Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Someone’s in a good mood this afternoon,” says Leonard as Jim stalks towards his table across the cafeteria.

Jim slams his lunch tray down and leans into his face. “Was it you?”

“Was what me?” says Leonard, all innocence.

A muscle jumps in Jim’s forehead. “Today is not the day to test my maturity, Bones. You know what I’m talking about.”

Bones sighs and tries to scrounge up some sympathy for his friend, who is clearly wound up like a pretzel over all this. “Relax, young’un,” he says. “I got better things to do than disseminate your smutty literary stylings to the entire cadet class.”

Jim glares hot death for another moment, then falls into his seat and begins shoveling chicken noodle soup into his mouth. “You look pretty smug for a guy who didn’t do any ‘disseminating’,” he accuses between bites.

“Yeah, well, just ‘cause it wasn’t me that stuck my foot out don’t meant it ain’t funny when you trip and land on your face.” Leonard beams at him. Jim's his best friend, and Leonard never wants to see him suffering, but this? This is fair game.

Jim ducks his head furtively. “People are reading it.”

“No accounting for taste.”

“Someone uploaded it to the public Academy server last night at 0001 exactly. It’s 1230 now.”

“And?”

“And the hits are over 50k.”

“Well.” Leonard dabs at his mouth with a napkin. “If they kick you out of the Academy for, I don't know, smuttiness unbecoming? then at least you’ve got a career to fall back on.”

“Goddammit!” Jim flung his spoon down with a clatter. “It was supposed to be an inside joke. Only you guys were ever supposed to see it!”

“Jim.” Leonard tries to sound patient, but he’s tickled pink and self-aware enough to know he’s bad at hiding it. “Writing ten pages of interspecies porn on a dare, now, that was an inside joke. But then you went and turned those ten pages into the first chapter of a damn romance novel.”

“To prove a point!”

Leonard’s eyebrows climb to his hairline. “Well, you proved something, all right.”

“And, it was supposed to be a secret point.”

“Then you shouldn’t have told Gary."

“You don’t really think it was him, do you?” Hot, bright spots of color glow in Jim’s cheeks.

As far as Leonard’s concerned, Gary Mitchell is ten pounds of shit crammed into a five pound bag and if anyone's stalking Jim's network activity, just waiting for a chance to cause him a little grief, that's the prick his money's on.

But he can’t just come out and say that. Being Jim Kirk’s best friend is a delicate dance sometimes.

“Jim,” Leonard says intently. “If Gary Mitchell were behind this, you’d be in a world more trouble than you actually are. Did you fail to notice that whoever uploaded your little porn novel to the student server stripped all the ident tags leading back to you? And, instead of writing JIM KIRK in 42 point font across the top, they made up a Vulcan pen name to protect your precious privacy?”

The expression of stunned disbelief on Jim’s face answers that question. “You didn’t even look, did you.”

“I panicked,” Jim admits, which is rare enough and honest enough that Leonard decides to lay off him a little, even if this is the most hilarious thing he can possibly imagine happening without one of them getting arrested.

Jim opens his PADD, eyes skimming as he swipes through files. Relief softens his expression. “Okay, you’re right. My name’s not there." A few more seconds of furious typing. "My name’s not anywhere. People are talking about the book, but no one’s talking about me.”

The big blue gaze he turns on Leonard is almost uncomfortably vulnerable. “So I’m safe, right? It’s still just between the five of us.”

Leonard would like to say yes. He’s not cruel, and this is obviously stressing Jim out to an almost irrational degree. But Jim asked for his honest opinion, and unfortunately for both of them he's a master at conjuring worst-case scenarios.

“That depends,” he shrugs. “Can anyone trace the name ‘T’Khara’ back to you?”

“Bones, I have done some shady stuff in my life, but I’ve never pretended to be a Vulcan.” Jim’s expression grows thoughtful. “Yeah, even with a wig, I don’t have the cheekbones for it.”

Leonard strangles his smile. “Then I would say you’re in the clear,” he says. “Until someone blabs, of course. And Jim…” He takes a deep breath. “Gary might not have started this, but you know how he gossips. If this thing’s gone as viral as it looks, I don’t know if he’s gonna be able to keep his mouth shut.”

Jim loses interest in his soup abruptly. The vein in his forehead jumps.

“Do you really care that much if people find out?” Leonard says, a little concerned for Jim’s blood pressure. “Hell, it’s not like you did anything against regs. If this gets back to Pike, you just tell him it was a private document that someone released to the public without your knowledge or permission.”

Jim makes a small, strangled noise, like the possibility of Pike’s finding out has only just occurred to him.

“In fact,” Leonard sips the last of his coffee thoughtfully, “if I were you, I’d get out ahead of this thing and give Pike a head’s up now. Less humiliating that way.”

Jim digests this simple logic. “You’re right,” he says at last. “It’s just, ‘author of steamy interspecies romance novels’ isn’t really in keeping with the badass future starship captain image I’m trying to build here, you know?”

Leonard knows next to nothing about non-medical computer systems, but he’s gained the impression that computers in general start purring like cats once Jim starts whispering to them. “Are you really telling me you can’t figure out who uploaded the damn thing? You?”

Jim shrugs. “Gaila’s got the infosec background to strip the file. And she’s…you know, she wouldn’t think the book was anything to be ashamed of.”

“She was a big fan, as I recall.” To Gaila, sharing Jim’s porn novel on the student server would probably be the equivalent of a doting mother sticking her first grader’s crayon scribbles on the fridge with a magnet. Len sure does like that girl a lot.

Jim sighs wearily. “It’s probably one of those cultural things we don’t get. Like how she thinks monogamy is unnatural and unhealthy.”

“That's right. It'd be downright selfish or something to not your share your steamy Vulcan fantasies with all of Starfleet.”

“Fantasies! I am gonna—” Jim’s mouth tightens, and he jabs a finger into Leonard’s face. “For the last time, Bones: Ophelia is a fictional character. She isn’t like, me in a girl suit."

“Maybe not entirely,” says Leonard, eyeing Jim shrewdly. “See, the thing about you is—”

“Fuck, Bones, spare me.”

“You don’t really like yourself all that much,” Bones plows on, ruthlessly. “Oh, you’ve got some obvious assets, you’ll admit to that, but you’ve got the worst case of imposter syndrome I’ve ever observed.”

“What kind of syndrome?”

“The girl in your story has all the parts of you that you don’t mind admitting are okay. Like your brains. And your pretty gold hair, and your sky-blue eyes.”

“Uh, she has blonde hair and blue eyes, so do 80% of all romance novel heroines in the history of Human literature.”

“Pre-First Contact, sure. Not so much these days. You may not have noticed this, growing up in Inbred, Iowa, but you're like, twelve recessive traits in a cadet uniform. People like you ought to be in a museum."

Jim’s mouth twists, because he knows Leonard is right, but the closest he'll come to admitting it is grumbling something about how he’s not the only blonde in Starfleet.

Bones informs him that this says a lot more about Starfleet than it does about human genetic diversity.

Jim scrubs a hand over his face, then backtracks shamelessly.

“So it’s got to be Gaila, right?” he says. “So I just need to talk to her. I explain my concerns, she promises never ever to spill the beans about who T’Khara really is, and my worries are over. Right?”

Leonard decides not to address the fact that Jim’s apparently decided to forget all about Gary Mitchell and his big mouth.

He leans back in his chair with his fingers laced behind his head, spine popping pleasantly. “I just had a thought.”

“Oh?” says Jim, reluctantly.

“There’s a Vulcan in Starfleet. Professor Spock, my ethics instructor? He’s managed to make at least one of his students cry every single day this semester.” Bones relates this fact in the respectful tones it deserves.

“Great, so he sounds like an asshole. What about him?”

“I don't know. I just hope he doesn’t get offended when he finds out someone tried to pass that steaming pile of dribble off as the work of a Vulcan. He might get curious.” Leonard cocks an eyebrow. “You do know what they say about curious Vulcans.”

“Nice try, Bones.” Jim gathers his tray and rises. “But I’ve already got enough on my plate without worrying about some Vulcan I’ll never meet. Also, no one says anything about ‘curious Vulcans’. There is no proverb or axiom like that in any Federation language. This has been your daily reminder that I am, actually, a genius.”

“Now, you didn’t have to get all ornery, Jimmy,” Leonard calls after him, as Jim stalks away to the recycler. “Just for that, I’m joining your new book club!”

Chapter Text

Stoval gazed at the woman curled up on the bunk. She seemed smaller like this; rather, she seemed to desire to make herself smaller, by drawing all her limbs into a neat bundle. How easy it would be to lift her in his arms and carry her into his own quarters. If he chose to do it, she could hardly resist him. Sexual dimorphism was extreme in Humans. The females compensated for the disadvantage of their frailty with increased pain tolerance, resilience, and durability, but when it came to contests of purely physical strength they were among the most vulnerable beings in the Federation. Vulcans females were not at such a disadvantage.

Why did that thought make him flush, distract him from his necessary duties? Why did he hover in Ophelia's doorway, watching the rise and fall of her breathing, veins thrumming with possessiveness?

She said she trusted him. Here was the proof. Surely she would not allow him to see her looking so vulnerable if she did not favor him. But…if she feared him, where on this small ship would she flee? He had disposed of her assailants swiftly. That show of strength had not, he thought, been lost on her. Perhaps Ophelia believed that he required appeasement. Given the dangers she had passed through, her current vulnerability was not to be wondered at. But if it was more than that, if she were…afraid, Stoval would find that displeasing. Turbulent though their acquaintance has been he would not have her frightened, of him or anyone. Her weakness called to his strength, gave it a purpose. Had he not protected her from all who wished her harm? Had she failed to understand the meaning of this?

Without meaning to, Stoval drew nearer to Ophelia's bed. His hand came to hover over the back of her exposed neck, and then an impulse struck him, and he removed the outermost layer of his robes. There were no blankets in this part of the ship. She stirred as he covered her with the garment, and a lock of hair fell away, revealing the sweet tips of her rounded ears to his hungry eyes. Slowly, the tips of his fingers descended…

There is a knock at the door of his office.

Spock jumps like a guilty child and swiftly makes the offending document disappear on his PADD beneath a file of grading spreadsheets. “Enter,” he calls, hiding his reluctance equally thoroughly.

“Captain,” he says a moment later, when the door opens to admit the figure of Christopher Pike, who greets Spock with an uncharacteristically sheepish smile.

Pike waves him back down before Spock can rise.

“I was hoping to catch you before you left for lunch,” he says, which is when Spock notices that Pike is holding a bag that emits pleasant, appetizing odors. “You like banh mi, if I remember correctly?”

“Your memory is, as always, exceptionally retentive,” says Spock, setting his PADD aside as Captain Pike produces disposable plates, forks and knives, napkins, and finally a carton of fragrant sandwiches. Pike serves himself and gestures for Spock to do the same.

Spock wraps a napkin around one of the sandwiches and removes it to his plate.

“It was most generous and thoughtful of you to provide us with such a pleasant meal, and to take the time from your busy schedule to consume it with me.” Spock’s eyebrows lift when Pike pushes a cup of tea across the desk towards him. He tries it; it is still hot, and pleasantly spicy. “I can only conclude, since such practice is not habitual with us, that you have some dire news to impart, and the purpose of this meal is to ‘soften the blow’, in accordance with Terran custom.”

Pike’s eyes widen, then he chuckles. “No, Spock. I think of you every time I get banh mi from that place, and…today, I thought you might want to avoid the officer’s mess.”

“Oh? For what reason?”

“Ah.” Pike looks suddenly awkward. “I, ah, assumed you’d heard.” He clears his throat. “There’s a bit of sensational reading that’s gone sort of viral around campus. Harmless stuff, but kind of racy. Uh…explicit.”

Illogical, indeed, irrational as it is, Spock feels an urge to lock his darkened PADD safely in his desk drawer.

“If you are referring to the fictional work entitled K’diwa, you correctly assume that I am familiar with it,” he says, satisfied with the even tone he manages. “Indeed, I could scarcely be otherwise, as the text was forwarded to me this morning by forty-two of my students, and, somewhat more alarmingly, by twelve of my colleagues.”

Pike runs a hand over his face, sighing softly. “Have you had a chance to, uh, look it over?”

Spock had opened the document the moment he was able to gain a free moment to repair to the solitude of his office. By Human standards, he was a speed reader; it had taken him only twenty minutes to arrive at the crucial midpoint of the novel’s dramatic arc.

In the privacy of his own mind, Spock is willing to admit that he had felt a moment of irritation when he was forced to pause in his reading to answer Pike’s knock. He attributes this to the empirically-proven efficacy of the ancient Terran three-act dramatic structure.

“I have glanced over the first ten chapters,” Spock admits. “The author has some flair for engaging dialogue, and depicts scenes of physical violence with a clinical accuracy that bespeaks combat training. There is also the interesting point of the Vulcan protagonist, and the author’s depiction of Vulcan culture. The work was certainly not composed by a Vulcan, but I am finding that it provides a Human perspective on my people which is rather…intriguing.”

Spock reaches for the cucumber sauce. “But I confess, I do not see what this has to do with my perceived reluctance to appear in the mess at my customary time.”

“Ah.” Pike takes a deep breath. “The thing is, it looks like the…I mean, the document hasn’t been published anywhere except the Academy server. So odds are, the author is Starfleet. And the…pseudonym is Vulcan, and there’s only one Vulcan officer in Starfleet.” Pike leans toward him slightly. “Are you following me here, Spock?”

Of course Spock is following him. He is simply too busy chewing to reply immediately. This is why Vulcans customarily eat in silence.

Masticating and ruminating fill the next two minutes and twenty seven seconds, at which point Spock folds his hands and surveys his former captain across the desk.

“I take it that there are those among the student body who are speculating that I am the author of this novel,” Spock says evenly.

“Look, anyone who knows you knows the idea is ridiculous. But…” Pike shrugs. Not many people know Spock, seems to be the implied sentiment.

“I see,” says Spock.

Pike tilts his head. “You’re being awfully quiet over there. I didn’t break you, did I?”

Spock is aware that Pike is speaking in jest, but the metaphor is apt. He does feel less than optimally functional. However, there is only one cure for terminal distraction: the condition will continue until he has the opportunity to resume reading.

“Under the circumstances,” Spock says, “knowing that the opinions and attitudes expressed in this piece of fiction are being attributed to me, I think it would be best to fully familiarize myself with the remainder of its contents without delay.”

Pike looks faintly relieved, for reasons Spock cannot fathom.

“I was hoping you’d feel like that about it. See, the Student Oversight Committee for Xenodiversity got in touch with me this morning. They’re concerned that the book might be…insensitive. Offensive, even. But since there aren’t any Vulcans on the committee…”

“It is for me to read, and to discover whether offense has been given.” Spock nods, already waking his PADD and moving the document back to the head of his queue. With his other hand, he reaches for his tea. “I am prepared to commence immediately. Thank you for bringing this delicate matter to my attention.”

Pike winces slightly as he rises. “Yeah, speaking of delicate. If you’re gonna read it here, you, uh, might want to lock your office door. It’s not the kind of book I’d read at work, for choice.”

Demonstrating the wisdom which Spock has always respected in him, Pike waves his farewell and makes his exit without forcing Spock to meet his eyes. There are…reasons why Captain Pike might consider it ill-mannered to mention such things to Spock. But the incident took place several years ago, and on another planet, and besides, all the other members of that particular landing party are deceased.

When Spock takes up his PADD again, he finds himself rereading from the first chapter. He has an eidetic memory, so a review of the material is not, strictly speaking, necessary. And yet, now that he is reading for a specific purpose, i.e. to scrutinize the interactions between the Vulcan scientist Stoval and the Human poet Ophelia for any hint of sentiment that might be deemed unbecoming for a Starfleet officer to express publicly, the review is not entirely illogical, either.

He contents himself that there is no evidence of xenophobia, as a Vulcan would define it, anywhere within the first 15,000 words of the story.

By the time he finishes Chapter Thirteen some five thousand words later, Spock has stopped consciously looking.

Really, the absence of xenophobic language and character stereotypes scarcely makes up for the author’s sheer cultural ignorance of Vulcan mating practices. Common sense should suggest that one should not attempt to portray what one has never experienced, yet the Human author (there is no doubt in Spock’s mind that the author is Human) had yielded to no such restraint.

The results are…one might confess to frustration. Spock feels such agitated sympathy on behalf the protagonist, Stoval, that there are moments during reading when he fidgets in his chair.

Due to the statistically improbable number of incidents in which the Human character, Ophelia, faces threats to her person, and the number of times Stoval is accordingly required to defend her, the logical action would be to initiate a mating bond between them. Protectiveness is delicately, yet inextricably, intertwined with other key Vulcan mating drives, and therefore Stoval ought to have recognized what was developing between them after the initial attack at the conference on the starbase. They should have bonded long before the scene in Ophelia's cabin. The omission of any mention of bonding is, in fact, so illogical, so…un-Vulcan that in context it is almost surreal. As if all the characters suddenly had three fingers instead of four, with no explanation given for the change in their physiognomy.

But perhaps Stoval was too telepathically weak to undertake a bonding with a psi-null Human without the aid of a trained healer. Or perhaps Ophelia was disturbed by the idea of submitting to a mating bond. Humans were not accustomed to telepathic contact, after all, and Ophelia had been subjected, throughout the novel’s plot, to a maddening—Spock closes his eyes and takes a centering breath—to a distressing and unnecessary amount of peril, including several incidents in which violation of her body or mind was threatened or attempted. A general attitude of caution would be quite understandable. That, however, is the material point. A bond would be her best protection. Even the weakest of preliminary marital links would have spared Ophelia at least two abductions.

Yet there is an awareness kindling at the back of his mind that shortly eclipses other concerns.

The essential plot of K'diwa centers around Stoval's discovery that his Betazoid research mentor has ties to a galactic smuggling ring (Orion pirates, mostly). This discovery is made possible by the actions of Ophelia, who attempts to bring the chief pirate, Vokk, to the attention of Federation authorities. As a teenager, she had helped her friend Arria and thirteen others escape a life of slavery under Vokk's control. Stoval is pulled along in Ophelia's wake as Vokk, assisted by corrupt Federation collaborators, attempts to subdue her. At first he assists her from a reluctant sense of duty, but as time passes he is increasingly compelled by her courage in the face of the odds arrayed against her.

Much of the novel's dramatic tension derives from the conflict between personalities. Ophelia, a provoking and vulnerable individual, is both fascinated and frustrated by Stoval, a reserved and unimaginative Vulcan who has never had prolonged contact with a Human before. Ophelia's desirable physical appearance and lack of visible connections make her target for the insalubrious attentions of every criminal in the beta quadrant. This provides the rest.

One scene in particular is squatting in Spock's mind, demanding that he solve the equation where x equals a logical explanation for his preoccupation with this novel. Ophelia is separated from Stoval in a rough drinking establishment on a frontier planet with only a few civilized outposts but a heavy traffic in galactic sublegal trade. Stoval leaves her to buy food, and within moments she is surrounded by three massive beings of indeterminate ancestry. They make lewd comments; she declines their advances. Their leader scowls angrily. And Ophelia experiences an instant of what can only be called recognition. As if she has been trapped and helpless like this before, all that remains is this weary resignation..

Her quiet despair is conveyed so unsparingly in a few words that Spock’s throat feels tight, as though his airways are swollen and compressed.

Likewise, her humiliation and relief when Stoval reappears to intervene makes Spock's face burn with a strange heat.

He forces himself to set the PADD aside for a moment and take another centering breath.

He has never experienced anything like this in any work of fiction he has ever read. Never felt as if the sharp fingers of another were digging into his heart, tickling his nerve centers, urging his adrenaline production. He is helpless against the onslaught of, not just emotion but sensation. He wishes he could read it all again for the first time. He wishes he had never read it at all. If he could step into the pages of the story and into Stoval's shoes, to comfort Ophelia and thus purge this…raw feeling, this abrasion in his soul, he would do so. But this is impossible, so he wishes to erase the words themselves from all of time and existence. Until he learns to contend with this feeling he will never again be himself.

Spock finds it necessary to meditate, briefly, at his desk. He does not continue reading until his perspective has been restored.

When he takes his PADD up again, he finds that his previous irritation with the author’s ignorance of Vulcan custom has melted away. In its place is a sentiment almost like…regret.

When he told Captain Pike that he recognized the voice of experience in the scenes depicting hand to hand combat and the use of small arms and melee weapons, he was glimpsing part of a larger truth. The ring of authenticity is found all throughout the story. Though the events that shape the plot are in themselves improbable, the reactions of the characters are grounded and realistic.

Which means that Ophelia's despair and Stoval's isolation are likely drawn from the author's experiences, while the inauthenticity of Stoval's courtship suggests that the comfort and protection he offers Ophelia is not. Somewhere on the campus of Starfleet Academy is the individual who wrote this story out of their own terrible knowledge of an indifferent universe.

Spock would like to speak with them. To understand how it is possible for one person to write what is in another's soul. To ascertain that they are well, and safe, not suffering from any material need.

Perhaps he would ask, why did you write of Vulcans; how can you know all that you know and still know us so little. Protection is in the blood, as they say. Spock would not abandon one of his cadets in a drinking establishment such as the one in which Ophelia had been menaced, let alone his intended.

His father would no sooner leave his Human mother alone in such a place than he would betray the Federation to the Klingons.

Spock finds himself suddenly curious whether any of the other one hundred and twenty-seven Vulcans currently resident in San Francisco have lately been seen in the company of a uniformed Starfleet officer.

