission logs, xenobiology texts, engineering schematics—each one requiring precise placement. His hands are steady as he slots them into place, but his mind is a maelstrom, churning with thoughts of Spock.

The guilt of dodging him, of letting this drag on, sits heavy in his gut, twisting with the memory of their hallway encounter and the heat of Spock’s words.

What if I say yes? What if I ruin everything?

The questions loop relentlessly.

He’s got half an hour left when he hears his coworker—a lanky cadet from xenolinguistics with a perpetual grin—call out a quick goodbye from the front desk.

“Night, Jim! Don’t stay too late—the rain’s brutal out there!”

Jim glances up, catching the shifting shadows from the terminals as they power down one by one, their glow fading to black with soft chimes. His coworker gathers their things with a rustle of bags and coats, footsteps echoing sharply against the polished tile floor at the entrance.

The door hisses open, and instead of silence, Jim hears his coworker’s voice, polite and surprised. “Oh, hi, Professor. We’re closed now, but I’m sure Cadet Kirk can help you with whatever you need. Bye.”

A quick flurry of feet follows, the door swishing shut again, and then… quiet. But it’s not an empty quiet.

He hears the professor take a couple of steps on the tile, then stop, the sound deliberate, as if waiting.

Jim sighs, placing the stack of data chips in his hands back onto his cart with a soft clink. The library is closed to students, but of course, not to professional staff. Best to help the professor with what they need.

The quicker, the better, he thinks. Then I can finish and get out before my morning shift drags me back here. Stepping away from the shelf, he pads down the aisle, the carpet muffling his steps until he’s face-to-face with the professor.

It’s Spock. Of course it is.

The Vulcan stands near the door, his dark uniform impeccable, his insignia pin glinting under the soft glow of the overhead panels. His eyes lock onto Jim’s, intense, a dark fire that pins Jim in place. 

His throat tightens, his pulse kicking up, and he feels like he might collapse under the weight of that gaze—those eyes, God, they see everything.

“So, what do you need help with, Professor?” Jim blurts, turning on his heel before he can crumble, his voice too high, too forced.

He hears Spock follow, footsteps measured but insistent, as he returns to his shelf with his cart, fumbling for another stack, his heart hammering.

Spock states evenly, “I wished to speak with you.”

Jim counters, shoving a file into place—the wrong spot, but he doesn’t care—“Didn’t I say we’d talk tomorrow?” 

There’s a bit of silence between them, thick and charged, the hum of the indexes the only sound. Jim breaks it by placing more data files on the shelf, not really sure if it’s the correct place, his fingers trembling slightly. 

“Nyota told me you have similar feelings for me,” Spock says, slicing through the quiet.

Jim scoffs, laughing lightly under his breath—scout's honor, my ass—though he can’t be surprised she told Spock. Of course she did.

“So what, you just had to talk to me now about it?”

“Yes,” Spock responds without hesitation, his tone unwavering. “I could think of nothing else throughout the rest of my lectures.”

“Sorry to have been so distracting,” Jim mutters, his cheeks warming, a flush creeping up his neck as he grabs another data chip.

“I have not, in my career—” Spock begins.

Jim pauses, uncertain, glancing over his shoulder. “What? Been distracted?”

Spock places a firm hand on top of his gripping the cart, halting his movement, his touch sending a jolt through Jim’s arm.

“Yes. You have broken my focus many times, a phenomenon I have never experienced.”

Jim’s face burns, heat flooding his cheeks, his pulse thundering in his ears.

Me? Distracting Spock? The thought is dizzying, thrilling, terrifying—his lectures, packed with cadets hanging on his every word, and he was thinking of me?

Spock then asks, “Have you considered my proposition?”

Jim’s breath catches. “Considered? Spock, have you? You’re a professor, and I’m a cadet—”

“Section 4.2.7 of Starfleet Regulation 19-Alpha states that a professional staff member may engage in a romantic relationship with a student, provided they are not instructing said student. You will never be my student, Jim. Therefore, we can pursue a romantic relationship without concern for Starfleet regulations.”

Jim gapes, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, the rain’s steady drum against the windows mocking his silence.

He’s thought of everything—regulations, risks, outcomes. His treacherous mind can’t help but find it all… attractive.

Before he can speak, Spock continues, “You share feelings for me, so I do not understand your hesitation.”

“Well, for one, Spock,” Jim says, sliding his hand from under Spock’s, resuming his stocking with jerky movements, “I really care about the work we’re doing on the project for the colony. We date, we don’t work out—then what? Our testing is supposed to go on until April.”

Spock counters smoothly, “We are both professionals. In the event of a dissolution of our relationship, we would maintain our collaboration. Though I have no intention of dissolving any relationship with you.”

The certainty in Spock’s voice makes Jim’s chest tighten, a warm ache spreading through him—he means it, God, he really means it. 

He clutches the data chips tighter, his knuckles whitening, trying to anchor himself as Spock’s words echo in the quiet aisle.

The hum of the holographic indexes feels louder, pressing against his fraying nerves, the blue glow flickering across his hands like a restless pulse. Spock stands close, and this time Jim can’t escape.