Now that he comes to think of it, every Vulcan in San Francisco except for Spock is attached to the embassy in one capacity or another. A simple comm to his father will no doubt produce the information he seeks.

What Spock will do once he has obtained this simple information, he is not yet sure. But it is not wholly illogical to, on occasion, obey the promptings of an impulse.

Chapter Text

“Oh, sweetie.”

“Hnngh.”

“Don’t beat yourself up. It was only a little bit your fault.”

Jim disagrees, silently clinging to his self-loathing like the filthy, tattered comfort object it is.

“I still don’t understand why I couldn’t just delete the file,” Gaila says absent-mindedly, as she rubs soothing circles into Jim’s back, and Jim attempts to asphyxiate himself with one of her furry pillows. “Stripping it was easy, but every time I deleted it, it came back. Like a virus. It was weird.”

Without changing position, Jim feels around blindly until he finds a portion of Gaila he can pat. “You saved my ass,” he says tonelessly. “It’s still creepy that you monitor all of our network activity, but you saved my ass, so I’m not complaining.”

“We really need to work on detoxifying your masculinity,” Gaila says, rolling her eyes. Jim can’t see her, but that tone of voice always comes with free eye-roll. “You should be proud of your fictional baby! Everyone who’s read it is very impressed!”

“No.” Jim heaves himself upright. “No, no, no, they’re not impressed, Gaila. They’re curious. They’re nosy. The only reason they’re still talking about the damn book after all this time—”

“Three days is ‘all this time’?” Gaila blinks.

“—is because they want to know who was a big enough moron to store their goddamn porn in an academic work folder that gets automatically backed up to the public server every 24 hours. It was a goddamn amateur move, Gaila. If you hadn’t caught it, my disgrace would be permanent.” He heaves a sigh. “They’re all mocking me. And the worst part is, I deserve it. I deserve to be mocked.”

He means it. Not locking that file down under a mile of code is easily the stupidest mistake Jim’s made since he joined Starfleet. And that, coming from a cadet who spent last summer on an elective survival training simulation in Antarctica, is saying something.

“You’re not a moron.” Gaila’s tone is still soothing, but it’s starting to take on an impatient edge, like she wants him to hurry up and be soothed already. “It’s not your fault that someone’s stalking your network activity.”

Jim lifts an eyebrow.

“That someone other than me is stalking your network activity. Someone who does not love you or have your best interests at heart. That’s the creeping part.”

“Creepy,” Jim corrects her automatically.

“Look, I covered your ass because I knew you’d react like…this,” Gaila waves a hand to encompass the totality of the hot mess that is Jim Kirk in this moment, “but that doesn’t mean I approve of your squeamishness. It’s the 23rd century. If people think that you writing a sweet, hot, funny—”

“Please stop.”

“—thoughtful, groundbreaking novel is a disqualification for being a Starship captain, then something is very wrong with their idea of what a captain should be,” she finishes sternly.

Jim blinks at her. Gaila puts her hands on her hips.

Jim sighs, chastened.

Gaila drags a basket of laundry out from under the bed and dumps it on the bed, all over Jim’s legs.

“I’m going to get drunk,” Jim says, as she starts shaking a pair of uniform trousers until all the socks fall out of the legs. “I’ve got an off-campus pass I’ve been saving for a rainy day. Come with me?”

“I’m already drinking with Nyota tonight. I’d say you should join us, but you aren’t exactly good for her stress levels.”

Jim can’t argue with that. “Since when does Uhura drink on week nights?”

“She had a date yesterday. She was really excited about it, but the guy turned out to be a jerk. You know.” Gaila’s mouth sets in a flat line. “Grabby.”

“Wait, what? What the fuck, is she okay?”

“Oh, she’s fine, just pissed. Actually, when I saw her this morning she looked kind of smug. I guess the Vulcan ambassador commed her personally to apologize for her date’s behavior? He said he’s never had a problem like that with any of his staff before and he’s investigating it himself. Nyota said he was really embarrassed. Or, you know. Vulcan-embarrassed, which is—”

“Uhura. Got a date with a Vulcan.” Gaila isn’t the type to sugarcoat things; if she says Uhura is fine, then Uhura is fine. Which means Jim can pivot from being concerned to being indignant. “I can't believe she didn’t tell me.”

Gaila’s laugh is a silver, tinkling thing, as lovely as it is destructive to Jim’s ego.

“Stop laughing at me! Come on, even you have to admit that’s cold!” Jim throws a sequined pillow at her. “Uhura’s the one who dared me to write about Vulcans in the first place.” Honestly, Jim understands that he’ll never be Uhura’s first choice of confidante, but she could have given him a heads up. As like, a professional courtesy.

“Mm.” Gaila arches her eyebrow. “Well, I definitely wouldn’t bring it up now. I don’t think she’s all that into Vulcans anymore.”

“Yeah, no, I—I wouldn’t do that.”

Jim leans against the wall beside the bed silently for a few moments while Gaila bundles her socks into pairs.

“Didn’t you say you were going to get drunk?” she says finally.

“Yeah. Have fun tonight, tell Uhura…I don’t know. Make up something she’d want to hear and tell her I said it.”

Jim hoists his bag and submits to one of Gaila’s mandatory cheek-kisses on his way out the door.

Jim really isn’t the type to get completely fucked up (anymore). Nor does he do a lot of drinking on weeknights (anymore).

But there is such a thing as an exception for mitigating circumstances, and boy, does Jim ever have some circumstances.

It’s just after 1500, not even dark yet when he leaves Gaila’s. Back in his own room, he changes his cadet uniform for his other uniform—good jeans, a black t-shirt, and a leather jacket. Bones isn’t back from class yet, which means he has a shift tonight, which settles the question of whether he’d let Jim drag him along for the company.

The walk to the transport station is short, and the shuttle ride is quick. Jim’s jittery enough to be grateful.

Earth spacedock isn’t Jim’s usual watering hole by a long shot. Both finances and laziness tend to limit him to the usual three or four bars near campus that Starfleet officers patronize on the regular.

Tonight, however, he’s looking for anonymity.

He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him, but that’s pretty frequently the case. All he knows for certain is that when he’s in this kind of mood, he usually ends up A) getting his face pounded at the bar, or B) getting his ass pounded in an alley or a bathroom, or C) both, hopefully not by D) the same person. Although that is not outside the realm of possibility, either. Not when he’s like this.

Spacedock bars comes in every flavor, from classy and upscale to the worst dives imaginable. Jim’s sampled all sorts. Granted, he can’t really afford the chic little cocktail lounges, but in slightly nicer clothes he can get away with nursing a soda water until he inevitably catches the eye of someone in a good suit, with deep pockets.

Hell, Jim’s pretty sure he could get away with it even in the leather jacket. But tonight, he just wants to blend in, as much as he ever does.

Luck is with him, because there’s space at the bar at the first place he tries. Jim settles in with some lightly watered Jack, in honor of his best friend.

Maybe Gaila has a point about that masculinity thing. He actually kind of hates whiskey.

He’s been warming his seat for about two hours and has just gotten tipsy enough to switch to Cardassia Sunrises when the barstool next to him gains a new occupant. If Jim had been looking for company he would have checked out his new neighbor right away. Instead, he gives it a minute before glancing over, not wanting to look misleadingly curious.

It’s a Vulcan. There’s a Vulcan sitting next to him. At a bar. And he’s looking at Jim. He nearly falls off his stool.

“Hey,” he croaks.

The Vulcan’s mouth creases at the corner. Magnified by a thousand, and the expression would probably look like a small smile. He lifts his hand in the ta’al.

“Tonk'peh,” he says. “I offer you my name: Makal, son of Valon.”

“Uh, Jim Kirk. Nice to meet you.” He returns Makal’s salute, then angles his hip back on the stool. “You don’t come here very often, I’m guessing.”

“Indeed not.”

“I’ve ever seen a Vulcan in a bar before.” Jim hasn’t seen a Vulcan up close like this since he was a teenager, but he isn’t quite drunk enough to bring that up. “Wait, let me guess. You’re here conducting some kind of xenological field study on the behaviors of unsuspecting, drunk-off-their-ass Human subjects?”

“An intriguing speculation, but I am not a xenologist,” says Makal evenly. “I am only here because it was recommended as being useful for my purposes.”

Jim can’t tell if he's pompous, or if that’s just Makal’s face. “You need help with something?”

“I require the assistance of a partner for my experiments.”

Before Jim can even start unpacking that statement, Makal suddenly rises from the barstool to stand at his full height. Jim’s not short, but Makal stands around 6’6, and when he leans in, it takes all Jim’s years of practice standing up to way worse people to keep himself from flinching. Makal can probably hear how fast his breathing’s gotten.

Makal’s eyes rest on the side of Jim’s face and neck. The hair stands up on the back of Jim’s arms. “I must confess, I had thought the appeal exaggerated, but with proximity I can see the attraction of Human ears.”

Jim blinks, then bursts into laughter.

“I did not realize you would find my remark cause for amusement,” says Makal in a tone devoid of humor.

Jim’s laughter abruptly chokes and dies. “Sorry, it’s just, no one’s ever complimented my ears before.”

“Do you mean to say that ears are not a typical subject of Human flirtations?”

Jim, looking Makal up and down. Not in the I’m devouring you with my eyes way, but in the what even is your deal way. “Wait, is that why you’re here? To flirt?”

“I was under the impression that the Human art of flirtation is considered essential to successful courtships.”

For a moment, Jim thinks regretfully of all the effort he put into arranging a plausible meet-cute between Stoval and Ophelia at a Federation-wide linguistics conference in deep space. Apparently, Vulcans flirt in bars now.

“Depends on the person,” he says when he realizes Makal is waiting for an answer.

Makal nods gravely, as though Jim has just imparted an important nugget of wisdom.

“Despite our surroundings, and your flagrantly revealing attire, you have an air of innocence about you. I was pondering why this should be the case. You are clearly an adult, and exceptionally aesthetically pleasing; thus, it is logical to assume that you are not lacking in carnal experience. I believe it is related to the roundedness of your ears, which echoes the roundedness of your general physiognomy. Vulcans associate this with immaturity.”

Jim doesn’t laugh. “I hate to break this to you, but being told I look like a kid isn’t really a turn on. Kind of the opposite, actually.”

“You misunderstand,” Makal murmurs. “I would have no interest in you if you were childish in appearance. You are simply Human, and though you appear strong and athletic for your own species, you would nonetheless be quite fragile in my hands. I find myself concerned that coitus with me would not be a safe activity for you.”

Jim freezes for a long, awkward moment before he finds his voice again. “Vulcans really value directness, don’t they?”

“Indeed.”

Makal has big hands, with long, slender fingers. When he lifts his hand to brush the shell of Jim’s ear with the backs of his knuckles, Jim shudders on reflex. Deliberately, he turns away. His drink doesn't taste any different but it’s hitting harder than the first three combined.

"Okay, the truth is I didn't come here tonight looking for company.” Jim keeps his eyes down. Part of him can't believe he’s saying this. “So, I’m flattered, but there’s no need to worry about the logistics of how to fuck me without breaking me.”

“You deny me,” says Makal, in a haughty tone that doesn’t conceal the wounded pride, “yet, you are aroused. This is due to my proximity, is it not?”

Okay, that trick with his ear had turned Jim’s knees to water. Jim likes Vulcans, duh. That’s not the point.

“Arousal does not equal consent,” he says, a little more gruffly than is maybe necessary. “That’s Federation law, which is something you should really be familiar with before you go climbing into bed with Humans. We take it seriously. You know, these days.”

Makal’s face darkens in an olive flush, and Jim immediately feels guilty for getting so defensive. He’s never seen an embarrassed Vulcan before.

“Hey, don’t sweat it.” Jim considers patting Makal consolingly on the shoulder, then thinks better of it. He waves the bartender over and lets her scan his credit chip. “The night is young. If a Human is what you’re looking for, you’re in the right place.”

Makal frowns down at him. “Yes, I am aware. You are the Human I desire; you are here; therefore, I am in the correct location.”

“But, I’m about to not be here anymore.” Jim shrugs his jacket on. He has a little more trouble with the armholes than is strictly dignified. “That’s not a coy invitation to follow me, by the way. I have a curfew, I need to get planetside.”

Technically, Jim still has a couple of hours before curfew, but between the unexpected encounter with a horny Vulcan and the fact that his knees are a lot wobblier than they ought to be for amount of alcohol he’s put in his system, now is the moment for retreat.

“Curfew?” Makal’s face smooths. “Of course. You are a cadet at Starfleet Academy.”

Jim gives him a lazy ‘Fleet salute. “Pleasure meeting you, Makal, and best of luck on your quest for Human booty. Handsome guy like you should have no trouble at all.”

“Your words are illogical.”

“You bet.”

Jim beats a path back toward the spacedock transporter station, despite pitching sideways and nearly falling, twice.

When the edges of his vision go fuzzy and grey, he groans, low and furious, because seriously, how much can he fuck up in just one week? But denial is pointless. He’s not just drunk; he’s drunk and drugged. And it’s his own damn fault. After Makal showed up, Jim stopped paying attention to anything else, including his drink.

Hell, Makal could have done it. Jim hadn’t been able to look away from those hungry eyes long enough to pay attention to what his hands were doing.

By the time he reaches the transport station and gets his number for beam-down, Jim is completely numb, except for a prickle at the back of his neck that tells him someone is watching him. Before he can get too worried about it, his number is up, and as soon as he rematerializes on Academy grounds, the only thing he can think about is not vomiting all over the landing pad. He locates a bathroom, submits to nature’s just punishments, then stakes out a spot on a bench within eyeshot of the technician’s station and takes out his comm.

This isn’t his first rodeo. Either he’ll metabolize this shit eventually and lurch his way back to his dorm, or he’ll pass out on this bench, and the techs will call the emergency number on his comm. Which is Bone’s number. He really hopes he can stay conscious, because Bones has predictable reactions to statements like “I got drugged at a bar”, and Jim doesn’t have the energy to talk him out of killing anyone tonight.

He slumps into the corner of the bench shelter. Halfway between sleeping and waking, he feels a warm hand clasp his arm.

“My concerns were valid, I see.” Jim’s eyes can’t focus well enough to get a good look at who’s hovering over him, but the voice that had complimented him on the roundness of his ears is unmistakable. “Your gait was unsteady when you left the drinking establishment. I surmised that you were in no condition to see yourself safely home. It is fortunate that I took it upon myself to follow you.”

“Makal,” Jim says, too wasted to be embarrassed by how much he’s slurring. “I’m gonna, like…pass out, or throw up on your sandals any second now, so—”

“You cannot spend the night alone in a transport terminal while you are in an impaired state.”

Makal picks up Jim’s comm. Thank God, Jim thinks.

But instead of calling Jim’s emergency contact, Makal simply pockets Jim’s comm and picks up Jim, bridal style. He’s gathered up so swiftly and suddenly that if Jim still had a body that obeyed his brain, he’d be fighting, flailing.

Yet it’s as if the shift in his center of gravity is the signal his body was waiting for. The universe is spinning. He’s weightless, floating, and the sounds of the world around him seem to be coming from a long way away.

Fucking Vulcans, is his last thought, before his eyes roll back in his head.

Chapter Text

“Cadet Uhura, I presume?”

The voice echoes in the long corridor where Gaila and Nyota are sitting on a bench, looking over their PADDs and killing time until they have to meet their study group for Principles of Intergalactic Civics.

Nyota startles, slightly; she’s been a little jumpy for the last couple of days. But professionalism takes over, bringing her up off the bench and to attention.

Gaila sucks in a low breath. “Is it me,” she hisses, low in Nyota’s ear, “or are Vulcans just everywhere, lately?”

Nyota steps on her roommate’s toes discreetly. She wishes there were a reflective surface nearby so she knew if her face was blank enough.

"Professor Spock, sir,” she says, as the tall, lean figure in blacks comes to a halt a polite distance away from them. “I’m Cadet Nyota Uhura.”

If Spock had sought her out a few days ago, Nyota would have assumed it was about his Advanced Vulcan class, and whether she was really qualified to skip the introductory and intermediate courses taught by his non-Vulcan colleagues.

Today, a more reasonable assumption is that he's here because of Krevak.

“I see you are acquainted with Cadet Vro.” Spock gives Gaila a polite nod.

“Professor,” says Gaila, beaming. A lot of people at the Academy act like learning Gaila’s name is optional, when calling her "the Orion" will do.

Spock looks back to Nyota. “If you are busy, I will not detain you, Cadet. I sought you out at my father's suggestion, but the matter is not a pressing one.”

His father is Sarek, the Vulcan ambassador to Earth. Yesterday morning he'd commed her without warning. She’d nearly denied the call from the embassy, uncertain how her complaint about Krevak's behavior had been received.

When Sarek’s face appeared on her screen exactly as it appeared in all the news holos and history texts, she’d nearly dropped her comm.

“I'm free at the moment,” she tells him.

Gaila nods brightly. "Mojito night can wait."

Spock arches an eyebrow. Nyota reads the shape of it as curious and (maybe?) a little amused.

“Cadet, my father sends his compliments, and wishes me to inform you that he is prepared to take disciplinary measures against Krevak. Before doing so, however, I am to ascertain whether you have reconsidered bringing the matter to the attention of Starfleet security."

Good, thinks Nyota. An easy question, to start with.

Nyota’s been on worse dates. She’s even had to fight off worse guys—Krevak was still a Vulcan, and had (eventually) yielded to logical threats. And while she’s never been the type to internalize blame before, she does blame herself for allowing her curiosity about Vulcans to blind her to Krevak’s qualities as an individual. Normally, she would see a creep like that coming from a mile away. He'd seemed like the “ideal” Vulcan—quiet, respectful, non-demonstrative.

And he had been, right up until the moment he hadn’t.

"Starfleet would just refer the matter back to the Embassy. And people would talk." Nyota’s smile is sharp and tight, revealing no teeth. “Frankly sir, I received a strong impression that, whatever the ambassador has planned for Krevak, it's worse than anything Starfleet could do.”

Spock’s mouth twitches at the corner. Nyota thinks she’s beginning to decode his tells.

“I see no flaw in your logic," he says. "I will convey your words to my father when I speak with him again."

He looks away, then, and tucks his chin towards his chest, his body language shifting subtly toward uncertainty. “My father is investigating a peculiar phenomenon which has lately arisen amongst the embassy staff.”

Nyota arranges her features into an expression of alert curiosity. Spock pauses, mouth open, as though searching for language to express something too strange for words.

“I do not wish to alarm either of you unduly, but it is possible that Vulcans may approach you in the future. There is currently a trend, or fad, for socializing with Starfleet cadets. My father is at a loss to explain it, although given recent events he will have to take action of some kind."

"Well, sure, we look good in our uniforms, that part's just logical." Gaila looks from Spock to Nyota, wide-eyed. "But, no offense professor, all those Vulcans hunting for partners in the same limited urban population, how is there not…conflict?"

"There are over 5000 cadets," Nyota muses.

"Sure. Vulcans, though…"

"Vulcans tend to territorial courting behaviors," says Spock, in a tone of admission. "Cadet Vro is correct. I cannot explain it."

Nyota’s mind is processing at Warp 5. She knows as much about Vulcans as it’s possible for a curious Human with access to Starfleet archives to find out, and this is news to her. "Is that logical? Sir?" she asks, before she can think better of it.

"Indeed not. Our ideologies are not flawless. In matters of mating and courtship especially, logic sometimes fails to rule our actions. I do not mean to make excuses for Krevak's behavior," he adds hastily.

"No, I think I understand." Her brow knits. She feels like she's standing in the eye of a headache. "Anyway, Krevak was perfectly logical. Cold, not swept away by his feelings. He tried to convince me that he could intercept any complaints I made about him at the embassy before they were seen. I said, in that case, I would be sure to ask Professor Spock to convey my complaint to his father personally."

Spock blinks. "And this threat was effective?"

"He said that you were a descendant of Surak and too Vulcan to take a Human's word over his. But I wasn't buying it, and I guess he wasn't either because he finally let me out of his car."

Spock's face becomes soft and horrified. He purses his lips. "His opinion of my Vulcan identity has changed somewhat since we were at school together."

"Oh. I'm sorry, were you—"

"We were not friends," he assures her, voice dry. "And your threat was more effective than you knew. As your superior officer, I am entitled by ancient Vulcan custom to intervene on your behalf, as if I were an elder member of your own clan. Had you come to me that night Krevak would have ended it in a holding cell."

Nyota stares at him for a long moment. She’s not sure when she stopped breathing, but she’s a little lightheaded, so it might be a good idea to start again.

Any second now.

“Oh my god,” Gaila whispers, high pitched and highly audible. “That is like, so sweet!”

“Gaila!” Nyota hisses.

“What?” She looks from Nyota, to Spock, and back again. “He basically just said that he's your scary big brother now! That's precious!”

The only thing preventing the ground from opening up and swallowing Nyota whole is the faint flush dusting Spock’s cheeks. “That is both a simplification and an overstatement,” he says. “But the comparison is not unapt.”

“Your clan honors mine,” says Nyota, in Vulcan.

Spock blinks, and Nyota chooses to believe that it’s because her accent is just as good as she thinks it is.

“I come to serve,” he says. “I will send you my comm information so that you may contact me if circumstances require. Is there anything further you wish to convey to my father?”

Nyota starts to shake her head, but then epiphany dawns like a summer morning on Gaila’s face.

“It’s the book!” she hisses, grabbing Nyota’s arm. “They found Jim's book!”

“Gaila.”

“Shit!” Gaila claps a hand over her mouth, panicked, as Spock takes a quick, interested step forward.

“Are you by any chance referring to the fictional work entitled ?” he says urgently. “Is the identity of the author known to you?”

“I.” Gaila’s hands flutter wildly. “I promised I wouldn’t tell. I mean, it’s not against regulations to write a novel, is it? He didn’t do anything wrong! Shit, I didn’t mean to say anything.”

For reasons that completely escape Nyota, her roommate feels the same way about Jim Kirk that most people would feel about a lost puppy out in the rain. It’s baffling. Normally Gaila’s an impeccable judge of character.

“Kirk won’t blame you,” says Nyota, patting Gaila’s arm and ignoring her indignant squawk. “Sorry, but there's no point. Professor Spock isn’t a gossip.”

“Jim Kirk?” Spock's face is suddenly marble. “Cadet James T. Kirk is the author of K'diwa?”

Gaila just stands there, looking heartbroken.

Nyota sighs, and turns back to Spock. “The file was uploaded from Jim's PADD to the student server. By his ex, we think. He’s now very concerned that if it's known that he's the author, it will be used to discredit him.”

Normally, she would let Kirk solve his own problems. Then again, Spock isn't reporting her thing to Starfleet security even though according to regulations he really should. If he can make an exception to protect one cadet’s privacy, he can make an exception for another.

“I assure you, I have no desire to censure or expose Cadet Kirk,” Spock says, his eyes positively animated. “In fact—"

A communicator chirps. Spock takes a comm from his pocket and taps at the screen. His face pales in the glow of the blue light.

“You must excuse me, an urgent matter has arisen.” Spock snaps his comm shut and looks down at them. “Do not hesitate to contact me if you have need. Dismissed.”

He doesn’t even bother waiting to acknowledge their salutes before walking away from them, eating up the corridor with his long, exceptionally well-tailored strides.

“Wonder what lit a fire under his testicles,” Gaila says thoughtfully.

“His ass,” says Uhura, distracted.

“Huh?”

“Never mind.”

Chapter Text

A light glows from the passenger seat in the dark interior of Spock's hovercar. His comm is projecting an image of the message he received 7.45 minutes ago onto the transparent aluminum windscreen. Spock, teeth set, resists the temptation to reread it. The maneuver would not be safe while his vehicle is under manual control. (He cannot switch to autopilot or the vehicle will automatically obey all posted speed limits.)

In any case, he has already committed the message to memory.

Embassy1: To Commander Spock, greetings. A Human male has been given shelter at the Embassy due to incapacitation resulting from the use of drugs and alcohol. He has been identified as Cadet James T. Kirk of Starfleet. I trust I may refer the matter to you. Signed, Makal of Vulcan

Attached to the message is a single still image of the cadet, his face pressed into a flat embroidered pillow. He is dressed in a leather jacket, not cadet reds. Blonde hair falls over his smooth forehead. Fine, almost invisible eyelashes brush the thin skin below his lower orbital socket.

When Spock was a child he once saw a picture of Jim Kirk in a Federation history text. In it, Kirk stood between his mother and elder brother, wearing a dark suit, staring soberly at the crowd gathered to commemorate the 10th anniversary of the destruction of the Kelvin.

That somber boy's features have not changed significantly in the past thirteen years.

Spock recalls Captain Pike's air of pride and accomplishment after he returned to campus from the Riverside shipyards, talking of the recruit he "managed to bag at the last minute". And Dr. Kelar, Spock's department head in Computer Sciences, regards Kirk as something of a coding prodigy. Less reliable sources whisper that he is a felon whose criminal record was classified so that Starfleet could enfold George Kirk’s son into its ranks without any undue embarrassment. Some of Spock's colleagues believe that Kirk is destined for greatness, others that his irreverent attitude towards authority undermines the rest of his potential. Strikingly few people are neutral on the subject.

And twenty minutes ago Cadet Vro and Cadet Uhura informed Spock that Jim Kirk is the secret author of K'diwa, whose identity Spock has been investigating (informally, but assiduously). Spock is processing the information with acceptable efficiency. He is well. All is well.

Parts of San Francisco he has not visited since he was a child are flashing past through the side windows. This will be Spock's first visit to the embassy since before he came of age.

He is increasingly fascinated by the revelation of Kirk's authorship. Spock's profile of the person from whose mind K'diwa had been drawn does not fit what he knows of Kirk at all, save in recognizing his high intelligence and versatility. As a scientist, the opportunity of collecting new data firsthand fills him with a pleasant, if illogical, thrill. He is looking forward to retrieving Kirk from the embassy. He is also concerned about what he will find when he gets there.

Cadet Vro's theory regarding the effects of K'diwa on the embassy staff was chillingly plausible, and would explain several mysteries, such as Krevak's choice of victim, as well as a message Spock received recently from a very junior member of his father's staff, asking his opinion whether she should pursue a career in Starfleet.

It all bespeaks a shocking lack of discipline. Such behavior is not in the Vulcan Way. Or perhaps Spock simply dislikes the idea of Jim Kirk unconscious in a large house filled Vulcans who have strong erotic preferences for the cadets of Starfleet Academy.

In truth, he would have come to the assistance of any cadet in Kirk's current predicament. But for the author of K'diwa, Spock breaks municipal speed ordinances.

Jim has woken up in strange places often before. He knows to keep still with his eyes shut until he can tell where he is and who he’s with.

In the same way that he knows he isn’t hurt or in immediate danger, and that he’s resting in relative comfort, he knows that the eyes of at least two people are watching him like a specimen on a slide.

Jim continues to breathe shallowly. Finally, a (female?) speaker whispers, “He is not attired like a Starfleet cadet.”

Bones keeps telling him that he needs more than one civilian outfit, but Jim's jacket and jeans wiped out his maximum Federation clothing allowance for the year. He has to rely on Starfleet to keep him in boots and black t-shirts.

“That is logical, as I did not meet him on the grounds of Starfleet Academy.”

He knows that voice. That's Makal, the “nice round ears you’ve got there” Vulcan from the bar.

…Right, because Jim blacked out, and then Makal swept him into his arms and carried him off. He has a fuzzy memory of being weightless, his head falling back against a hard shoulder.

Something twists in his stomach, but Makal is still talking.

“According to his file he is a second-year cadet. He was admitted to the same accelerated study track as the Academy's first Vulcan student. Perhaps he will be a resource for you, Saavon, if you are still determined to apply."

Saavon launches into a recital of statistics to support the theory that Starfleet Academy will prepare her better for a future in diplomacy than the Vulcan Science Academy. Jim lets it become white noise. He passed out so quickly after Makal found him at the transport terminal that there hadn’t really been time to think about what, exactly, the guy wanted with Jim’s limp, unresisting body. Only now that he feels himself relaxing does he realize how tense he is. Uhura’s shitbag date aside, Jim usually feels at home with Vulcans. The year he’d spent on Vulcan after Tarsus was the only time in his entire life he’s ever felt really safe.

“He is a remarkable specimen of Human youth,” says Saavon, transitioning from an analysis of the Academy's physical requirements. “Does he have a mate?”

“Our conversation was brief,” says Makal, toneless. “I did not inquire as to his bonded status.”

Jim will give him that. The subject of partners hadn’t really come up during the 30 seconds it took Makal to go from “hello”, to, “I want to fuck you so hard I’m afraid I’ll break your ribs”.

"I wonder why he would endanger his health by ingesting such powerful intoxicants.”

Makal makes a low noise of disapproval. “Those who use such substances recreationally inject them by hypospray. I believe they were administered to Cadet Kirk without his knowledge, perhaps mixed with the alcoholic beverage he was consuming.”

"Truly?" Saavon sounds appalled.

"I did not witness it of course, but it is a logical deduction."

Bless his heart for giving Jim the benefit of the doubt just like that. Bones has a saying for situations like this, where sheer good luck provides Jim with a soft landing from out of nowhere. Something about the good Lord having a soft spot for kids and idiots. (Jim, according to Bones, falls into both categories.)

“These drinking establishments,” says Saavon witheringly. “I do not understand why they are permitted to continue operating.”

“It is illogical to suppose that every Human establishment which sells ethanol for recreational consumption is a scene of criminal activity. We must remember that dunap is a work of fiction.”

Saavon switches to Vulcan. Jim hopes it wasn't for privacy.

“I find your logic wanting,” Saavon declares to Makal, her voice cold. “Tonight, you entered a Human bar for the first time. In less than one Standard hour, Cadet Kirk was drugged in your presence.”

Jim peels one eye open, then the other. He's in a living room with fancy furniture, but the decorations are impersonal, like a hotel lobby.

He clears his throat. "I often visit such drinking establishments. They are not so dangerous."

Speaking Vulcan always makes him sound like a mile of bad road. Something about the difference between Vulcan and Human hyoid bones. He gets really formal too, which would be hilarious if anyone who knew him could understand what he was saying.

Mindful of his thudding head, Jim pushes himself on his elbows for a look at his surroundings.

Makal and Saavon are staring at him, wide-eyed. They're dressed in embroidered robes of a similar color and style, but the resemblance ends there. Saavon is small and round-cheeked beneath a pile of elaborately braided hair, and her skin is golden brown, like a Vulcan he knew a long time ago.

Makal steps forward.

“It is pleasing to see you awake, Jim Kirk,” he says. “I ask that you not attempt to rise. We do not have medical staff on hand to treat you. Fortunately, Saavon is an accomplished biochemist, and was able to determine that the intoxicants you were administered would be safely metabolized by your body within a few hours.”

Jim blinks up at Makal and starts to put his feet on the floor. Instantly, Saavon darts forward. Jim falls back on his ass.

“Your body is fighting the effects of a potent combination of illicit drugs designed to render you unconscious or impaired for many hours,” she tells him primly. “It is necessary that you remain prone for another 33.4 minutes, as you may grow disoriented and fall.”

Jim blinks at her. She’s sort of adorable in her earnestness. It’s been awhile since he was around teenage Vulcans.

“You my biochemist?” he says to Saavon.

She flushes. “I am a biochemical research fellow. I estimated that you would regain consciousness approximately ten minutes ago.”

“Huh. Didn’t mean to be late to the party.” He twists his head a little, trying to take the room in. “Not to change the subject, but where am I?”

Jim knows he’s not imagining the flustered note in Makal's voice. “You are in one of the public areas of the Vulcan Embassy. As I am not yet familiar with San Francisco I was uncertain where else to bring you.”

“Right.” Jim glances at Saavon, who is looking between them with an expression of avid interest. “Saavon, may I speak to Makal alone?”

Saavon leaves them without protest, only a backward glance at the door. Jim waits until the door shuts.

“I’m not ungrateful for the care you've provided," he says. "But it’s really important I get back to the Academy. If you could give me my communicator, my roommate will come get me.”

“Cadet Kirk, you have been asleep for approximately 133 minutes. It is already past the hour of your curfew. Fortunately, I was able to contact Commander Spock of Starfleet. I presume he was your Vulcan language instructor?”

Jim coughs. “Uh, no. My roommate takes an ethics course with Commander Spock, but we've never met.”

“Your accent suggests that you were instructed by a Vulcan.”

"Did the commander respond to your message?"

“Yes, he gave an ETA of 27.32 minutes.”

“Great. Thank you.” He sighs. “Starfleet's only Vulcan officer. Lucky me.”

Makal frowns. “Commander Spock will understand that the circumstances of your tardiness were beyond your control. It would be illogical for him to censure you.”

“You’ve never been in the service, have you?”

“No. I am a senior diplomatic aide.”

“Okay. So we’re just waiting for the commander then.” Slowly, Jim sits up. He doesn’t try to stand. He rubs at the marks that the pillow left on the side of his face. “Let me ask you something, since we’ve got time to kill. Why did you really bring me here? I told you not to follow me from the bar.”

“Negative. You informed me that I was not to interpret your words as an invitation to follow you from the bar, and I did not. But I calculated that the amount of alcohol you had imbibed could not account for your state of impairment. I meant only to see you safely to the transporter station, but your condition worsened the longer I observed you. I deemed it logical to assume custody of your person when you lost consciousness on the surface.”

Jim props his head in his hand and squints at the tall, shifty Vulcan. “You just told me what you did. I’m asking why you did it. What’s a random Starfleet cadet to you? You could have just left me with the station techs, I would have been fine.”

Makal gives him an exceptionally blank look. “I could not be certain of that.”

“You’re pretty committed to my wellbeing for a guy who talked to me for five minutes in a bar.” Jim's midwestern enough to feel a twinge at his own rudeness, but he thinks he's justified under the circumstances.

Makal glances aside. His mouth twitches. “Perhaps I overstepped,” he says quietly. “But is it not our duty to pay attention to the needs of those who come into our lives, however briefly?"

The Vulcan embassy is heated to 25C, but Jim feels like the AC just kicked on and drenched him in cold air. That's a line from his book. Makal just quoted Jim's book at him.

“You—you’ve read K'diwa?” Jim says hoarsely, before he can stop himself.

“We at the embassy thought it prudent to become familiar with the contents.”

“Prudent? How come?”

“Ambassador Sarek is the only Vulcan ever to have bonded with a Human female. K'diwa is a fictional account of a courtship between a Vulcan male and a Human female. It was logical to determine whether the Ambassador’s privacy had been somehow compromised.”

"Oh. Yeah, I see what you…" Jim feels himself growing still. "Isn't Ambassador Sarek's son named Spock?"

"Yes. The ambassador forwarded Spock's comm details so that I could contact him on your behalf."

"Did he—I mean, do you think the commander read the book?"

"I have no knowledge of Spock's actions, but given the book's rate of viral saturation, the odds seem high."

Jim exhales slowly.

“The first Vulcans to settle on Terra and take Human mates did so long before Vulcan initiated first contact with Earth. No other planet or its people have ever influenced Vulcans to behave so illogically before. I believe that must be why the book has sparked such interest and debate." Makal touches a vase in an almost fussy gesture. "After reading, I discovered that my understanding of the relationship between our peoples had gained new depth. I began to regard Humans in a new light entirely.”

He clears his throat, as if suddenly remembering where and how they first met. Lucky for Jim, Makal’s PADD beeps then.

“I will return shortly,” he says. His robes flare out behind him as he turns for the door.

A click, a soft thud, and Jim is alone in the room.

He looks at the windows, wondering if he can climb down without killing himself. Then again, self-defenestration might be preferable to the wrath of a Vulcan superior officer. Jim wonders if he's the same one the student committee for xenocultural diversity got to evaluate the book for specism. (There was an article on hot.cadet-net.sf this morning: Viral fiction under fire? XenoDiv and K'diwa.)

Jim collapses back against the pillow and lets hot, heavy eyelids slump together. Whatever he was dosed with, it's not all the way out of his system yet. Bones is going to lose his mind.

He falls asleep so fast that he hears himself start to snore before he's all the way under.

Chapter Text

Rumor has it that in spite of his hybrid status, Spock’s physiology is almost entirely Vulcan.

The few Human deviations he presents are mostly cosmetic, rather than functional in nature; at least, that is the rumor.

Much is made of his very expressive eyes, for example.

As Makal walks down the corridor to the antechamber where Spock waits, cap tucked under one arm in deference to Starfleet's antiquated military protocol, those expressive Human eyes track his approach without deviation. Perhaps he is angry at being inconvenienced. They do not know each other, though Makal has worked with Sarek for most of Spock's lifetime.

It is illogical to feel intimidated by such a youth, whatever his clan, however prodigious his intellect, no matter how unorthodox and illustrious his career.

He greets Spock with the ta’al. “I am grateful you have come,” he says.

“Where is Cadet Kirk?” Spock says, returning the salute but not the greeting.

“He is resting. I will take you to him.”

“A moment, please. How did he come to be incapacitated?”

Briefly, and omitting irrelevant details, Makal outlines his chance encounter with Cadet Kirk. Spock, who seems to possess something of Sarek’s capacity to intimidate by demanding attention while withholding outward reaction, listens without blinking.

“Why did you not alert the technicians at the transport station that the cadet was in need of medical attention?”

“My immediate concern was that he not be left in the care of strangers while he was incapacitated.”

“Curious,” says Spock. “That same concern compelled me to respond to your message as a matter of urgency. In bringing the cadet to the Embassy, you indeed committed him to the care of strangers. Your brief barroom acquaintance notwithstanding.”

Makal can think of no logical reply to this, so he says nothing.

Spock places his hat on a table containing informative brochures for tourists. “I would like to see Mr. Kirk now.”

Though some small part of Makal feels an illogical regret that he will soon be deprived of Jim Kirk’s compelling company, the greater part of him will only know relief once Spock has collected his stray cadet and departed the embassy grounds.

Spock follows silently to the room marked on the building plan as the first public parlor. Makal stops when he sees that Kirk is again asleep.

“He woke briefly before your arrival," he tells Spock in a low voice.

Spock looks past him and makes a small noise, like catching his breath.

"Saavon determined that he was given a combination of Orion and Terran hypnotics," he adds, because it is logical that Spock be made aware.

“Do you mean to say that he was drugged against his will?"

"How else?"

"Your message gave no such indication.”

“He ingested the alcohol willingly. I believe the drugs were mixed with his drinks.”

“Did you witness it?”

“I did not." Makal had thought long on this subject during the ride back to the Embassy, while the warm weight of Jim Kirk’s golden head rested against his thigh. (The contact had been unavoidable; the vehicle had not been spacious.) "At the time of our meeting he had just been served his third and final drink. He was alert and focused, and then abruptly he ceased to be so. The drugs were fast-acting.”

Spock is Vulcan, so it is unnecessary to add that, had any person tampered with Kirk’s beverage in Makal’s presence after it had been served, it would not have gone unnoticed or unremarked.

He glances over at Spock, a query on the tip of his tongue, only to find that Spock no longer appears to be aware of his presence. Instead, the proud young Vulcan’s eyes are trained on Jim Kirk, lying prone on the couch with his arm outstretched. The yellow hair that falls over his forehead seems shot through with threads of gold under the overhead light. What Humans call the apples of his cheeks are pink and flushed. His black Starfleet shirt outlines a shapely chest, rising and falling in the gentle rhythm of sleep.

Makal wonders, with a pang of dismay, whether his own fascination with the Human youth was as transparent as Spock's.

“Thank you for seeing to the cadet's safety,” Spock announces, without bothering to look at him. "We will detain you from your regular duties no longer."

"The honor is to serve," Makal assures him, and with a last glance toward the couch he turns to leave them.

Just before he turns down an adjacent corridor, he hears Spock shutting the door of the first public parlor behind him.

“We’ve known each other for months, since when do you bring me stuff?”

“You would not have accepted anything that I offered you before now,” said Stoval. “You are proud. And you have harmed by those who should have protected you. It is only logical that you do not trust easily. I realized long ago that, if I were to have any hope of winning you, first I would have to prove myself to you.”

"Who said anything about winning anybody. I agreed to first aid, not first base."

"Of course." Stoval took a deep breath. He could see from here that the site at the back of her back where he had removed the tracking chip was now an angry wound. The laceration on her leg from Vokk's knife needed sutures, and the contusion over her eye needed to be scanned by a proper tricorder in case of fracture.

Ophelia pressed her hand to the bulkhead. Her hair swung down in curtains to hide her face. Her thin shoulders rose and fell, and then she turned and sat down, as if offering herself up for slaughter.

“I have killed, to save your life." Petulant. That is how he sounds, even to himself. "If necessary, I would die for you. I desire you for my bonded mate, until death should part us. But for the moment, I will be content if you would explain why you abandoned my company, given the dangers facing you.”

Ophelia stares into the middle distance while Stoval, fingers tingling, brushes the fall of her hair over one shoulder. “You know, ever since we met, you’ve acted like you want to wring my illogical Human neck."

"Perhaps I did, at times," he says, hoping she will laugh.

“Seriously, that first week, I would have given an arm or a leg just to think you considered me a friend. But you've been a blank wall this whole time. And now, suddenly…what changed? Can you explain that, at least?"

First, he washes the blood from the wound on her neck, marveling at the awful beauty of the crimson color straining the cloth. It is more than illogical that beauty should be found in such places; it is obscene, like the loveliness of Ophelia's flushed pink face when she weeps.

“I have been wholly preoccupied by the danger haunting your steps.” Satisfied that the new dressing is secure, and unable to bear the distance any longer, Stoval wraps his arms around her, drawing her down to rest against him. At first she is stiff and unyielding, but Stoval pauses, and after a moment she softens against him. Perhaps it is no more than weariness. Stoval holds her tightly.

“No doubt I gave the appearance of hostile feelings," he explains, ruing the necessity. He should have been wiser. "I have observed that you consistently misinterpret my anger towards those who have harmed you as hostility towards yourself."

"...Huh."

"You do not believe that you deserve to be guarded from pain or harm. So it did not occur to you that I, after witnessing repeated attempts by others to harm you, would be…affected. My behavior confused you because you do not understand your own worth.”

Fascinated, he watches as her eyes begin to shimmer. Bright beads of clear moisture appear in the inner corners of her eyes and then roll over her cheeks. Stoval puts out his hand to catch it, instinctively, and it splashes, hot, against the center of his palm. He makes a fist.

“I do not know how to convince you that you are precious to me," he says. "But I intend to begin by treating you as though you are precious. Perhaps that will get the message across.”

Spock puts the PADD facedown on his lip and takes a centering breath. On the couch on the other side of the room, Jim Kirk snores mildly.

K'diwa may have found favor with his father’s subordinates, but to them it is no more than an hour of titillating entertainment. That it had inspired their illogical experiments, treating Humans as if they were interchangeable test samples, is proof of this.