“Look, Spock,” Jim says, his voice unsteady as he shoves another chip onto the shelf, not caring if it’s misfiled, the metal edge biting against his trembling fingers. “Still, won’t it be… complicated? You’re a professor, I’m a cadet. People talk—”

“Irrelevant,” Spock interrupts, his tone calm but firm, cutting through Jim’s protest like a phaser through fog. “I am unconcerned with the opinions of others. My only concern is you.”

Jim’s jaw clenches, heat flaring up his back as his fingers fumble with another chip, slipping slightly in his grip.

He’s got an answer for everything.

“Okay, heard you, but what about our friendship?” he presses, turning slightly to glance at Spock, heart thudding against his ribs like a trapped bird.

“We’ve got something good, Spock. The lab, the project, those late nights playing chess. If we date and it crashes and burns, what happens then? I don’t want to lose that.”

Spock’s head tilts, his dark eyes softening but never wavering, pinning Jim in place.

“Our friendship would only deepen through a romantic relationship,” he says, his voice low, resonant, vibrating through the air. “Should any difficulties arise, our shared commitment to mutual respect and collaboration would ensure its preservation. I value our connection too highly to allow it to fracture.”

Jim huffs, a shaky laugh escaping as he turns back to the shelf, his hands moving faster, shoving data chips into place with a soft clatter. 

He’s thought of that too.

The rain outside pounds harder, its rhythm echoing through the high windows like a warning. He’s giving in, running out of excuses, and the good sense to resist taking the leap.

“Yeah, well, what about…” he starts, his voice dropping, throat tight as he skirts through his fears—not Tarsus, not the scars that wake him screaming, but something safer, something he can say out loud.

“I’ve dealt with guys who just wanted me for… physical stuff—”

Spock steps closer, his warmth brushing Jim’s side, making his skin prickle with awareness. “You will have complete control over how we proceed in that regard. My interest lies in your mind, your presence, your essence—not merely in fleeting physicality.” He says, his voice steady, preempting Jim’s words with calm certainty.

Jim’s breath catches, his hand freezing mid-motion, the data chip trembling in his grip as he reaches to place it in a slot.

Spock places a hand over Jim’s. “That is not the correct place,” he says softly, his voice a low murmur, before guiding Jim’s hand a few inches down the shelf to where the chip belongs.

He releases his grip and steps back, but Jim can’t help missing his touch—how long has he craved Spock’s touch, his quiet strength? Spock’s words chip away at Jim’s walls, leaving him breathless, exposed, his heart thudding wildly.

Each rebuttal dismantles his defenses, leaving him nowhere to hide.

Ultimately, Spock circles back: “You like me, Jim. As I like you.”

Jim’s voice shakes as he admits, “I’m still trying to wrap my head around you even being interested in me like that. Honestly, Spock, you know I’m a mess.”

Spock answers honestly, “You are highly intelligent in ways that surpass my own, you are compassionate, and I enjoy being in your presence. You are aesthetically pleasing in ways that, I say again, are quite distracting.”

Jim’s mouth goes dry. Spock’s words—so easily spoken—ignite something deep, a rush of heat and disbelief that leaves him reeling.

“I do not think you are a mess,” Spock continues, his voice steady but softer now, as if sensing Jim’s spiraling thoughts. “And for every nightmare you have endured, you have shown resilience that commands my respect.”

Jim’s head shoots up, regret flashing through him—he wishes he’d never mentioned those nightmares, drunk or not.

“Those things don’t repel me, Jim,” Spock says, his tone resolute. “I am prepared to do whatever is necessary to ease your discomfort and support you.”

He continues, “I am also quite prepared to meet the expectations you would have in a Terran relationship, provided they are not overly illogical or contrary to my principles.”

Jim laughs, a brittle sound, because—yeah—Spock did wear a costume for him, something even Gary refused to do.

That thought alone is strong enough to blur the reason and fears in his mind, quieting the warning bells, but they flare back up just as quickly.

If he falls into this, he’s sure he’ll just get hurt again.

“We share a high mental compatibility, one that I cannot—and will not—ignore.”

Jim counters, desperate, not even sure what “high mental compatibility” means—but he has to fire back with something, anything. 

“High mental compatibility? Are you sure you’re not just seeing me as one of your puzzles, another equation to solve?” He pauses, his voice dropping. “Are you sure you’re even really attracted to me, Spock?”

It’s a weak attempt to put distance between them, to push Spock away as he does with everyone. A feeble effort to heed the warning bells in his head screaming that he’s losing focus, giving in.

The words hang in the air, and Jim lifts his eyes, expecting anger or exasperation at his endless excuses.

Instead, Spock moves swiftly and silently, pressing Jim against the shelf, data chips tumbling from his hands to scatter across the floor. Spock’s arms brace on either side, caging him, and Jim’s breath catches as he meets those eyes—dark, raw, burning.

“Your scent,” Spock begins, his voice low, a growl that vibrates through Jim’s chest, sending shivers racing down his spine. “I forced myself not to inhale it from the guest sheets when you first stayed over. It felt deeply painful to remove your scent from them.”