None of his father’s people can see what Spock sees in Ophelia and Stoval’s story: the many threadbare patches where the author is so unnervingly present that it had felt, while Spock was reading, as though their two minds were touching.

That link, though ephemeral, had been the realest thing in Spock’s world, until the story ended, leaving him without a means of sustaining it.

If Jim Kirk is indeed the author of the passages Spock has pored over nigh-obsessively for three days, then it is useless and untrue to pretend that Spock does not know him. He knows Kirk to the very core of his aching soul.

But Kirk does not yet know Spock.

Never before in his life has he desired to open himself up to the understanding of another person the way he wishes to do with Kirk. He does not even know how to begin trying.

Humans so often find him abrasive. Spock has always attributed this to unavoidable cultural misunderstanding, but such reassurances are not sufficient now. He must not make such mistakes with Kirk. If he should appear superior or aggressive, he might lose the chance of being allowed to know him.

In K’diwa’s early chapters, Stoval took Ophelia’s brash, independent manners at face value. As a result, he wounds her feelings so deeply that she abandons him and Stoval is forced to watch from a distance when she is captured by Orion slavers.

Spock does not want Jim to run away. He must meditate on how to avoid such an outcome. If his mother were here to instruct him, she would know what he should do.

Jim rolls onto his side, hugging an embroidered cushion to his chest, as though he requires the comfort. For some reason it makes Spock think of his mother, her exquisite gentleness when she woke him in the mornings before he was old enough to adhere to the discipline of a schedule. A whisper next to his ear, a feather-soft brush of her hand against his cheek, and an assurance that tea would be ready soon: these were the sensations that gentled him awake each day as a young child.

Jim is not ill, perhaps, but when he wakes he will feel as though he is. He will be dehydrated, at minimum, and may suffer the associated symptoms of headache and muscle cramps. Medical intervention is not strictly required, but other interventions may be welcome.

Spock ends his brief meditation with a new clarity of purpose. He knows his way forward now. He will not err.

Glass clinks against glass and Jim is upright before he’s completely awake. When Frank put the bottle down it meant he was done drinking for the night, and that meant—

“I apologize,” a soft voice says from somewhere above him. “I had not thought the noise would wake you.”

Jim blinks. Scarlet tapestries, non-Terran stone carvings, weird flora in the ornamental vases. The embassy. Something smells spicy. A tray holding a pitcher of water, a glass, and a steaming tea cup rests on the table in front of his sofa.

He looks up. A Vulcan is standing over him with no expression. He's wearing a Starfleet uniform.

“Sir,” Jim croaks, scrambling to come to some form of attention.

Spock steps forward, hand out palm up, and Jim falls back against the couch, muscles shaking from the sudden exertion. Spock folds his arms behind his back.

“Cadet Kirk,” he says. “Are you experiencing disorientation?”

Jim opens his mouth and shuts it. “Honestly, I'm not sure.”

A small crease appears between Spock’s eyebrows. “Perhaps I should have taken you directly to Starfleet Medical.”

“I think I'm all right, sir."

Spock hands him the water glass with a quiet suggestion that he drink it all. Jim studies Spock over the rim.

He's never seen Spock before, even at a distance. Sleek dark hair reflects a halo from the overhead lighting. Streamlined proportions suggest fitness, strength, and non-Human grace.

Well, Jim would probably be light on his feet too, if he was on a planet with 70% the gravity of his homeworld.

“I'm sorry they called you, sir. They didn't ask me, I could have got myself back to campus."

Spock arches an eyebrow. “Then perhaps it is for the best that they did not ask you." He takes the empty glass from Jim. "Your tardiness will be excused, as Makal neglected to secure your consent before removing you from Academy grounds.”

Jim finds himself calming a little, the hunched muscles of his shoulders relaxing. He hadn’t expected Spock to be this easygoing, not after Bones’ story about all those crying cadets.

“I think Makal meant well.” Jim scratches his head and tries to mash it back down into a semblance of order.

“I find myself distinctly uninterested in his motives.” Spock hesitates, then drags an armchair closer to the couch and sits down. “Despite the unorthodox manner of your arrival at the embassy, I trust that you have been treated well?”

Jim wonders for a second what Spock would do if he said no. Give Makal an old-fashioned Starfleet dressing down? Or maybe Vulcans had sick burns they only use with each other. Like calling someone “illogical”, then walking away before the other guy could defend his logic.

“No complaints.” Jim deliberately keeps his voice nonchalant.

Spock lifts that eyebrow again. “Indeed. I am glad to hear it.”

“And I’m ready to leave on your order, sir, I'm not incapacitated anymore.”

Spock sighs. It’s a strangely Human noise.

“There is no need to stand on protocol, Mr. Kirk.” His voice is strangely gentle. “We are not on duty or on Starfleet grounds. I am here because I am known to the embassy staff through my father. I do not regard this as an official encounter, or a disciplinary one.”

Jim snorts. “Yeah well, Pike's probably going to hand me my ass anyway. No point trying to hide anything from him. Interfering bastard.”

Spock stares at him, looking dismayed and maybe kind of disappointed.

"Uh, I call Captain Pike a bastard and he calls me a punk and that's how we show our love for each other. Sir."

Spock’s brow wrinkles. He studies his hands for a moment, and then the corners of his mouth soften in a barely-there smile.

“’Wildly, illogically, and with the infinite variety of expression that is only to be expected of an infinitely creative people,’” he murmurs. Jim can hear the quote marks around. He tries to look curious enough to prompt an explanation.

“That is how my mother described the ways that Humans tend to use Standard. She included this observation in the parting advice she gave me before I left my homeworld."

"Huh. Your mother's Human, right? Makal mentioned."

A look Jim can't identify crosses his face, then he nods. "Accordingly, our household was bilingual. I learned Standard from my mother, naturally, but over the years she has adapted to speaking Federation Standard as Vulcans speak it."

"Formally?" Jim guesses.

"And with great restraint. Although she herself is not always…restrained.” A soft, nostalgic look crosses Spock’s face.

“Sometimes she's, uh," Jim decides not to go with wild since they're talking about Spock's mom, "Illogical?”

“Expressive, ironic, and infinitely creative. And yes, illogical—when she chooses to be.” The corner of Spock’s mouth tips up a little higher. “I believe she enjoyed informing me that many words in Standard have colloquial definitions that contradict or are simply opposite or irrelevant to their formal meanings."

"Like, how I'd say that you were 'cool' to mean that I like you, but not to describe your temperature?"

Spock blinks at him, and flushes slightly. "Yes. And once, an acquaintance told me that I was 'hot', which confused me, as Vulcan's climate is considerably warmer than Earth's and I am often chilled."

Jim covers his face with both hands, laughing helplessly. "I mean," he says, "you're both, if that helps."

"Both attractive and hypothermic? I thank you for your assessment."

He snorts, too loudly, and sinks back against the cushions. A small voice in his head suggests that Spock is cool (and hot), but he's still Jim's superior officer and Jim should probably sit up, and stop giggling so much.

But when he tries to sit up, his arms do their best impression of cooked pasta and his elbows buckle.

"O I am slain by the wrath of my enemies / I shall faint upon the red rock / the very rock of the le-matya den / and the fires of the sky will consume my flesh," Jim declaims in Old High Golic.

"You—"

Jim can turn his head. Spock is staring at him, open-mouthed. It must be his surroundings, because that’s the second time tonight he’s slipped into Vulcan without consciously meaning to.

"You are, if I am not mistaken, reciting from The Sixty-Four Years, an ancient Vulcan poetic saga."

"Did you read it in school too?"

Spock's cheeks turn sage green. "Most assuredly not."

"Oh, right. I guess, for school, it's a little..."

"Distracting. To young minds."

"And I guess if literature class is teaching them too much about the joy of reading, it would be hard for them to move on to differential calculus and Advanced Principles of Surakian Logic."

That line between Spock's eyebrows is back. "How do you—" Suddenly he notices Jim's slumped posture. "Are you unable to sit up?"

"Affirmative," Jim mumbles, eyes half closed. He can feel Spock's eyes on him but he doesn't mind. There is something thrilling about feeling seen.

“I believe we should go to my vehicle before you become too tired to walk.”

Jim nods. He gets off the couch, and to the door, with Spock's help. While Spock inputs his security code, Jim looks over his shoulder and sees Makal, watching them from a distance. He raises his hand in farewell. When Jim looks away he finds Spock still staring down the hall, nostrils flared.

"Weird guy," Jim mumbles, and Spock squeezes Jim's arm a little too hard. (Jim doesn't say anything.)

By the time he's strapped into the passenger seat of Spock’s hovercar, allowing Spock to shut and secure the door behind him, Jim is once again relaxed again, a little sleepy.

"So where were we going?" he asks, when the city lights start flashing past. He lowers the window to let in the salt air smell, and the gust of air ruffles Spock's hair. Jim raises the window again hastily.

"Your dormitory. I presume your roommate, Leonard McCoy, will be there."

"Bones? Nah, he's working." Spock looks startled. "Why, does my uh, condition need monitoring or something?"

"I am not a medical professional, but it seems prudent."

What Jim intends to say is something like, You're welcome to hang out in our dorm if you can stand the atmosphere of student bodies, but I'll be fine if you leave me.

What comes out of his mouth is, "You can watch me if you want." Then lulled by the smooth motion of the vehicle and the quiet, secure presence beside him, Jim falls asleep with his head against the window.

Chapter Text

Leonard wakes up the way he always does after a long shift: all in an instant, miserably lucid, aware of every aching bone and overused muscle in his body. Unlike a normal day, however, he’d been woken by his own alarm, not Jim’s. The kid tries to be considerate, but Leonard’s used to being on-call, both as a father and as a doctor, so he’s probably in the top percentile of lightest sleepers in the galaxy.

He rolls onto his side, facing Jim’s half of the room, ready to throw a pillow at his roommate before he woke up too late to shower before class.

But Jim’s bed is empty. And not just empty: neatly made, like Jim left it this time yesterday morning.

Anxiety crashes over Leonard in a boiling wave, making him forget his lingering exhaustion. He kicks his legs free of the blankets and lunges for the communicator on his bedside table.

If Jim didn’t come home last night, then something is very wrong. And if it has to do with Gary Mitchell in any way, shape, or form Leonard is going to burn San Francisco down.

Leonard might be one of the only people who knows that Jim's party-boy reputation is 90% gossip and the wishful thinking of other people. He studies so much (and not just for his classes, the kid’s PADD stays glued to his hand no matter how far ahead he gets in his coursework), that Leonard’s the one who usually has to push him out the door on a Friday night. Even geniuses need to take breaks now and then, and apparently it falls to their longsuffering best friends/roommates/doctors to see that they do.

Jim’s stayed out overnight on the odd Friday or Saturday, but the only time he ever went missing like this on a week night, Leonard found him in a public bathroom trying to regenerate his own broken wrist. (Gary, of course.)

Already operating on emergency autopilot, Leonard nearly ignores the single unread message waiting on his comm because it’s not from Jim. It’s from Leonard’s ethics professor, of all people.

Professor Spock doesn’t usually communicate with his students by private comm line. Hell, he barely communicates with his students at all. So where the hell did he get Leonard’s personal comm number, and what the hell was he doing calling at…Leonard checks. At 0600 hours?

He taps the notification with a sinking feeling. Professor Spock pops into view.

“Dr. McCoy.” The dark head dips in a nod of greeting. “I am calling to inform you that your roommate, Cadet Kirk, is presently asleep in a guest chamber in my apartment. He was taken last night to the Vulcan Embassy for his own safety. Embassy staff contacted me to retrieve him, but en route to the Academy the cadet fell into a heavy sleep. I felt that he should not be left unattended.” Spock glances at something off-screen for a moment before returning his gaze to the camera. “Cadet Kirk mentioned you, so I deemed it logical to notify you of his whereabouts. I have also learned that you are his personal physician. I suspect that he would benefit from the attention of a medical professional this morning. Captain Pike has excused Cadet Kirk from classes today, and has also cleared your schedule between the hours of 0800 and 1330. I would like to invite you to my home in order that you may see to Cadet Kirk’s wellbeing. You will find directions to my location attached to this message. It would be appreciated if you arrived no later than 1100 hours, as I will need to depart then for the Academy.” He nods again. “Spock out.”

Leonard gapes at the screen for a long moment after the image winks out.

There’s a possibility Leonard’s Baptist childhood hasn’t been completely flushed out his system yet, because deep down, he really doesn’t believe in coincidences.

Four days ago, when Jimmy’s ridiculous little pornvella started making waves amongst the student body, Leonard had joked about what would happen if Spock ever got wind of it. Now he’s got Spock calling his personal comm to let him know that Jim is in his apartment, sleeping off a rough night at the goddamn Vulcan Embassy?

Leonard doesn’t know how the one fact leads to the others, just that it does.

He surges off the bed and kneels in front of the small medical safe he keeps under his bedside table. Between Jim’s allergies and…everything else, Leonard’s had to stock their damn dorm room like a clinic pharmacy. But that won’t do Jim any good if Leonard leaves something important halfway across the city.

Packing the medkit takes him fifteen minutes. Showering, shaving, brushing his teeth, and shucking on his uniform (he opts for his Starfleet Med uniform rather than his cadet reds, since he’s apparently doing this on liberty, and he’ll take any excuse to avoid those damn pajamas) takes only ten.

He’s out of his dormitory and hopping the first transport shuttle to Spock’s end of town by 0805. By 0847, he’s knocking on the door of what he sincerely hopes is Spock’s apartment.

“Doctor.” The door opens so quickly that Leonard would swear Spock had just been standing there, waiting. “Thank you for arriving so promptly. I am sorry that it was necessary to disrupt your morning.”

Spock is already immaculately dressed and pressed in his own uniform, not a hair out of place. His expression is just as blank and uncommunicative as Leonard’s used to seeing it from behind the instructor’s podium in class.

The fingers of his left hand, however, twitch slightly at his sides. It’s the closest to an agitated gesture Leonard has ever seen on him.

“That’s fine, sir,” says Leonard, in as professional a tone as he can manage. “You’d be surprised how often Jimmy disrupts my schedule.”

Spock frowns. His bearing is already stiff, but if possible, his back and shoulders become even more rigid. “Has Cadet Kirk been assaulted before?”

Leonard gapes at him, until he realizes Spock is referring to the drugs. Prolonged exposure to Jim has conditioned Leonard’s brain to jump straight to assumptions about blood and antibiotics and dermal regenerators. He’s not happy Jim got dosed, but it’s Jim, so it could have been a lot worse.

“You might could say that,” he says, slowly, when he realizes Spock is waiting for an answer. He clears his throat. “Mind if I come in, see the patient?”

Spock breaks off staring at him with a confused little blink. “Of course,” he says, backing away to let Leonard through the door.

The faculty apartment is a damn sight fancier than an Academy dorm suite, and a lot more spacious. There’s more than three rooms to begin with, and the view from the bay windows is pretty spectacular. Leonard's had a daydream or two about settling in a place like this after graduating, just something decent with a view to make his daughter jump out of her little ruffled socks.

He follows Spock past a kitchen and dining area, down a short corridor containing two bedrooms. Only one door is open, and that’s where Spock stops. Leonard peers around him.

On a thick pallet on the floor, the kind of thing you roll up in a closet and only get out when you have guests, Jim lies curled up asleep with a heavy red blanket. Color is high, hair a little sweat-damp. Breathing is normal.

And now that Leonard's a doctor again, Spock's no longer his professor and superior officer, but a guy who needs to get the hell out of the way.

“We’ll need some privacy.” He doesn't make it a question.

Spock gives him a small nod, and Leonard brushes past him to kneel at Jim’s side. It takes a surprisingly long time before Leonard hears the door shut; it’s almost as if Spock was reluctant to leave them alone. Leonard doesn’t especially like that thought, but he shifts it to the back of his mind for the moment.

He calibrates his tricorder as noisily as possible next to Jim's bed. (He's learned a thing or two, in over a year of living together, about how not to wake Jim up.)

Leonard brushes the kid’s hair back out of his face and scratches at his scalp a little, as if he were the golden retriever he clearly was in a past life.

“Jimmy,” he says. “Jim, hey. Wake up now, I gotta check you out.”

Jim begins to stir reluctantly, mumbling and shifting and clutching the blanket closer to his chest. Leonard frowns. Jim’s not a heavy sleeper any more than he is. In fact, Jim’s normally up like a shot at the slightest noise. Leonard’s never known him to be this relaxed in an unfamiliar environment.

“Bones?” Jim mutters without opening his eyes.

Leonard exhales gustily. “There you are. You had me worried, I was about to drag you into the shower. Can you sit up?”

“…I mean, probably, but do I have to?”

“I’m serious. I still don’t know what happened to you last night. Your Vulcan savior didn’t tell me a whole lot.”

Leonard should have predicted it, really. Jim’s either on or off, no in-betweens, no middle gears.

“…Shit.”

Jim rolls and leaps up off the mattress, looking around wildly like he’s trying to remember how he got here, or like he thinks there are Vulcan looming in the shadows.

Then his knees buckle.

“And what have I told you about your low blood pressure?” Leonard arches an eyebrow, allowing Jim to collapse back onto the mattress without interfering. “You can’t jump straight up like that. Your plumbing doesn’t like it.”

“Fuck my low blood pressure, I got fucking roofied last night,” Jim snaps, covering his face with his hands like he does when he has a headache.

Leonard rummages for the relevant hypospray. “Well at least you remember that much,” he says, not unkindly. “I’m sorry that happened to you. I’m just grateful it wasn’t worse.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

That’s exactly what Leonard’s afraid of. “Well then, you can tell me all about it.”

Jim snorts. “You wouldn't believe me if I did.”

“I know you landed at the Vulcan Embassy last night, so my threshold of disbelief is a little higher than normal. Lie back now, I’ve gotta scan you.” Leonard waits for Jim to assume the position, then lets his tricorder do its thing. “So. Why the Vulcan embassy, of all places in creation?”

“Because that’s where my helpful Vulcan stalker decided I was going to spend the night.”

Leonard nearly drops the tricorder, head jerking around to stare at the bedroom door like Spock might bust through at any second.

“Not Spock.” Jim waves his hand vaguely. “Is Spock still here? This is his place, right? How did you even find me?”

Leonard feels a thundercloud brewing between his eyebrows. “Yeah, it is, and yeah, he’s here. Don’t change the subject. Didn’t that lowlife who got fresh with Nyota work at the Vulcan Embassy?”

"Yeah, that's what I heard. Wait, how'd you hear about that?"

The tips of Leonard's ears turn hot. How he heard it is none of Jim's business. “So Professor Spock was, what, just in the Vulcan neighborhood?”

“Nah, they called him, they—” Jim’s mouth splits open in a jaw-cracking yawn, and Leonard rears back from the fumes of his morning breath. “They probably figured, you know, I’m Starfleet, he’s Starfleet, he’ll know what to do with this Human we accidentally kidnapped.”

Which doesn’t even begin to answer Leonard’s questions, but they can wait until Jim’s had his hypos, something to eat, and a strong cup of coffee.

“Spock said you fell asleep in his hovercar and wouldn’t wake up,” he can’t resist mentioning. "Probably had to carry you inside like a bridegroom."

Jim shuts his eyes and lets his head flop back onto the pillow. “I find that humiliatingly easy to believe. Bones—" He drops his voice to a low whisper. "What if after all this he finds out about the book? I let it slip that I speak Vulcan, he could put it together."

"Did I know you spoke Vulcan?"

"I speak Vulcan, I lived on Vulcan once—"

"Now hold on!" Jim never talks about his life before Starfleet, but when he does it's always like this: I drove a car over a cliff when I was twelve, I never went to high school, I lived on Vulcan once.

"If he figures it out he's going to be mad, right? Like completely disgusted with me for appropriating his culture to write porn."

Leonard opens his mouth then shuts it again. “Some things, they just don't cover in medical school, Jimbo. Your vitals are looking alright. You're damn lucky, you know.”

“Yeah, I sure feel lucky.”

“I mean your allergies.” Leonard’s learned how to channel his anxiety over Jim into other emotions that Jim can process more easily. Like exasperation, and impatience. He adds a glare for good measure. “At this point I’ve got a pretty good grasp on the binders your system reacts with when it comes to standard Federation medicine, but I haven’t exactly had a chance to cross-reference with illegals, much less alien illegals.”

“Believe it or not, Bones, it did occur to me that I might have a reaction. I just wasn’t in a condition to do anything about it.”

Leonard sighs and squeezes Jim’s arm. It’s too goddamn early in the morning for the complicated emotional stew that Jim's vulnerabilities always stir up for him. He concentrates on his tricorder for a minute.

"You're alright,” he announces finally. “Just need a hypo for the dehydration and one for the pain. Don’t even start.” He raises a finger warningly. “I can tell just by looking at you that you’re a mess of muscle cramps, and I know you got a headache. Wanna stick yourself, or should I do the honors?”

“Bones, I really don’t—”

“Too slow,” says Leonard, and jabs his neck, listening to Jim’s outraged howl with the satisfaction of a man who has just restored order to a small portion of his world.

In the kitchen Spock fills the kettle with water from a filtered pitcher (the mineral profile of water Earth renders it distasteful unfiltered) and programs a heating temperature of 100C. Jim will require hydration and sustenance once Dr. McCoy has finished examining him. Spock requires soothing.

The doctor either does not know or does not care that his normal speaking voice is clearly audible to Vulcan hearing through the closed door. Spock feels no strong desire to inform him. Jim evidently is aware; his voice remains low and inaudible.

It is reassuring that Dr. McCoy seems to be growing less worried as his examination progresses. The intimacy that apparently exists between doctor and patient is somewhat less reassuring, but the complex nature of Human friendships has always eluded him. Spock supposes it is natural, if not entirely logical, for an unusual degree of closeness to develop between friends who have shared quarters for so long. Particularly if one of them has Jim's obvious vulnerabilities, and the other is a caregiver by training and disposition.

Indeed, Spock should be gratified that Jim has such a dedicated friend, especially since his research into the cadet’s background would seem to indicate that he is all but bereft of family.

A sensation of deep contentment has been dawning in Spock gradually since the moment Jim accepted a glass of water from his hands. Conversing with him was…easy. Spock never knew that he could engage with a new acquaintance so fluently, with such genuine interest on both sides.

Unless the interest was all on his side and the appearance of it all on Jim's. It would not do to forget that the cadet was impaired during their exchange. He may not even remember it.

During the drive, as Jim snored softly in his passenger seat, Spock had allowed himself to contemplate the potential for a future in which Jim was more than a mere acquaintance. It hadn't occurred to him that Jim might already be involved with someone until he saw Leonard McCoy in his white uniform, broadcasting anxiety and protectiveness from Spock's doorstep. He is evidently devoted to Jim, or he would be not have responded to Spock’s invitation so swiftly. Spock can only suppose that such qualities must be attractive to a person so unburdened by permanent connections as Jim.

Indeed Spock can think of no objection to McCoy as a partner for Jim save that Spock does not want him to be.

He hopes Jim was not disturbed to find himself waking up in Spock's guest room. Last night Jim fell asleep in his car and could not be wakened. Spock judged that any attempt to return him to his dormitory in an unconscious state might have created a scene that would be most embarrassing, even suspicious looking, to anyone who saw them. And he would have been alone, which was not desirable in his condition.

Spock places a jar of fruit preserves in the center of the tray and carries breakfast for three out to the kitchen table.

Even…even if it should happen that Jim is not free to entertain Spock’s personal overtures, he cannot bear the thought of there being any ill will between them. He has not had a friend since he left Vulcan and he hopes that friendship, at least, is not too much to hope for between himself them. To find Jim, and then never see him again, never discover how he learned to speak Vulcan with a fluency that rivals Amanda Grayson’s, never confess that he has read K’diwa, never find companionship with the inestimable creative mind which had brought it into existence…

If Jim cannot be Spock’s alone, still he and Spock must not be strangers to each other. He could not bear it. He believes in nothing so illogical as fate, but some things are assured. When two hydrogen molecules merge with one oxygen molecule, water forms. This is an immutable truth of the known universe. That Spock will, for the rest of his life, long for and require some form of connection with James Kirk: that is another, equally immutable truth.

Dr. McCoy appears at the door. Spock is so deeply immersed in his thoughts that he does not notice the obvious signs of his approach until he speaks.

“All right, Professor, Jim’s getting cleaned up, so I’d like for us to have a word while we’re waiting for him. You don’t mind, do you?”

Were it not for Spock’s fine motor control, he would have dropped a bowl of sliced melon. He sets it down and turns to face McCoy. “What do you wish to discuss?”

McCoy folds his arms over his chest. His mouth twists unpleasantly. “To start with, I’d like to know why it is no one thought to take Jim to a hospital after he got roofied.”

Spock starts. McCoy doesn’t miss it, and the line of his mouth relaxes a degree or two. “He’s fine, I’m not saying he’s not. But you had no way of knowing he'd be fine. You don’t understand about Jim. He’s got so many allergies to so many different kinds of things, it’s pure dumb luck he didn’t go into anaphylaxis.”

The environmental controls on Spock’s apartment are currently set to accommodate Human norms, for Jim’s comfort. But the chill that comes over him has little to do with external temperature.

“I was unaware of his medical condition,” he says numbly.

“Yeah. That’s why you should have taken him to the hospital, sir. You knew that you didn’t know.”

Spock represses his irritation at being upbraided. McCoy is correct.

“I was told that a biochemist in residence at the embassy determined that his toxin levels were not dangerous, but I agree. The aide who brought Kirk to the embassy should have contacted Starfleet Medical. I fear his actions were self-serving.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” McCoy’s tone is menacing.

“He has a personal interest in Cadet Kirk.” Spock holds up a hand to forestall the furious words clearly about to work their way out of McCoy’s contorting mouth. “I have brought his behavior to the attention of his direct superior.”

"They'll take it seriously, I hope. This makes two of my friends your embassy Vulcans have messed with this week.”

Spock looks up at him sharply. "Who else?"

“Nyota. Cadet Nyota Uhura.”

“I see. I spoke with Cadet Uhura yesterday evening at the ambassador’s request—”

“Your father’s request.”

“—yes, thank you, I was aware of his identity. We spoke about Krevak. He has since been dealt with according to her wishes. My father was away last evening, seeing to it. The timing was unfortunate. It is unlikely that his staff should have been so undisciplined if Sarek had been on the premises.”

"It certainly does sound like folks are getting a little over-excited over there on Vulcan Street. What's that about, anyway? Something in the water?"

"I cannot answer for the behavior of other Vulcans, but I have a theory that this trend is related to the recent publication of a certain anonymous but influential work of fiction."

McCoy makes a low strangled noise in his throat.

"A curious vocalization, doctor. Are you familiar with the work I speak of?"

He is too busy turning an unhealthy shade of red to speak at first. "You mean to tell that all those fancy, highly educated, robe-wearing folks down at the embassy read that—that racy spacedock novel and decided to go out in the real world and try it for themselves? What's next? God forbid any of 'em read another book! They pick up a copy of A Wrinkle In Time and they'll be asking why no one's charted the Camazotz system!"

Spock pauses.

"Your speech is most baffling, doctor, but I must ponder these mysteries another time. I wish to ask for your opinion."

McCoy visibly deflates. "Regarding?"

Spock darts a glance at the hallway. "There is a somewhat delicate matter I hoped to discuss with Cadet Kirk this morning. I wonder now if I should wait for another opportunity to speak with him. If he is not fully recovered—"

The doctor studies him through narrowed eyes. “No, he's all right. Far as I can tell with eyeballs and medical instruments, he’s no fuzzier than he would be after any other night of moderate drinking." Spock nods. "In fact, much as I’d like to kill the son of a bitch that dosed him, it might've done him more good than harm overall. Kid works himself to death. Can't remember the last time he slept through the night."

Spock’s brows draw together. "As his roommate and personal physician do you not advise him against such behavior?"

“You try it. See how far you get. You ever meet a bookworm crossed with a class troublemaker? Jim’s a stack of book on legs, but he's powered by pure cussedness. That means stubbornness, with just a hint of spite.” He elucidates Spock’s obvious confusion with rather too much glee.

Just then the bathroom door opens down the hall. Spock thinks quickly, recalibrating his goals for the morning. Even if Jim is not suffering unduly, neither is he likely to be in peak condition. He is afraid of exposure, Uhura had said. Spock does not want to panic him even briefly.

“I thank you for the vocabulary lesson, doctor," he tells McCoy. "Please join me for breakfast. Jim, good morning, please be seated."

Spock hands around a plate of kreyla and indicates the butter and preserves. He keeps these items, and a jar of honey, for his mother's visits, and he trusts they will make the simple meal more satisfying.

"You made this for us? Well, I'll be.” McCoy’s eyebrows arch impressively high, for a Human.

“Given the relatively short interval between the hour at which I contacted you and the time of your arrival, it is logical to assume you had no time to eat before leaving campus.”

"Eat, Jim." McCoy puts bread on Jim's plate.

Spock watches, concerned, as Jim rubs his eyes. His face, and strands of his hair, are damp from scrubbing. “I would have been happy to make breakfast," he said, giving Spock a quick, apologetic glance from under his lashes.

“Cadet Kirk,” says Spock, ignoring the scoffing noise McCoy makes. “I did not know you were familiar with Vulcan domestic customs. It was no trouble to prepare the meal myself.”

Jim ducks his head in a nod. He picks up a spoon. “I haven’t had plomeek in ages,” he says, with a hint of anticipation.

“Did you acquire a taste for plomeek at the same time you acquired your high proficiency in the Vulcan language?”

It is, perhaps, a demanding question to ask of anyone over breakfast, but Spock can only dam up his curiosity on so many fronts at once.

Jim keeps his eyes trained on the soup. “Yeah, actually,” he says, after a moment. “I guess it was pretty much the same time.”

Spock nods, not daring to press the question any further.

Silence falls over the table, which is customary in Vulcan households and therefore not a source of awkwardness or discomfort for Spock. Jim finishes his broth quickly, along with two pieces of kreyla, then asks Spock if he can borrow his PADD to check his messages.

"Wait, what happened to your comm?" says McCoy.

"No idea. Vanished since I left the bar."

"That is concerning. Will you be able to obtain a new one?" Spock inputs his passcode and hands Jim his PADD.

"Uh, maybe." At Spock's blink, he explains, "My comm and my PADD and everything were issued to me because I'm on the cadet living allowance. I think I get at least one replacement device a year?" His fingers fly over the screen.

McCoy clears his throat. “While you're figuring that out, I’ll just make use of the facilities, excuse me.”

Spock thinks that it must not be widely known among the upper ranks of Starfleet that George Kirk's son is "on" the allowance, with no outside support. There are scholarships available to students whose families do not assist them financially.

Spock is about to say as much when Jim mutters "Shit, you read my book."

He looks up, and Spock can see the moment he realizes his incognito is broken, because Jim's face pales like one whose throat has been cut.

Chapter Text

Jim comes back to himself on his knees in a patch of thick grass in a small garden lot between two tall buildings. A hedge of thick, flowering green shrubs hides the garden from the street and the view of casual passersby.

He has no clear memory of how he got there. Which is starting to feel like a theme in his life, lately.

Jim assesses his situation. His face and fingers are partly numb. He's lost time; he's disoriented. There are two possible explanations. The first is an unprecedented allergic reaction to plomeek, the second is a panic attack. He's got pins and needles between his eyes which means he's probably hyperventilating. Evidence for panic attack is accruing. He tries to get control back by counting his breaths, the way Bones did with him first year when Jim's nightmares were turning them both into insomniacs. (The third time it happened, Jim offered to move out. That was when Bones finally got mad at him.)

He doesn’t remember putting down the PADD, or getting up from the table, or leaving the apartment. He doesn’t remember if he gave Spock an explanation for leaving, or if anyone tried to stop him, or far away he is from Spock's building, or how to get back.

Bones is going to give him so much shit. He keeps an anxiety hypo in his kit that can stop a panic attack in seconds for pretty much exactly this purpose, and instead of asking him for it Jim had wandered out of Spock’s apartment in a fugue state.

And Spock. His thoughts keep coming back to Spock, whether he seemed upset, or even understood when Jim up and blurted out the only secret he was trying to keep.

“I caught this morning morning’s minion.” Jim's voice is thin and raspy. He's still hyperventilating. What's important is the rhythm and the repetition. “Kingdom of daylight’s dauphin. Dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding—in his riding of the rolling, underneath him. Fuck. Fuck me, fuck."

The fingers of both his hands dig into the earth, uprooting small clumps of grass, gathering black crescents of dirt under his fingernails. It's satisfying—the violence of pulling things up by the roots, the cool richness of the grass and the soil. He shifts onto his hands and knees and presses his forehead against the thick sweet grass.

A tear rolls down the side of his nose, itching along the way.

His chest is a cage full of butterflies.

His breathing is too quick, too shallow.

He feels like he's dying. He knows that he's not dying, but if he was dying, he thinks it would feel like this, like he's just a pilot in a malfunctioning shuttle that won’t respond to manual override, a passenger at the mercy of useless outdated programming.

And then he hears boots in the grass. Warm hands grip his arms. “Jim." Spock is so close that Jim can feel cool, faintly plomeek-scented breath against the side of his face. “There is a bench 1.5 meters to your left. I will assist you in reaching it.”

It isn’t a request so much as a warning. Effortlessly, Spock maneuvers Jim up onto his feet and onto a bench seat. Spock sits beside him, close enough that their legs brush together. After a moment, Spock brushes his wrist and inhales sharply.

“You are terrified,” he says, voice gone high and startled. “I do not understand why.”

Incapable of forming sentences, Jim just shakes his head dismissively and leans his face into his hands. He can’t bring himself to find out what kind of expression, or lack thereof, Spock is looking at him with.

Too late, he remembers that his face is wet and he's got garden dirt caked on his palms, so the mud on his face is now literal.

“Upon consideration, I believe that you are experiencing an anxiety attack,” Spock says, his words slow and measured. “As I understand it, the condition is not life-threatening, but your suffering is evident. Tell me what I can do to assist you.”

There's nothing Spock can do. Only time will make him functional again. Jim tries to convey this with a shake of his head.

“Please. I cannot sit idly by while you are in distress. If you cannot direct me in how best to aid you, I must retrieve Doctor McCoy.”

Blistering shame is the only possible response to this kindness. When Jim doesn’t speak, Spock’s grip tightens. “I require your assurance that you will remain seated here until I return with the doctor."

Jim nods, agreeable. Still, Spock hesitates.

“I know that you are in no condition to explain at the moment, but it troubles me that I cannot identify the trigger that provoked this extreme stress reaction,” he says tightly. “You were evidently surprised to discover that I am familiar with K’diwa, and indeed Cadet Vro explained to me that you are anxious to continue concealing your connection to it. But as I have no intention of exposing you, there is no reason for your fear.”

Jim makes a little choking noise, which is what happens when you try to laugh and suck oxygen down the same pipes at the same time. Spock rests a hand against his back. The contact is weirdly soothing.

Another minute or so passes, then Spock stirs. “I will return with Doctor McCoy. Remain here.”

Of course, as soon as he can't hear Spock's footsteps anymore, he thinks about running. It's what he would have done before Starfleet, before Bones got him used to the idea that he could ask someone to take care of him without incurring a debt. Of course, Spock found him here; if Jim runs, he might just follow.

Jim unlaces his boots and flexes his toes in the thick grass. He keeps his eyes shut until his pulse starts to slow down. When he opens his eyes the morning sunlight is almost too bright. He looks up at light stippling the high, dark tree branches, at a small patch of blue sky, and breathes until he can taste ozone.

I caught this morning morning’s minion, kingdom of daylight’s dauphin, dappled-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding of the rolling level underneath him steady air…

The family that took him in after Tarsus tried to teach him how to meditate the Vulcan way, but Jim sucked at it, so his foster mother suggested the poem. Reciting it, Jim remembers her voice explaining how to control his disordered thoughts until clarity returned and natural order was restored. It still works as well as anything he's ever tried.

Trouble is, every time he thinks about T'Silla and the others, the old, howling loss wakes up and puts its head back. In the group home he used to wake up screaming for Sakal, reaching for him across light years.

He'd started doing it again, near the end of things with Gary.

Now that he thinks about it, he started writing K’diwa because it helped with all that. At first. Gradually the contrast, between Ophelia’s happiness and Jim’s reality became depressing. Writing it out made him understand some stuff better, but it didn't make him feel less helpless to change things.

Sometimes he still fantasize about the life he might have had if he'd stayed. Maybe he'd be running that sandwich shop by now. Maybe a lot of things would be different.

All of a sudden Bones comes tearing into the garden through a gap in the hedges, batting at the flying leaves as the branches snag his clothes. Spock follows a few paces behind.

“Jim.” Warm hands cup the sides of his face, then settle on his shoulders. “Easy, I’ve got you. Take a breath, now.”

For once, Jim doesn’t even make a token display of objecting when Bones tells him to tilt his head.

“All right.” He leans back, capping the empty hypo and returning it to his kit. “Give it about two minutes for your cortisol to drop.” He looks Jim up and down. “I go to take a piss and all hell breaks loose. What happened?”

Jim shrugs. Bones taps the underside of Jim’s chin. Jim twitches away like a gnat flew up his nose, and Bones squints into his face.

Nearby, Spock watches this exchange with a raised eyebrow.

“Spock said you saw your book loaded on his PADD and ran like hell. What did you think was going to happen?"

Jim glances over. Spock stands straight and tall in his black uniform, hands clasped behind his back. The soft, worried look of earlier has been replaced by a mask of exemplary Vulcan control. His eyes find Jim's, and Jim ducks his head, shying from the intense gaze.

Bones starts to say something, probably rude, but then his comm lets off three high, sustained beeps.

“Emergency complication with one of my post-surgical patients,” he says, frowning down at his comm. “Goddammit. Jim, I have to go.”

When Jim only nods, Bone rakes his eyes over him again. Whatever he sees, or thinks he sees, makes his face crumple.“Do you want to tag along with me?” he says, too gently. “I can find you a quiet room somewhere to take a nap in.”

Jim tries to draw enough breath to tell Bones he doesn’t need a babysitter. Spock speaks first. “If you have no objection, I can see to the cadet's welfare while you attend to your medical duties, Doctor."

“You don't have to be somewhere?” Bones gets to his feet.

“I have canceled my classes for the day. I am at liberty to remain here for as long as required.”

Bones gives Spock a long look, then turns back to Jim and drops his voice. “Truth, now,” he says. “You be ok if I leave you with him?”

Jim nods again. Wild horses couldn’t tear Bones from his side if there wasn’t a patient out there who needed him even more. He's not about to make him feel bad about it.

Judging from Bones’ frown, Jim’s weak nod wasn’t exactly the reassurance he was looking for. He sighs and gives Jim’s shoulder a parting squeeze.

“I'll see you tonight," he tells Jim. "Commander, a word?” He sets off without waiting to see if Spock will follow.

Spock does follow, of course, and Jim manages to catch enough of their brief exchange to hear Bones giving him instructions for the hypo he’s leaving in Spock’s custody. Finally, with one torn, fleeting glance over his shoulder in Jim’s direction, Bones strides away down the sidewalk in the direction of the transport station. Jim stares after him for so long that Spock’s reappearance at his side makes him jump.

“How do you feel?” says Spock carefully.

Jim self-inventories. He doesn’t feel numb anymore. “Okay,” he says quietly. “The worst of it is over.”

Spock tilts his head curiously.

“The...when you said I was afraid.” Jim waves his hand vaguely. “I'm okay now.”

It isn't really a lie. Exhaustion has settled over him like a heavy blanket. He feels an uncharacteristic lack of interest in trying to predict what will happen to him after this. It's restful.

“You were more than merely afraid.” Spock sounds almost offended.

Before Jim can think of arguing the point, Spock sits down on the bench. He looks down at Jim's feet for a moment, then Jim's eyes bug out of his head as he leans over, removes his own boots and socks, and wiggles his toes into the grass like Jim has done. Spock's feet are big and there's a surprising amount of dark curly hair on his toes. For reasons Jim can't explain, this makes him feel calmer.

“I know you would have been more comfortable with Doctor McCoy,” Spock says quietly. “I hope, however, that the idea of spending the afternoon in my company does not make you uncomfortable.”

“No, not uncomfortable. I guess I'm not sure what made you volunteer for the job."

Spock gets that little line between his eyebrows. "Our acquaintance has not been of long duration, but I find you to be an intelligent, sensitive individual, with an interesting perspective on topics of mutual interest to us both. I have enjoyed our brief interactions, despite the unfortunate circumstances of our first meeting.”

Jim feels heat surging into his face. “I’m told I get less charming when you’ve known me for longer than a day.”

“The evidence does not support this hypothesis. Leonard McCoy has been your roommate for two academic years, and he is manifestly devoted to you.”

There’s something almost too expressionless about the way Spock says that. It reminds Jim of how T’Silla sounded when she suspected that Jim was telling her only half of a story, though what Spock thinks he might be concealing about his friendship with Bones, Jim can only guess.

“We met on the recruit shuttle out of Iowa,” Jim shrugs. “I guess we bonded over having nothing to go home to.”

Spock’s eyebrows do not look satisfied by this explanation. “I understood from the doctor’s records that he has a daughter.”

“The divorce was pretty contentious so his ex is punishing him by playing keepaway with Joanna. She won’t make any accommodations for his academic schedule or his commitments to Starfleet. He’s only seen Joanna once since he joined up.”

Spock’s eyes widen dramatically. “Such deliberate interference in the bond between a parent and child would not be tolerated on Vulcan.”

“Technically it's not tolerated here, but Bones doesn't have the time or money to fight back. Part of him still loves her, I guess.”

Spock still looks confused. Maybe, slightly offended on Bones’ behalf. It's endearing.

Honestly this whole situation would be a lot less nerve wracking if Spock wasn’t so freaking nice.

“Look,” Jim says, the word coming out as a croak. “About…what happened. Back there.” He gestures vaguely in which he takes to be the direction to Spock's apartment. “You deserve an explanation. It’s just difficult to put into words.”

“Negative.” Spock folds his hands neatly in his lap and regards Jim placidly. “You do not owe me any kind of explanation. I will, however, gladly listen to anything that you would like to tell me.”

“When I saw my book on your PADD, it just hit me all of a sudden what an asshole move it was to write it in the first place.”

Spock’s eyebrows form a befuddled V. “Why would you say such a thing?”

“I know how private Vulcans are when it comes to mating and bonding. Writing a novel about Vulcan characters is one thing, but uh, I'm guessing a sexually explicit romance novel is the most annoying kind of story I could have written." He slumps. "In my defense, that's why it was supposed to stay private.”

"And you fled the apartment because you believed I would be angry with you?"

Jim hesitates, then looks over. Spock is studying him with a look of such gentle concern that Jim shakes his head, compelled to distance himself from it.

"This is a hell very much of my own making," he says trying to infuse his tone with a healthy dose of wry humor. "I don't deserve any sympathy.”