Jim is speechless, his heart hammering as Spock leans closer, breath hot against his ear.

“Your scent now lingers faintly all over my room, present again in my shower, perfuming my bedsheets. I cannot bring myself to wash them, lest I lose it again.”

Spock’s words cut off as he surges forward, capturing Jim’s lips in a searing, fervent kiss that steals the air from his lungs. His hands grip Jim’s waist, fingers digging into the fabric of his uniform as if anchoring himself to this moment.

Jim’s arms wrap around Spock instinctively, pulling him closer—this is bad, he thinks, so bad, but the thought dissolves under the heat of Spock’s mouth, the way his lips claim Jim’s with a hunger that feels uncontrollable, insistent.

Their tongues meet, and Jim gasps at the rougher texture of Spock’s, a delicious friction that sends sparks shooting down his spine. Spock deepens the kiss, a low growl vibrating in his throat—a sound so primal it makes Jim’s knees weak.

Spock’s hands slide up Jim’s back, one palm splaying wide between his shoulder blades, the other curling at the nape of his neck, fingers threading into Jim’s hair with a gentle tug.

Jim moans softly, the sound swallowed by the heat of Spock’s mouth, their tongues tangling in a dance of want and surrender. The taste of Spock—demanding molten desire—overwhelms him, heady and intoxicating.

Spock presses himself closer, their bodies flush, the hard line of his frame pinning Jim against the shelf with force. The shelves bite into Jim’s back, but he barely notices, too lost in the way Spock’s thigh slots between his.

Jim’s hands clutch at Spock’s shoulders, fingers digging into the taut muscle, desperate to ground himself as the kiss turns filthier—wet, open-mouthed, all teeth and tongue, breaths coming in sharp, ragged gasps. Spock’s lips trail briefly to the corner of Jim’s mouth, then down his jaw, a faint scrape of teeth against sensitive skin that makes Jim’s head tip back, a low, needy sound escaping him.

“Spock,” Jim breathes, half-protest, half-plea, his body humming with desire and disbelief.

Spock’s response is a nip at the curve of Jim’s neck, followed by a slow, deliberate lick that sends a shiver through him. Spock’s hands tighten, one sliding down to grip Jim’s hip, pulling him impossibly closer, as if he could meld their bodies together through sheer will.

Jim’s heart pounds, his pulse a wild drumbeat under Spock’s touch, every nerve alight with the intensity of being wanted like this—Spock’s desire a tangible force, wrapping around him like gravity.

They break apart reluctantly, foreheads resting together, breaths mingling. Jim’s chest heaves, his lips swollen and tingling, his body thrumming with a heat that makes his thoughts scatter.

Spock’s eyes, dark and molten, hold his, and they carry a glint that makes Jim’s stomach flip. 

“Jim,” Spock says, his voice husky, eyes staring into his. “Will you begin a romantic relationship with me?”

All the fear swirls in Jim’s head, warning him, screaming at him to stop—but he pushes it back, seeing only Spock, his warmth, his certainty, his security.

“Yes,” he says, his voice steady despite the thudding in his chest. 

God, he’s such an idiot. 

Spock pulls him into a warm embrace, and Jim matches it, his heart thudding wildly against Spock’s chest.

“You should spend the night,” Spock murmurs against his hair, his voice a low rumble.

“Spock, that’s a bit forward,” Jim teases, breathless, but his arms tighten, not wanting to let go.

“And perhaps through the weekend,” Spock adds, his tone measured but carrying a faint trace of hope.

Jim laughs softly, pulling back just enough to meet Spock’s gaze. “I thought I was just staying for tonight?”

“So, you will stay the night?” Spock asks, easing back slightly, his eyes searching Jim’s with that intense focus, a hint of vulnerability flickering beneath.

Jim grins, his heart soaring, head resting against Spock’s shoulder. “Yeah, I will. But I have to go back to my apartment to grab some clothes.”

“You may wear mine,” Spock offers, his voice calm but warm, a subtle heat threading through it.

Jim chuckles, shaking his head. “Maybe to sleep, but I need to grab a clean uniform.”

“Can you not wash the one you are wearing once we arrive at my home?” 

He laughs, fingers gliding across Spock’s uniform jacket, “Didn’t peg you as the clingy type,” Jim says, pulling back his tone, light but his eyes soft, searching Spock’s face for a reaction.

Spock’s brow lifts, a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth betraying amusement. “I am not ‘clingy,’ as you put it. I merely wish to maximize our time together. Time apart has been… undesirable.”

Jim’s smile broadens, his anxiety easing beneath the calm strength of Spock’s presence.“Yeah, for me too. But I'm only staying for the night."

“Acceptable,” Spock replies, his hand lingering on Jim’s arm, warm and grounding. “Though I suspect you will find reasons to extend your stay.”

Jim laughs, the sound bright in the quiet library, the rain’s steady drum fading into the background. “You’re probably right, Spock. You’re probably right.”

He’s such an idiot.