"On the contrary. You state correctly that Vulcans are a private people. For that reason, I am all too capable of imagining the pain of exposure." He hesitates, which is the most Human thing Jim's seen him do yet. "I...admire K'diwa. I do not believe that writing it was an act of disrespect and I am not annoyed. It is a vivid and moving work of fiction. You should take pride in the accomplishment."

Jim scratches the back of his blushing neck.

"You appear skeptical. Do you find me insincere?"

"No!" Jim straightens. "I was just thinking about.." The way they had all behaved at the embassy, how they'd all read his book, and what happened to Uhura. It's all connected, he thinks. "I forget his name, the horny Vulcan back at the Embassy. He said—"

“Of which Vulcan are you speaking?”

“The one who asked you to come pick me up. Makal.”

Spock’s hands, resting on his knees, become fists.

"I was aware that his behavior towards you last night was suspect, but given the soubriquet you have bestowed upon him his conduct must have been even more inappropriate than I realized.” There’s a sharp edge to his words that makes the small hairs stand up on Jim's neck. “Considering the extraordinary measures Makal took in order to gain possession of your person in an impaired state, it is not unreasonable to infer that he may have taken advantage of the situation. Is this indeed the case?”

Jim’s not sure what to say now—the last thing he wants is to be a source of any more upheaval back at the Embassy. Spock, watching him closely, seems to sense Jim’s hesitation, maybe even the reason for it. A hint of remorse softens the line of his mouth.

“I apologize for questioning you so briskly,” he says. “But considering Cadet Uhura’s recent ordeal, I believe my concern is logical.”

Guilt floods him as the missing connection finally clicks. "Oh God, Uhura."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The book, my book. It made all the Vulcans at the Embassy go hunting for Humans to experiment with. That's why Makal approached me, and it's why Krevak—found Uhura."

Spock doesn’t reply to this right away, but when he does his tone is downright Arctic. "That is illogical. Indeed, it is scarcely rational. The blame for Krevak’s offenses belongs solely to Krevak.” His eyes narrow. “Is it possible that you are attempting to switch the focus of this conversation from yourself to Cadet Uhura because you do not wish to tell me that Makal is guilty of a more serious offense than you have yet disclosed?”

“Wait, what? No, Spock, come on—"

“There is no logic in protecting him,” Spock continues, as though Jim hasn’t spoken. “Indeed, concealing his offense would be most unwise, as Vulcans can be exceedingly tenacious in pursuing those who have captured their interest.”

“I…I’m aware."

“Makal’s fascination with you is beyond question. As his behavior has grown unpredictable, it is not outside the realm of possibility that he will continue to seek contact with you.” Spock sits up a little straighter, squaring his shoulders. “I urge you to speak frankly to me, Jim. You must not feel shame or guilt for anything Makal has done to you. He is Vulcan, and many decades your senior, and his manner when I spoke with him last night betrayed his own awareness that his behavior towards you was unacceptable.”

“Sure.” Jim takes a deep breath. Then another. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Bones’ hypos pack a punch, but Jim’s anxiety has been known to win the best two rounds out of three, and Spock is being…intense about this in a way that Jim isn’t sure how to handle.

“Jim...” The lines of Spock's face turn soft and concerned again. “Your rate of respiration is increasing.”

Jerkily, Jim climbs to his feet. He takes a few steps away from Spock and stands there, tries to remember how normal people inhale and exhale. After just a few seconds of this Spock comes over and turns Jim gently, inexorably by the shoulders.

“Forgive me for overwhelming you. I was thoughtless.” Spock is quiet. “Perhaps this would be an opportune moment to go back inside.”

“Or…I mean, I could just go. You don’t actually have to babysit me, I'm okay. Bones is a worrywart.”

Spock lifts his chin. “I assured Doctor McCoy that I would remain with you until he has fulfilled his work obligations. I intend to keep my word. I will return with you to your dormitory if that is your preference, but as my residential building is only thirty meters from our present position, my apartment would appear to be the more convenient of the two options.”

“Yeah?” says Jim, scratching the back of his neck. “Which option will convince you that you don't need to get Makal shipped back to Vulcan on a slow freighter?”

Spock exhales loudly.

“Look, in the bar he propositioned me in extremely blunt terms. It was a little weird. But I think I probably owe him." Together, they start up the short, paved path that leads out of the garden towards the city sidewalk. “I don't know who slipped me the roofie. I thought it could have been him, and when I realized he’d followed me to the transport station it was...alarming.”

“But?” says Spock. A hoverbus glides past, stirring the leaves in the elms along the side of the road.

“But, once we were back at the embassy he turned back into a respectable buttoned-up bureaucrat. He was just an awkward guy trying to be a hero.” Jim gave it a beat. "Maybe send him to sensitivity training."

For once—maybe for the first time since they’d met—Spock doesn’t seem to have a ready reply. They walk together in thoughtful silence (exhausted silence, on Jim’s part) until they reach the path leading up to the door of Spock’s building. Then Spock turns to him. His mouth twitches, and something warm steals into his eyes.

“You are a most remarkable person, Jim Kirk,” he says. “It was unfair of me to interrogate you in that way. I hope you will attribute it to no worse motivation than the desire to see you safe. I…would like for us to be friends. I am not in the habit of making social overtures of this nature, but our acquaintance is already of value to me. It is a connection that I wish to preserve.”

Jim ducks his head to hide his smile. “I'll probably have to remind you that you said that later.”

Spock lifts an eyebrow. “Unnecessary.” Jim’s mouth feels dry.

A hovercar, parked illegally about ten meters down the sidewalk, blares its horn at top volume. Jim jumps. Even Spock turns sharply in the direction of the vehicle.

The car pulls closer to them. Spock shuffles slightly in front of Jim. The roof retracts, to reveal Christopher Pike seated behind the control panel.

They both jerk to attention. Pike grins.

“Spock, Jim,” he calls out cheerfully. “I was starting to think I’d missed you. What do you say to lunch?”

Chapter Text

Nothing, in recent memory, has shocked Chris Pike as much as the sight of Spock in a garden with Jim Kirk, gripping the younger man by the shoulders like he was trying to haul him onto dry land while Jim held onto Spock like a life preserver.

To begin with, Pike had no idea that Spock and Jim even knew each other until 0530 hours this morning, when he awoke to the chime of his comm and found the following message in his queue:

Captain Pike,

Late yesterday evening, I was informed that Cadet James T. Kirk was drugged by persons unknown at a drinking establishment in Earth spacedock. A senior aide assigned to the Vulcan Embassy who was in the vicinity at the time observed the cadet’s incapacitated state and took steps to remove Kirk to Embassy grounds for his own safety. I was contacted shortly afterward to assist the cadet in returning to the Academy. As Cadet Kirk was still in an impaired condition, I instead brought him to my own dwelling, where he slept the night in my guest chambers.

This morning I have invited his roommate and personal physician, Dr. Leonard H. McCoy, to come to my apartment this morning in order to determine whether further medical intervention is required.

I therefore request that you approve one day’s leave of absence from duty for Cadet Kirk, to facilitate his recovery, and one half-day’s leave for Dr. McCoy, so that he may attend to his patient without acquiring unexcused absence from his morning classes.

Respectfully,
Spock

The story of Pike and Jim’s very first meeting, following a 4-on-1 dust-up with a gaggle of overzealous Security track cadets in a shipyard bar, is old news to Starfleet’s rumor mill. But it’s given rise to a lot of other rumors about Jim that are less grounded in fact. He’s George Kirk’s son, he’s got a colorful juvenile record, and compared to most Starfleet cadets he doesn’t have a lot of formal education. People have trouble reconciling these facts with the brilliant success that Jim’s made of his Academy career so far. Everyone watches him. Not just the gossips, but the brass, and Jim is aware of the scrutiny. He knows better than to get into pointless bar brawls, or sleep around indiscriminately, or do anything else that could jeopardize his future.

Starfleet is all the kid has. He doesn't need reminding.

So Pike was more than a little taken aback to hear that Jim had been out drinking on a week night, alone, in some kind of spacedock dive bar. The only thing that surprised him more was the fact that he’d heard about it from Spock.

Pike had checked, just to set his mind at ease, and sure enough, Jim’s off-campus excursion had been duly authorized. And tracking him by his comm signal revealed that he had returned to campus well within the boundaries of his curfew.

How Jim had ended up at the Vulcan Embassy after returning to the Academy, Pike still has no idea. Spock’s terse summary of events was surprisingly uninformative, even as reports from Spock go. He's a stickler for accuracy, but he doesn’t always recognize the need for context.

Pike ended up spending most of his morning organizing a low-key Security investigation into last night’s activity at the bar where Jim was drugged. That inquiry, and the preliminary reports it has generated so far, kept him fairly busy until 1030.

The knowledge that someone had slipped his protégé a date-rape cocktail made Pike furious on a level that he thought Spock, perhaps, might not understand. At least until he received a second comm from Spock that left him even more deeply baffled.

Captain Pike,

This message is to notify you that I have canceled both sections of my Ethical Dilemmas in Xenocultural Relations class, scheduled to meet today at 1100 hours and 1600 hours, respectively.

After examining Cadet Kirk, Dr. McCoy concluded that his condition will require monitoring for the rest of the day. However, as the doctor has received an emergency summons to Starfleet Medical, rendering him unavailable until further notice, I have volunteered my services as a substitute caregiver. Cadet Kirk will remain in his present location until Dr. McCoy is free to return for him.

My students have been notified of the cancellation and given an assignment to complete during the allotted class period. I will hold extended office hours tomorrow, so as to be available for questions.

Respectfully,
Spock

Spock’s dedication to duty and deep sense of personal responsibility are part of what makes him one of the finest officers Pike has ever worked with. But “duty” doesn’t really explain…this.

As Commander of Cadets, Pike should have been informed about an assault on one of his students the second Spock got wind of it last night. The fact that he’d waited until the following morning raises a lot of questions. If Pike were dealing with any other officer (any other Academy instructor) who, by his own admission, had taken a drugged up cadet home with him for the night, and was now canceling classes in order to continue “monitoring” that cadet in an off-campus location, Pike would have broken land-speed records ordering medics and a Security detachment to that officer’s home.

But this is Spock, whom Pike trusts implicitly.

Even, though Pike never imagined he would have to make this call, with Jim Kirk. Which is saying something.

He's tried to win Jim’s trust over the last couple of years, and succeeded, mostly. His hopes for Jim are high, and his fears commensurately so. He probably watches Jim more closely than anyone else does.

Starfleet screens for the kind of complex trauma that Jim experienced in his early life because it’s easy for someone with a death wish to find what they’re looking for in the service. (Not that Jim has one, although Pike was just as happy to take advantage of Jim's affinity with McCoy and assign him a doctor for a roommate.) Pike believes Jim belongs here, but he knows Jim's past is going to exert its own kind of gravity. He'd been prepared to shepherd his protégé through a crisis or three. Mediate between Jim and irate instructors, talk him down from dropping out of the academy at 2 a.m., that sort of thing.

But there were no crises and no clashes. Jim got all the way to spring break of his freshman year with a clean nose and top marks. Then, just when Pike was about to heave a sigh of relief, his comm went off one night at 2 a.m. like he'd been expecting it to all semester. Only it wasn't Jim. Iit was Leonard McCoy, calling from the hospital. The doctor had returned early from his trip to Georgia and found Jim hunched over a sink in the communal bathroom of their deserted dormitory, trying to use a dermal regenerator on himself and failing because his arm was broken.

The culprit behind the injuries, a seething McCoy had informed Pike in the hospital waiting room, was undoubtedly Jim's boyfriend, Gary Mitchell. The dermal regenerator Jim used was a secondhand commercial model and the manufacturer made the data logs accessible to anyone with the serial number. Jim had used it almost daily for three months, which was just a little under the time he and Mitchell had been dating.

But Jim wouldn't confirm assault or abuse for the record. Pike didn't have the heart to fight past his objections; the Starfleet criminal code was supposed to protect victims, not bully them. He hauled Mitchell into his office instead and grilled him for a few minutes. When he denied everything, Pike confronted him with the evidence of the regenerator. Up to that point, Mitchell had put on a good show of being concerned about Jim's condition. Good, but not perfect; there was an eager gleam in his eye, like an actor relishing his role. But the sudden calculating blankness of his expression told Pike he hadn't prepared an excuse for the regenerator, though it took him all of thirty seconds to hem and haw his way into suggesting that Jim was unstable and harming himself. Pike gritted his teeth and ordered Mitchell to stay thirty yards away from Jim for the remainder of the year. Mitchell had closed his mouth with an audible snap of his teeth and stared at Pike for a long moment. Then, as if making up his mind suddenly, he turned and left.

Pike continued keeping an eye on Jim, of course, but ever since then he's watched Mitchell too.

A little over a year has gone by, and Jim to all appearances is back in his groove, stable and high achieving and giving everybody shit, in that good natured farmboy way of his. Pike is optimistic enough about his prospects to be giving serious thought to the future. In less than three years he's taking the Enterprise out on the first ever five-year deep space exploratory mission. If things go according to plan, he intends to make Spock and Jim his first and second officers. For awhile now he's been planning to introduce them, under carefully managed circumstances of Pike's choosing. He's had a hunch for a long time that when Spock and Jim finally met, sparks would fly, and Pike didn't want them to ignite a hidden fuel cell and take out a city block by accident. They're both outstanding talents, but Spock is a prima donna and Jim is an acrobat. Ruffled feathers seemed inevitable.

Yet, here they are. Holding each other in a garden.

Pike had left the spacedock investigation temporarily in Number One’s capable hands and taken a drive to Spock’s apartment. On the way over he found himself pondering a message Spock sent him back on Monday, just a few hours after they had lunch.

Captain Pike,

Attached, please find a copy of the document containing my findings pursuant to your request that I evaluate the text of the novel entitled K’diwa for xenophobic and culturally insensitive content.

To summarize, I find nothing objectionable or offensive in this work of fiction.

As a matter of curiosity, do you have any suspicions regarding the identity of the author?

Respectfully,
Spock

Pike hadn’t replied to that message. He knew who wrote the damn book. The only mystery was, where in the world was Jim finding time to write a novel without falling behind in his coursework? He was starting to suspect the kid didn’t get nearly enough sleep. And Pike can’t exactly draw a straight line from “Spock was curious about the author of that book”, to “Spock is keeping Jim in his guest room”, he’ll be damned if there isn’t a connection somewhere.

It's all just—if this were anyone but Spock…

A little after 1100, Pike parked his car down the street from Spock’s building and knocked on the door. When no one answered, he took a stroll down the sidewalk, remembering Spock’s fondness for the little community garden in the lot next door.

Spock is there, all right. Jim is there too, looking like ten miles of rough road. Which is concerning, but not shocking, under the circumstances.

That look on Spock’s face, though. Tender and a little frantic, like Jim is an emergency and he doesn't know the protocol. That's a shock.

Spock is a deeply empathetic individual, although most people don’t look past the Vulcan mask long enough to notice. Usually you have to watch Spock’s actions, not his facial expressions, to grasp the depth of his compassion when he’s faced with other people’s suffering.

Today, emotions like compassion and protectiveness and bewildered affection are stamped on Spock’s features in a language any humanoid could read.

Anyone except Jim, of course, because even though he’s letting Spock support him, he’s not looking at him. Something in his face, his posture, makes Jim look young and abandoned, a beacon broadcasting a distress signal in the clear. The message in his downcast eyes said, “You can’t help me. That’s ok. I’m used to it.” Pike's familiar with that signal. It's been making him a little insane ever since the day Jim first blinked up at him over a nose full of napkins and said so who am I, captain, like in his opinion there were no correct answers.

Jim has honored him with some painful confidences about his life before Starfleet, always in a detached, academic manner. Like it was someone else’s pain, abandonment, torture, starvation, and God only knew what else that Jim had seen fit to spare Pike having to know about.

There have been times during their conversations when Pike knew Jim was suffering because he gave it off the way heat radiates from a bad burn, but Jim has never shown it to him willingly. Even now, he's only glimpsed the red-rimmed eyes and grey complexion by accident. Spock, on the other hand, has known Jim for twelve hours, and somehow has already managed to slip past all his barriers. When he shuts his eyes, he leans into Jim like he wants to makes time stop around them, like he is awestruck just by virtue of their proximity to one another.

After the end of their mission, Spock had brought Amanda Grayson around his office to be introduced. The picture they made in his doorway was striking; the son so tall and the mother so small, her arm tucked snugly into his. It made Pike wonder how old Spock was the first time Sarek had taken him aside to explain that he needed to be careful or one day he might hurt her with all that superior Vulcan strength.

In the garden, Jim sits down on a stone bench and Spock sits next to him with a nervous, hovering energy exactly like he had with his mother. Even his expression is the same, intent and slightly anxious, as if he felt wholly responsible for protecting something vital, precious, and fragile.

As soon as the shock of recognizing them wears off Pike turns around, ashamed of his unintentional voyeurism. He gets back in his car and drives up the street, waiting at the curb for Jim and Spock to head back his direction.

If there had been any doubts in Pike’s mind about the significance of what he had just glimpsed, they vanish as soon as he honks his horn at their approach.

Jim jumps like he’s heard phaser fire. Spock steps in front of him so quickly that the movement itself is a blur nearly imperceptible to the eye. There’s not much chance, in logic, of a car horn being prelude to a threat. Spock had not reacted to his own logic, but to Jim’s fear.

Pike wonders if Spock recognizes his feelings towards Jim for what they are. He might be inclined to give Spock a helpful hint or two, but first he wants to find out how Jim feels about the situation.

Eventually Spock and Jim figure out they're not under attack and spot Pike waving at them. They come trudging obediently up the hill to his car. Pike looks them over and sees two underfed, underslept, emotionally exhausted subordinates who ought to be committed to Medical for a weekend just to teach them a lesson.

“Lunch,” Pike announces, in his best captain’s voice. “Get in, boys.”

Dutiful members of Starfleet that they are, Spock and Jim climb into the back seat without arguing. Pike struggles not to point out that, once upon a time, Jim would have claimed shotgun. Even if he was the only passenger. Especially then.

“Thai or Vietnamese?” he asks, pulling away from the curb.

Spock defers to Jim, who defers back to Spock, who says that it makes no difference to him what he eats. Jim's body language seems to indicate that the same is true of him, and making decisions is a little beyond his capacities right now. Spock accepts this without further argument, and selects Thai.

Pike scans the nav dash for a Thai restaurant with nearby coordinates.

“Oh, uh,” says Jim suddenly. “Peanut allergy.”

Pike and Spock glance at each other in the rearview mirror. "Tony's," Pike declares, and drives back to the Academy. They can eat lunch at the pizza joint near campus that everyone at the Academy treats like a de facto mess hall. He's been meaning to introduce Spock to Italian food.

“I hear you had a rough night, Jim,” Pike says, while they wait for their pizza to arrive. “And a rough morning too, from the looks of it.”

Jim blanches slightly. He clears his throat. “I’ve had worse,” he says lightly. His tone doesn’t match his eyes.

“Not recently, you haven’t. That was a trend I wanted to encourage.” Pike picks up the spatula and serves everyone a slice. “There anything you want to tell me, Jim?”

Jim blinks. “I was unconscious for most it sir, but I'm sure Spock's report was very thorough..”

Nice try, kid. “It wasn’t a report, it was a voice memo.” He senses Spock getting fidgety, so he turns his attention slightly to the left. “Spock? Anything you want to add?”

“Not at this time, Captain,” says Spock, stiffly.

“All right then.” Pike knows what Vulcan stubbornness can be like. Better to switch focus until Spock forgets to be defensive. “We've been looking into how you got drugged, Jim.”

“Oh?” Jim’s eyes widen.

“I’ve got some security footage of the bar crowd from last night. I want you to have a look at it and tell me if you see anything.”

“Anything, like…?”

“Anything at all that stands out to you.”

Jim nods, and accepts Pike’s communicator, where the video is pre-loaded

“Spock, you can look too, if Jim says it’s okay,” Pike adds, mostly just to see what will happen.

Immediately, Spock turns fierce, pleading eyes on Jim. The effort is wasted, however. Jim doesn’t even bother to look at him before passing the comm over. Spock takes blatant advantage of the pretext to lean a little closer, his shoulder pressing into Jim's.

He holds the comm up so they both can see it and presses play. From the way Spock’s eyes are tracking, Pike can tell that he is making his own list of observations, tucked away safely in that eidetic memory of his.

“Captain, I’m sorry,” says Jim after ten minutes, during which the pizza arrives and is ignored. “I think I might be stupid now. You know, they always warned us that drugs make you stupid, back in school.”

"So you don't see anything at all? No one you recognize?" Pike has his own suspicions, but the bar was crowded and dimly lit and the fact of the matter is that Gary Mitchell's bland good looks wouldn't stand out in a crowd of three.

Jim shrugs. "Put it down to the brain damage, I guess."

Spock bristles as Pike takes the comm back. “You are recovering from a series of traumatic events. It is irrational to demean your intelligence simply because—”

“What series?” Pike interrupts.

“I beg your pardon, Captain?”

“I’m aware of one recent, arguably traumatic event. How many more since last night that I don’t know about?”

Spock’s mouth opens. And then closes it. Pike has finally caught his Vulcan first officer without a ready answer. He should mark this day down in his calendar.

“Spock, it's okay. He's under the kindly but mistaken impression that I possess qualities like dignity,” Jim explains, “so he’s trying to figure out how to answer your question without mentioning my panic attacks.”

…And now Pike feels like shit for giving them a hard time. “Last night or this morning?” he says, gentling his voice.

“Morning. I was too sleepy for panic attacks last night.”

“I see.” He darts a glance at Spock. “Leonard give you something for that?”

“Yeah, but I’ve concluded that my anxiety is at least partially medication-resistant. Bones will tell you that’s not medically possible, but neither are half my allergies, apparently.”

“And Spock, you volunteered to…stay with Jim afterwards?”

Spock lifts his chin. “If you are inquiring whether I was aware of Jim’s profound anxiety when I volunteered to remain with him in Dr. McCoy’s absence, the answer is yes.”

Spock’s not getting any less defensive, but Pike just learned what he wanted to know. He changes the subject gracefully. “What about you, Spock, did you see anything noteworthy in the video?”

“Yes, although only one of my observations is of likely relevance to the investigation. I believe I can point to an individual who intended to follow Jim out of the bar, only to change his mind when he saw that Jim was already being followed by Makal.”

“What the fuck?” It’s one of the rare occasions Jim’s ever used hard profanity in Pike’s presence.

“Indeed,” says Spock, his voice so soothing and so gentle that Pike double-takes to be sure it’s actually Spock talking. “The individual in question was seated at a table behind and to the left of your position at the bar. The video shows that he does not move from the table or attempt to approach you until you walk away from the bar at 2255 hours. Then he rises, and it seems as if he means to walk after you. Makal moves more quickly, however. The man resumes his seat and orders another drink.”

“Show me,” Jim demands, and it’s impossible to tell whether the trembling in his voice is due to anger, fear, or some mix of the two.

Spock immediately runs the video back to the precise time stamp and lets Jim press play. With his finger, he taps an image on the screen, pausing playback. Two more taps, and the image zooms in the man’s face

“Jesus, he looks a little bit like a million guys I know.” Jim turns his whole body away from the communicator, and Spock rests a hand on his back. Pike starts to feel as if he should excuse himself from the table. Maybe just pay the check and be on his way while he’s at it.

But he's worried. Worried that Jim is just on autopilot, susceptible to the first commanding personality he encounters. Yes, he knows he’s not Jim’s dad. Yes, he’s protective of him anyway. Pike doubts that Spock went looking for Jim’s weaknesses on purpose, but it seems he found them anyway. Kindness is his Achilles heel.

“This isn’t going to be straightforward,” says Pike, startling Jim and Spock back to attention. “All we have right now is the bartender’s claim that a Starfleet cadet gave her the drugs and paid her to put them in Jim’s drink.”

“A cadet.” Jim looks down at his plate and pushes it away with one finger.

“I can guess what you’re feeling, but I need you to hear me.” Pike leans towards him over the table. “We’re not doing this like we did the Gary Mitchell thing, you got it? You want to be a captain some day, you have to start trusting other people the way you’re going to have to ask them to trust you when you’re sitting in the center chair.”

Jim rubs his eyes. Spock's brow hunkers. “Gary Mitchell is a romantic connection?” he says carefully. Jim sighs, and nods. “Did he…behave unbecomingly toward you?”

Jim digs his teeth into his bottom lip so hard Pike’s afraid it’s going to bleed.

Since his arm healed up, Pike’s left Jim alone about this—had hoped he would never need to bring it up again—but he has to know Jim’s learned his lesson.

“Jim,” he says, “whatever secrets you think you need to keep, you should know this. If I actually believed you were getting into as many fights as you claimed you were back when you were lying to everyone about your injuries, I would have drummed you out of the Academy myself.” Pike shakes his head as Jim’s face falls. “I kept hoping you’d tell someone on your own. You know. Before Leonard figured out what kind of game you were playing.”

Spock looks incredulously from Jim, to Pike, and back to Jim, who averts his face sharply from the scrutiny.

“I trust that Mitchell was taken into custody once the truth came to light?” Spock asks. His high, imperious tones are those of an ambassador’s son.

Pike shrugs. “My hands are tied.”

Spock takes a moment to guess his meaning, and when he does there is that look again, like Jim breaks his heart just by existing. Spock has no excuse this time; he knows Pike can see him. It’s like he can’t help himself.

“Have you interacted with Mitchell recently?” Spock demands to know.

“Sure.” Jim shrugs. “He’s a member of my study group.”

“The same study group of which Cadets Vro and Uhura, and Dr. McCoy, are also members?”

“Yeah, that’s the only study group I’m in in.”

Spock hesitates. “Then he is one of those who knew of K’diwa before it was published on the public server?”

“Yes, unfortunately.”

Spock takes a breath. “Then is it not possible that Cadet Mitchell is the person who has been stalking your network activity?”

“What is this, and why am I just now hearing about it?” Pike demands.

“Because you’ve been busy all week.” Jim arches his eyebrows at him in a look of mock reproach. “I did make an appointment.”

“Well, I'm here now. Lay it on me.”

“So, you know that there’s this…story everyone’s reading.”

“Captain Pike is familiar with K’diwa,” Spock says promptly. “It was he who formally brought the book to my attention.”

“Great. That’s, that's excellent news.” Jim shakes his head and looks at Pike. “So, dumb question, you know I wrote it, right?”

Pike can’t help smiling. “It could have been another Starfleet cadet who lived on Vulcan and regularly pulls unexpected skill sets out of his ass, but yeah, I liked you for it.”

Spock startles visibly. Jim blushes, staring at the tablecloth like he can lose himself in the pattern and just disappear from view. Pike forgot for a second they just met, mostly because they have the body language of two people who know each other intimately.

Eventually, Jim lifts his chin and clears his throat. “Someone has been making routine checks of my network history, sir. That’s how the story got made public. I guess it was the only embarrassing thing they could find in my academic folders. Luckily, Cadet Vro was able to alter the file so it couldn’t be traced back to me. But she couldn’t delete it off the network.”

“If you’ve got any evidence it was Mitchell, I can order a seizure of his terminal and devices,” Pike offers. He's not surprised when Jim shakes his head.

“I definitely don’t have proof, sir. Computers aren’t Gary’s strength anyway.”

“What is his strength?” Spock says, in the cool, assessing voice of a tactician.

“He’s terrifyingly charismatic,” says Jim instantly. “Like, cult-leader charisma. If you let him talk to you long enough, he can make anything seem like a good idea. He gets in your head.”

Pike notes that Spock, the telepath, reacts to this statement with considerably more alarm than Pike feels. Come to think of it, there is a note in Mitchell’s file about his psi rating—he'll will look it up later. It’s probably not important.

Just then Spock and Jim both get messages on their comms. Every head in the restaurant turns their way.

“It’s Bones," says Jim. "He’s done at the hospital, says it’s time for me to come home, because he's 86 years old and thinks he's my mom.”

“I can drive you back to the Academy, Jim,” says Pike. “I’m going there anyway. That won’t violate the terms of your pledge to look after Jim, will it, Spock?”

Spock blinks, but it only takes the unflappable Vulcan exterior a moment to begin to reassert itself. “Certainly not, captan.I could scarcely leave Jim in more responsible hands.”

Nobody has much of an appetite, so Pike gets a box for the pizza. In the back seat of his hovercar, Jim and Spock trade comm numbers like a couple of nerds setting up a study date after class. Suddenly, inspiration strikes.

“Spock, Jim here has been after me to teach him how to play chess. Why don’t you get him started? Since you two are friendly now.”

Jim’s head perks up. Spock catches Pike's eye in the rearview mirror, and in the severe line of his angled eyebrows Pike reads both annoyance and gratitude.

Chapter Text

“You know, everyone calls chess a game of logic,” says Jim, resting his chin on one knuckle as he surveys the board between them. “I’m not convinced."

Spock has not been paying their game the attention it deserves. Other things compete for his focus. The way that Jim surveys the board between them, for instance. The shape of his fingers as he manipulates pawns and knights into an opening gambit. The sunlight illuminating all the differently-colored strands of hair that, together, make up Jim’s shade of “blonde”.

Playing chess outdoors in a public park surrounded by other players embroiled in their own matches was not what Spock had in mind when he pictured giving Jim lessons. But Jim had selected the location, and now that Spock has seen Jim smiling in the sunlight, he cannot imagine a more suitable location. Logically, he should see Jim in sunlight as often as possible.

“Would you care to expand upon your argument?” says Spock lightly, nudging a bishop through an opening.

“Bishops,” says Jim. “Perfect example. Why do they only move diagonally?”

Spock opens his mouth, staring at the board. As a scientist, the question “why” is usually uppermost in his thoughts. But when it comes to certain things—like centuries-old games with long-established rules—Spock is more Vulcan than scientist, content to master traditional methods without inquiring too deeply how they became traditions.

“The diagonal movement of bishops provides balance to the vertical and horizontal movements of rooks and the semi-circular movements of knights.” The answer falls from his lips by rote.

“Sure, but why are the diagonal-moving pieces called bishops?” Jim leans back in his seat, clasping his hands behind his head. There was quiet confidence in his smile, a teasing light in his eyes.

Nothing could be more unlike the shattered, monosyllabic cadet who had clung to Spock in a garden yesterday morning. But this side of Jim is, somehow, all the more captivating for the contrast. Spock has seen the depths of Jim; now he is beginning to glimpse the heights, and he is dizzied.

Spock’s eyes fix on the black bishop that is currently menacing one of Jim’s knights. “Bishops were once highly ranked members of the historical Roman Church, which was a significant political force in the history of Earth’s western hemisphere,” he offers. “After royalty, prestigious representatives of the church wielded the greatest authority. In terms of rank, it is logical to place bishops on either side of the queen and king.”

“Except on a chessboard, bishops are worth the same as knights, who definitely didn’t wield the same level of authority in feudal society.”

Spock blinks, re-evaluating his hypothesis. “The set-up of the board also represents a logical distribution of resources. The pawns, which have the least value, are ranged defensively in front of the pieces. The most highly-valued pieces, the king and queen, stand at the center, bracketed by useful but less valuable bishops and knights, while the vulnerable corners are defended by the rooks.”

“All of which makes sense, but we’re getting away from my original question. If this is primarily a game of logic, why name the pieces after people?” He picks up his king and twirls it between his fingers. “Well. Not people, really. Resources. Except for the pawns. The pawns are definitely people-people.”

Spock frowns. “That was not your original question.”

Jim waves a hand dismissively. “It was, sort of, but—never mind. Want me to just tell you what I think?”

“You evidently wish to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing.”

Jim performs the rapid eye movement that Humans often refer to as a “double-take”.

“We’ll come back to the fact that you’ve read Jane Austen later,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Okay, here’s how I see it.”

They are only three moves into their game, so Spock does not object when Jim resets the board, presumably to better illustrate his point.

“The bishops,” Jim says, tapping his queen-side piece, “stand next to the king and queen, because that’s where bishops stood in the feudal courts: right next to the seat of power. A bishop wouldn’t hesitate to flaunt his proximity to the king—or the queen, and it’s important that there’s one for each, because those two weren’t always on the same side—but, the bishop has to move diagonally, because he isn’t, officially, supposed to be all that involved in politics. As a representative of the Church, he has to operate—sideways. Not out in the open, but indirectly, through channels of influence.”

Jim lifts his head and searches Spock’s face, presumably for signs of understanding that are not present. The corners of his eyes crinkle.

“You’re aware, of course, that Human languages have a funny habit of imposing spatial values on intangible systems,” he says, quickly placing the three pawns, knight, and two bishops back in their former positions. Spock checks against his memory, but Jim has made no errors. “Honest people are straight with you. Criminals are crooks—crooked. Someone who’s confused has it backwards. If they’re deliberately misunderstanding you, they’re twisting your words.”

“I am familiar with this category of Human idiom,” says Spock dryly.

“Right, but the idiom goes deep, Spock. Any concept that got embedded in our language and hadn’t become obsolete by the time Late Modern English was codified into Federation Standard can be regarded as fundamental to our thinking as a species.” Jim taps his queen side bishop again. “Bishops move diagonally, not because there’s any logic to it, but because that’s how these things work in real life. Rooks move in straight lines, because they represent fortresses—main strength, strong enough to plow down anything in its path. Knights can jump the other pieces because they represent people on horses. When was the last time we fought wars on horseback? The 20th century?”

Jim shrugs. “All I’m saying is, if this was a completely logical game, it would either be an abstract mathematical system without the anthropomorphized elements, or it would be a simple history lesson—the entire board would be filled with pawns, maybe some knights, and all the rest of these guys would be on a hill somewhere, watching their people get trampled and buried alive under mounds of corpses.”

Spock blinks. The cheerful light has vanished from Jim’s eyes suddenly. “Corpses?” he ventures.

Jim releases a deep breath, then shakes his head. “Don’t ever let me go on history tangents,” he says, in a voice of mock reproach.

Then he glances at the board, as if in afterthought, and says, “Check.”

Startled, Spock eliminates Jim’s increasingly troublesome bishop, and makes certain to castle on his next turn.

“You are surprisingly well informed on a wide variety of subjects,” he observes. “Given the irregularities in your educational background, it is logical to suppose that you undertook to supply the deficiencies of your schooling through prodigious self-directed study.”

Jim gives a small huff of laughter. “You make it sound like it was deliberate. It wasn’t. I was just a bored kid with nothing to do but read.”

“And all that you have read, you remember, despite the fact that, like most humans, you do not possess an eidetic memory.”

“I definitely don’t remember everything,” says Jim, seeming to grow even more amused. “At least, I would hate to think I was permanently occupying my valuable mental real estate with the contents of all the trashy spacedock novels I’ve read.”

“The fact remains that you possess a breadth of knowledge and understanding that far exceeds the expectations imposed upon Starfleet cadets. You appear to be equally conversant in those disciplines once referred to as “humanities” as you are in engineering, computer science, and command tactics. It is logical to be curious how you acquired such expertise, and how your unusual background will inform your command style one day.” Spock watches as one of Jim’s pawns approaches and overtakes his knight. “I have made a study of Starfleet’s most successful captains, of which Captain Pike is a sterling example. During our time serving aboard the Faragut together, it often transpired that he, too, demonstrated unlooked-for expertise which often proved valuable to the success of our missions.”

Jim is still smiling, but Spock can tell that something he had said has made Jim uncomfortable.

“To clarify,” Spock adds, “I am saying that I believe your future Starfleet career will be successful, for more reasons than are apparent merely by reviewing your Academy record.”

“And you’re curious how I acquired those extra qualifications, so to speak,” Jim says, plunging directly into the heart of Spock’s inquiry, while ignoring Spock’s effort to bracket his assessment with inoffensively complimentary observations.

“It is logical to be curious,” Spock repeats himself, and decides to allow Jim to promote his pawn while Spock concentrate on the white queen still safely fortified behind a grouping of pawns. “Though I sense that your life before Starfleet was anything but peaceful, you nonetheless took steps to improve your condition, even in presumably chaotic circumstances. Therefore, there are no doubt valuable lessons to be extracted from your experiences.”

“What, you think that if I tell you why I wasted my time reading about ancient European history as a kid, you’ll unlock some magic formula for improving the cadet class as a whole?” The words imply that offense has been taken, but Jim’s expression suggests that he is, again, amused. “It doesn’t really work like that, Spock.”

Spock is aware that Jim is beginning to grow uncomfortable with this line of questioning, but Spock’s curiosity is growing…unmanageable.

“Yesterday, Captain Pike mentioned that you resided for a year on Vulcan, presumably as a youth.” Spock looks Jim in the eye. “If the subject is not distressing to you, I confess that I would be deeply interested in learning how this came about, and what role your experiences on Vulcan might have played in shaping the person I am privileged to know today.”

Jim leans back in his chair. It is his turn, but unlike many of their neighbors who are timing their own game moves with chronometers, Spock had elected to conduct their first chess lesson under more relaxed circumstances.

“How I ended up on Vulcan is a much longer story,” Jim says eventually. “Which isn’t to say I wouldn’t be willing to tell you about it someday, but if my time on Vulcan is what you’re interested in, it’s best if I skip all of that.”

Spock nods his willing consent to Jim’s terms. In truth, he is just as pleased by Jim’s implication that he expects future conversations to take place between them as he is by Jim’s willingness to share a portion of his experiences now.

Jim sighs. His expression grows distant, detached, but Spock understands intuitively that Jim is not withdrawing from their social exchange, but rather, preparing himself to speak of potentially painful matters in the way that is most comfortable to him.

His withdrawal is analogous to the Vulcan practice of compartmentalizing emotions until they can be examined through meditation. Yet, on a Human, it suggests something more than emotional discipline.

During Spock’s service aboard the Farragut, Spock had once commended one of the ensigns in the science division for her exemplary emotional detachment. Captain Pike, who was taking his report, had listened carefully to Spock’s description of the ensign’s restrained and decorous behavior—and then, to Spock’s bafflement, he had contacted Dr. Boyce to examine the ensign for signs of emotional trauma.

“I understand that this is confusing for you,” Pike had explained to Spock afterwards. “But Humans aren’t supposed to repress their feelings to this degree. When they do, it’s usual a sign of a depressive disorder, which can be fatal when left untreated.”

Spock, to understate the matter, had been deeply discomfited to realize that an ensign under his direct supervision was suffering the early stages of a potentially terminal illness, and that he had been blinded to the symptoms by own cultural biases as a Vulcan. Since then, whenever the exuberance of the Humans around him has proven a challenge to his equanimity, Spock has made a point of reminding himself of that conversation, and of his own limitations.

Earth is his mother’s world. It is still in the process of becoming one of Spock’s.

“When I was fourteen, some…stuff happened,” Jim continues. “When it was over, I was in really bad shape, physically. I was in sickbay on the Shenzhou for a while, but eventually I realized that they were only keeping me because they couldn’t find anyone to take me in. My mom was on a tour in deep space, and my—there wasn’t anyone else.”

Jim clears his throat and plays with the black pawn he captured in his fifth move. “Eventually, a Vulcan science vessel beamed over a team of researchers who were—they wanted to talk to the doctors about something. The day they were being given a tour of sickbay, I was having a meltdown.” He laughs a little. “You’d think that would make any Vulcan run for the hills. But T’Silla walked right up to me—I was standing on the counter so I could kick anyone who tried to pick me up—and said, cool as you please, ‘I am T’Silla, a recent arrival on this ship. What is the nature of your complaint with the treatment you have met with here?’

“That took the wind right out of my sails. It had been a long time since anyone had talked to me like I was halfway intelligent, instead of some kind of wild animal.

“I don’t remember what I said to her, but she spent some time talking to my doctors, and she came to visit me in my room a lot. And then, one day, she said that she had received permission from the Federation to foster me until my mom was available, and that I’d be living with her and her family on Vulcan. Her bondmate, Sakal, was an agricultural engineer on the plains east of Vulcan’s Forge—you know. A very long way away from nothing. They had two little girls, just old enough to walk, T’Vael and T’Vara. She—she said that she understood I had no wish to be a burden, so she explained that, while I would be considered a member of the family, they would nonetheless be grateful for the presence of an additional responsible person who could help them manage the twins when one of them was called away for work. Which happened a lot, actually. She…read me really well, from the start. I mean, she was right. I had nothing left but my pride. I wouldn’t have let myself take what she was offering, no matter how much I wanted it, if she hadn’t shown me a way I could contribute. Earn my keep.”

Spock releases a breath he had not realized he was holding. “This T’Silla sounds like a wise Vulcan.”

“My thanah ko-mekh.” Jim smiles softly. “T’Silla was the only person in the family who spoke fluent Standard, so…I had to spend two weeks in bed recovering, anyway, and I decided that learning Vulcan would keep me from getting bored. Every day, I practiced what I’d learned on Sakal and T’Silla over dinner, and they would arch their eyebrows at me until I whittled my accent down to size. They couldn’t have my shitty Vulcan grammar corrupting their kids’ verbal development, after all.” Jim laughs, and the convulsion of his shoulders causes tears to spill down his cheeks. “Man, I spent so much time watching Vulcan public educational broadcasts for toddlers. It helped with my aural sensitivity, which is always the hardest part for me in learning a new language. It was such a relief when T’Silla gave me permission to start teaching the girls Standard, and we could watch Starship Sesame Street together.”

The sight of Jim’s tears makes Spock intensely uncomfortable. They are in a public place, where his vulnerability cannot be concealed, and where Spock can do little to comfort him, physically. It makes him long for the relative privacy of the garden.

But Jim’s smile persists, even as the tears dry. “I’m not sure how the Vulcan school system would have coped with having me as a Human student, but T’Silla’s family lived so far away from a major city that even the twins were going to have to do their schooling remotely by vidcom. I was given aptitude tests and given a slot in an online class, and I got through—four levels? before I had to leave.”

Spock’s mouth falls open. “You completed four complete educational units of a Vulcan curriculum at the age of fourteen? Were you in a class with your agemates, or were you placed with younger children?”

“Ow, Spock, no need to look so shocked.” Jim lifts an eyebrow at him. “Yeah, I was with the other fourteen-year olds. At least at first. I was pretty much doing guided independent study by the end.”

“Jim.” Spock considers his words delicately. “Your official records give no indication that you completed Vulcan secondary education to end of the sixth form. Your records give the impression that you are a grade 10 high school drop-out.”

“Ooh, ‘grade 10’. Hey, is your mother from Canada, by any chance?”

Spock is shocked enough to forget his lecture for a moment. “Do you mean to say that this an identifiable regionalism of Canadian Standard?”

“C’est vrai,” says Jim. “Americans would say 10th grade. British English speakers would say…something about levels, or forms.”

“Fascinating,” says Spock. “And you have deliberately changed the subject. Why do your Starfleet records not accurately reflect your impressive academic accomplishments?”

Jim bows his head. “That’s…part of that longer story I said would have to wait for another day. Sorry.”

“There is no need to apologize.” Jim’s emotional state had fluctuated distressingly when speaking of his Vulcan foster family. Spock could sense intense grief, and a suffocating weight of loss hovering around Jim like a cloud, when their names crossed his lips. “Can you speak of your departure from Vulcan, or is that too part of the longer story?”

Jim’s teeth sink into his lower lip and Spock has to clench his fist to keep his hand at his side.

“Yes and no. The short version is, my stepfather found out I was being awarded settlement money, and just like that, he wanted me to come back to Iowa and live with him. Technically, he was the guardian my mom designated for me, and no one really cared what I wanted, so they just…came for me. I tried to escape by sneaking out my window and hiking into the Forge, but Sakal came after me in a shuttle. He said it wasn’t logical to die rather than return to my family. I told him—”

Jim swallows. “I told him that he and T’Silla and the girls were my family, and I’d rather die in the Forge or anywhere else before going back to Frank. Sakal asked me why. And I…told him. I’d never told anyone before.”

“But this did not prevent your being taken from Vulcan,” says Spock, a dim, horrible suspicion unfolding at the back of his mind. “Were you returned to your step-father?”

“No. Sakal and T’Silla stopped that, at least. I went back to Earth to a Federation group home in Chicago. I was emancipated when I was sixteen, and after that…well, let’s just say this is the longest I’ve spent in one place since then.”

“Have you remained in touch with T’Silla and her clan?” It is an indelicate question, but, Spock is beginning to suspect, a necessary one.

“No.” Jim crosses his arms over his chest, the gesture defensive. “No, I wasn’t allowed, at first. Then I didn’t have the credits for a inter-planetary vidcall. Now…it just feels like it’s been too long, you know? They probably don’t even think about me anymore.”

“Jim.” The urge to touch his fingers to Jim’s face, to his hand, to any part of him, is almost overwhelming. “I feel quite certain that is not true.”

Jim exhales loudly. The movement with which he dries his damp eyes is no doubt intended to be surreptitious. “So. Look at me, crying over Vulcans. I’m amazed we aren’t both dead of the irony. All right, Kirk, game face. Let’s play chess.”

He grins at Spock, and the fact that there is a trace of genuine humor underneath the brave mask makes Spock wonder how a Human such as James Kirk is even possible.

“I wish to thank you for meeting me today,” says Spock, after several minutes of thoughtful silence have passed. “I was not certain whether the prospect of spending additional time in my company would be congenial to you.”

“Spock, you’re the one giving me lessons, here, I should be thanking you.”

“You would have learned more in a single hour playing the computer than I have taught you this morning.” The board provides an excellent excuse for Spock to avoid eye-contact. “Though I can see that your interest in learning the game is sincere, I confess that I would have been agreeable to meeting you today for almost any purpose.”

Jim seems not to hear him at first. Then his head jerks up. His eyes are wide.

“Really?” he says, far more quietly than when he had been lecturing Spock on the balance of power in medieval courts.

Spock takes a breath and moves his knight almost hastily, without bothering to calculate future moves. “Given what transpired on the night we met, as well as yesterday morning, it would not have been unreasonable if you had developed negative associations with my company.”

“That’s…really not how I see it.” Jim moves a piece, but Spock does not bother to check which one. “From my perspective, I got myself into trouble, and you were gracious and generous enough to get me out of it and take care of me afterwards. Why wouldn’t I value your company, when you went to so much effort to be kind to a total stranger?”

Now is the moment for Spock to speak. Yesterday would have been more appropriate, had Jim been in a more fitting state of mind, but Spock was not sorry for the necessary delay.

He is not at all certain how Jim will feel about him, once Spock has told him all that there is to tell.

“You had already ceased to be a stranger to me before Makal summoned me to the Embassy on your behalf,” he says, exerting iron control over an emotion that wishes to become apprehension.

The change that comes over Jim’s posture is subtle but unmistakable. He grows still, his movements slow, his gaze grows fixed and unwavering.

Too late, it occurs to Spock that Jim, who is still being stalked by persons unknown, may misconstrue his meaning in a most unfortunate way.

“Yesterday, at the restaurant, I told you that it was Captain Pike who brought K’diwa to my attention.” Spock continues staring at the board, his place entirely forgotten. “While it is true that he did so, I had already begun reading it before I spoke with him. In fact, I—neglected responsibilities and curtailed my office hours in order to create time to read it without interruption.”

Jim’s expression is still quite blank, by his standards, but there is no evidence of ill-will in the tone of voice he employs. “You almost make it sound as though you found it interesting,” he says.

“It is of the most profound interest to me. Indeed, I can scarcely do justice to the…the unexpected complexity of my emotional reaction.” Spock takes a breath to steady himself. “Suffice it to say that before I knew your identity, I cherished the hope of one day meeting the author of K’diwa and discussing the book at length. I had…many questions.”

“Okay.” It appears that Jim has also temporarily lost interest in their game, because he looks only at Spock. “So that’s how you felt before you knew I wrote it. What about after you found out it was me?”

Spock thinks back to his conversation with Cadet Uhura and Cadet Vro. “I learned that you were the author of K’diwa approximately 2.3 minutes before I received Makal’s message that a Starfleet cadet was being given shelter by the Vulcan Embassy. The…timing of these two revelations had a significant impact on the manner in which I processed them. Initially, I was gratified simply to be able to put a name to the extraordinary mind which had created so rich and imaginative a story. Before I had the opportunity to meditate upon any further actions I might wish to take, however, I learned that you were incapacitated and in the care of individuals whose motivations I could not fully trust. At that very moment, I was discussing with Cadet Uhura the circumstances of her distressing encounter with another Vulcan, employed by the Embassy. I…was concerned what might befall you there if I did not swiftly intervene.”

Jim digests this silently for a moment. “Was it a different kind of concern than you would have felt for any other cadet in the same situation?”

“Yes. And no. That is to say, I do not believe I would have acted differently had I been asked to assist another cadet, or if I had not recently learned that you were the very individual whose identity I had been seeking. But, being in possession of these facts, I believe my…emotions were considerably more engaged than they would otherwise have been.”

“Huh.” Jim stares at him until Spock manages to pry his eyes from the motionless chessboard and look at him. “I apologize if this is an indelicate thing to ask, but…how would you describe those emotions?”

Spock blinks at him. The sunlight is very bright, but that is not why he finds it difficult to hold Jim’s gaze. “Fear,” he admits.

Jim looks startled. “Why?”

“I was afraid for your safety. And, selfishly, I feared that you might meet with behavior from other Vulcans that would leave you disinclined to accept any overtures from myself.”

“You were already that certain that you wanted to know me? Just based on reading K’diwa?”

Spock has noticed that Jim rarely refers to his book by its title. Usually, he refers to it as “the story”, with contextual allowances for use of the indefinite article.

It is just possible that the reason he does this is because he cannot conceal his accent, or lack thereof, when he speaks Vulcan. Spock has already concluded that Jim’s fluency in the language, like his education, is a secret. There is no note of it in his file, though it mentions his varying proficiencies in Orion, Tellarite, Andorian, Klingon, and Romulan.

“Yes,” says Spock. “I was certain. I am still certain.”

He pauses. He is very close to crossing a line, to giving away pieces of himself he has never considered parting with before. Ordinarily, this would be reason to pause, to reassess his motivations and the potential consequences of their actions.

But when Spock thinks of what little he knows about Jim’s past—and about other things he had surmised when he knew him only as the author of K’diwa—he understands what a monumental undertaking it must be for Jim trust anyone, as he had done when he told Spock of his foster family.

If Spock wishes for Jim to take the risk of trusting him even further, then Spock must be prepared to give of himself in ways he has never done before.

“All my life, I have striven to be the ideal Vulcan, but I am very far from being one,” Spock tells Jim blandly. “Though my physiology is almost entirely Vulcan, my Humanity affects my capacity for emotional control. However, my mother’s heritage has also gifted me with a vivid imagination, which I find that I cannot regret, nor would I wish it otherwise, even in exchange for a more perfect grasp of logic.”

Jim appears to be fascinated, which Spock chooses to interpret as a positive indication that he may proceed.

“When I was a child, my mother often read to me from Terran works of fiction. When I was old enough to begin formal schooling, I declared that I no longer needed anyone to read to me.” Spock’s mouth twists, remembering the expression on his mother's face, which he can now identify as disappointment. “However, in secret, I read to myself. I progressed quickly through the Terran literary genre known as the novel, consuming every major work which has been translated into Federation Standard, French, Chinese, or English. On the rare occasions I was ill and confined to bed, I read from waking to sleeping. There is no equivalent to the novel in Vulcan literary tradition, as you may know. Our plays and epic poems are the nearest we have to fiction, but they are not…the same. An expert trained in the field of literary theory could doubtless describe these differences using precise terminology, but I have no such training. In…my own, imprecise, words, Terran fiction is unique in its capacity to act as a kind of katra bearer. The book is a vessel which contains the eternal imprint of another being's mind and soul. Sometimes, the author’s presence seems so near, it is as if they passed through the same room as I only moments before, and a hint of their fragrance remains. Many times in my life, my loneliness has been mitigated by the sensation that an author and I were meeting, mind to mind, on a plane of mutual recognition.”

Spock takes a deep breath. “I have studied my own Human nature in the mirror of Human fiction all my life. By necessity, I have learned how to see my face in many Human faces.” He swallows. “But never, in my entire life, had I see myself in another Vulcan, until I read K’diwa. Jim, I can scarcely explain how it felt. It was as if you had looked into my mind across time and space in order to reflect my innermost thoughts back to me from the pages of your book. To feel so known, from so far away...it was a most transformative experience.”

He forces himself to finish. “So vitally important did I find it to tell you all of this, that had I had not discovered your identity when I did, I do not know what measures I might have been driven to.”

Silence falls. Spock, who has a demonstrably poor grasp of what Humans do and do not find offensive, cannot help fearing that he has made some sort of grave misstep.

When he can no longer bear the suspense, he looks up to find Jim gripping the table with white knuckles, his eyes wide and round and brimming with tears.

“Forgive me,” says Spock, deeply alarmed. “You have misunderstood my intentions. My words were intended as high praise. Please do not be distressed.”

Jim’s mouth wobbles. Then, in an instant, his tragic look is overcome by a fit of what Spock can only describe as “the giggles”.

“Spock,” he says, tremulous but grinning. “Only you could just…say all of those incredible things, and then think you’d insulted me.”

Spock looks down, flushing. “You appeared to be on the verge of weeping,” he says. “I could only conclude that I had hurt your feelings in some manner.”

“No. No, Spock, sometimes I...get the sniffles, because a brilliant Vulcan scientist just told me me my novel about a Vulcan scientist was important to him." Jim clears his throat. "I mean, I get the feeling you’re usually pretty hard to impress.”

“Indeed, that is so.” Spock tilts his head. “I must admit that I am relieved. I feared that when I confessed my keen and prolonged interest in you, you might not react well. That you might experience trepidation, or even fear.”

“But you told me anyway,” says Jim, and his smile does not vanish.

“To do otherwise was unthinkable.”

Jim’s smile grows softer.

Spock, emboldened by the seeming perfection of the moment, feels a precipitous, and yet nearly ungovernable urge to ask Jim’s permission to initiate a formal courtship.

Until a Human Starfleet cadet, sitting at a table a few meters away from them, aims his PADD at Jim and captures his image.

Before Spock can stalk over to his table to demand the cadet identify himself (so that Spock can write him up for at least six offenses), two more people on opposite sides of the park square lift their PADDs and do the same thing.

Spock and Jim stare at each other, mutually baffled. Then, Jim’s comm begins to vibrate.

Having started, it does not stop. After Jim fishes it from his pocket, it nearly jumps out of his grasp before he can get it open.

“Okay,” says Jim, slowly. “Okay. Okay, okay. It, uh, it looks like the cat’s out of the bag.”

Spock has to access the archives of his eidetic memory to translate this idiom. “The cat in this case is…?”

“Gary went on the record with an underground student gossip tabloid. Told them—everything, I guess. Or his version of ‘everything’, which is bound to—”

Jim stops himself and bows his head, breathing deeply.

Spock’s reaction to this is not entirely logical. Or, seen from another perspective, it is the most logical thing in the world.

He gets up and crosses to Jim’s side of the table. Jim isn’t expecting it, so he doesn’t resist when Spock plucks Jim's communicator from his hand.

Seating himself astride the bench, his body separated from Jim’s by only a few inches (close enough to shield him from almost anything) Spock quickly scans the messages that are coming in. They arrive in such rapid succession that each name only appears onscreen for a fraction of a second.

Spock quickly bypasses all notifications, and resets Jim’s comm to accept messages only from known contacts.

This slows the torrent to a steady stream. Spock scans the subjects and first lines for indications that a message may be upsetting, or contain mockery or abuse; he deletes twenty-seven of them, then places all of Jim’s contacts on silent mode, except for himself, “Mom”, Captain Pike, the various numbers assigned to “Bones”, Gaila Vro, and Uhura.

This leaves five messages, four of them from Cadet Vro, one from Dr. McCoy. These, Spock returns to Jim unread.

“Wow,” says Jim. “Are you sure…I mean, some of those could have been important?”

“If anyone has a legitimate need to contact you, then, depending on the reason, they will attempt to reach you either through Captain Pike, who is your advisor, or through Doctor McCoy, your roommate and physician. Anyone who is daunted by such a screening process can have no urgent or pressing business to discuss.”

“I suppose that’s logical.” Jim gives him a wobbly smile.

Spock examines Jim closely for signs of heightened anxiety. Despite his shallow breathing earlier he no longer seems to be exhibiting acute symptoms. He is, however, clearly feeling abashed and exposed, his lower-level anxiety within the bounds of his control, though still painful to witness.

Again, Spock is tempted to do as he did yesterday, when he could not determine whether Jim’s respiratory distress was a medical or emotional concern, and simply touch his fingers to Jim’s bare skin. But there is no sufficient cause this time. And he is not bold enough to simply ask.

“So, uh.” Jim indicates his communicator. “Gaila’s declared an emergency study group session. At a bar. Bones and Uhura say they’re coming.” He darts a quick glance at Spock. “I know you don’t really drink, but…”

“Yes,” says Spock.

“Yes, you drink?” Jim’s brow furrows.

It must have taken a truly unthinkable degree of emotional neglect to reduce a person as brilliant as Jim to this level of stammering incomprehension every single time he is presented with evidence that his company—that he is valued.

“No, I do not consume ethanol for recreational purposes,” says Spock patiently. “Yes, I nonetheless wish to accompany you to the bar, so that I may come to know you better by witnessing your interactions with your friends. Also, because I would not be separated from you.”

“Spock…” Jim shakes his head, laughing. “Man, are you sure? I can’t help questioning your taste.” His tone indicates that this is supposed to be taken as a joke. The trembling of his hands suggests otherwise.

“I would prefer that you refrain from questioning my taste, as I believe it is considered impolite. Also, a pointless exercise, since taste varies from one individual to the next, and thus your distaste for yourself is irrelevant to my marked preference for you.”

Jim scrubs at his face with one hand. “Marked preference, huh?” he says, voice muffled.

“You are more familiar with Vulcan customs than any Human I have encountered, apart from my mother. I believe you can guess what I am referring to.” He waits for Jim to lower his hand slowly and give Spock a stunned look. “If you are prepared to hear my declarations now, I am prepared to make them. But I understand that Humans and Vulcans are not the same, and that Humans generally prefer longer periods of courtship before forming permanent intentions. I am fully willing to accommodate you in this.”

They sit in silence for nearly five minutes while Jim, his expression glassy, meditates on this.

“You’re springing this on me now,” he says slowly, raising an accusing finger at Spock, “to distract me from the fact that everyone in Starfleet is suddenly aware that the famous James T. Kirk is the author of ‘a steamy novel of interspecies romance’. Aren’t you?”

Spock lifts his chin primly. “I would do much to spare you the pain of your unnecessary anxiety, Jim,” he says. “But that does not make my words any less sincerely meant.”

Jim exhales.

In a very small voice, he says, “Can we just go meet the others at the bar for now?”

“Certainly,” says Spock, taking care to rise first, so that he is in a position to assist his intended from his seat.

Chapter Text

“Groundbreaking!” Gaila declares, emphasizing her point by banging her empty glass against the table. “I said it, and I stand by it, until someone makes a valid argument to disprove me. Which you can’t do. Because I’m right.”

Spock, seated across the table from her, raises an eyebrow. Jim, sandwiched between Spock and Leonard, tries to hunch down low in his seat.

Nyota, sipping red wine at Gaila’s left, had spotted Jim and his unobtrusive yet menacing Vulcan shadow first. Or rather, she’d seen Spock, gotten very excited for a moment, and then noticed that Jim was hovering behind him. “What the hell are they doing here together?” she’d hissed, grabbing Gaila’s arm.

Gaila, who could read the possessive pheromones that Spock was exuding from all the way across the bar, had just smiled. “Oh, they’re boning,” she said cheerfully. “Or they will be, if Professor Spock has anything to say about it.”

Nyota had looked mildly nauseated after that, but she was way too curious not to be welcoming when Jim and Spock arrived at the table.

The crowd in the bar tonight is the perfect size. There are enough people milling around on the dance floor to create the right Saturday-night energy, but not so many that Gaila can’t get the waiter’s attention when it’s time for a new round.

Despite the fact that most of the people who come here are connected to Starfleet in some way—this is the only bar in walking distance of the Academy, which is how it became their regular spot in the first place—no one’s bothered Jim about his novel yet.

Getting the study group together tonight had been Gaila’s idea. The second that Gary’s interview had gone live, her comm had started blowing up with messages from…basically, everyone who knew that she and Jim were friends, which turned out to be a lot more people than Gaila realized. Since there was no way that Jim’s messages weren’t blowing up at least twice as fast, and given Jim’s attitude the last time they’d discussed the possibility of his identity being exposed, her first instinct had been to lure Jim into the safety of his friends’ company as quickly as possible. The invitation to get drunk had just been the bait.

She’s not surprised that Jim came, but the fact that he’d brought Spock with him was at least the second most interesting development to come out of this whole “Jim wrote a secret romance novel” situation.

“I believe your description is apt, Cadet Vro,” says Spock quietly, which makes Jim give Spock a baffled look through the hands that are covering his face. “In certain respects, Jim’s creation is quite unique. As I understand you to be using the colloquial definition of ‘groundbreaking’ to suggest that K’diwa takes for its subject themes which have rarely ever been explored in Terran fiction, I can only agree with your assessment.”

“Thank you, Professor Spock.” Gaila beams at him.

“Hey. It’s Saturday, none of us are in uniform, and the ‘Professor’ is hanging out at the same shitty bar as the rest of us.” Leonard lifts his glass at Spock, which Gaila understands is his way of making the distinction inclusive, rather than exclusive. “Under the circumstances, everyone here can damn well be on a first name basis.”

“Or last names,” says Jim quickly, raising his own glass to Nyota. He then slams the contents—half a cup of watery whiskey—down his throat, and his eyes immediately start to water. Sometimes Jim forgets how much his alcohol tolerance has dropped since he joined Starfleet.

Nyota lifts her head suddenly. Her former, skeptical look has been replaced by her “nerd in search of knowledge” expression. She peers across the table through narrowed eyes. Gaila braces herself.

“Okay, now I’m actually curious,” she says, addressing both Gaila and Spock. “Both of you are brilliant, so what is it you’re seeing in Kirk’s smut novel that the rest of us aren’t? Because I have had to listen to a lot of people talk about Kirk’s story this week, but mostly all they talk about are the sex scenes.”

“I write excellent sex scenes,” Jim points out hurriedly, missing the look of mingled consternation and heat that passes over Spock’s face.

“You do, sweetie.” Gaila reaches across the table to pat Jim’s arm—and only his arm, because Spock is watching. “For a male.”

Jim makes mock-offended noises, while Leonard, tucked into the corner of the booth, loses himself in a giggling fit. He’d been here for an entire hour before even Gaila showed up, and is well on his way to being adorably drunk by now.

“My point is,” says Nyota repressively, “Not many people are expressing opinions about K’diwa’s literary merits, one way or the other. And I’ll be honest, I only skimmed it myself. So I’m curious why both of you think so highly of it, when even Jim is embarrassed by it.”

“In this case, I believe the source of our differing opinions lies principally in the fact that, by your own admission, you did not read the book thoroughly enough to make a true appraisal of its merits,” says Spock, in the gentle, brutal tones that have sent so many students out of his classroom in tears. “But as to Gaila’s contention that K’diwa explores previously uncharted literary ground, this is a simple and verifiable fact.”

Nyota frowns, but it is Leonard who speaks.

“Now, wait a minute. Last week, I sat in a dentist’s office for half an hour with nothing to do in the waiting room but watch some godawful soap opera about some Vulcan/Human love triangle. You can’t be saying Jim’s the first Human to write about made-up Vulcans.”

Gaila’s mouth pops open at the same time Spock opens his own mouth to speak. Their eyes meet.

“Please,” Spock nods, deferring to her.

“It isn’t the fact that Stoval is the main character, or even that he’s boning a Human chick,” Gaila says excitedly. Her book club had turned out so boring. Nobody had really brought any ideas to the table. Gaila has been bursting with this ever since Jim started sending her chapters to proofread. “It’s about the gaze.”

“You mean how Stoval’s staring at Ophelia like a lovestruck idiot all the time?” Leonard chuckles into his whiskey.

Spock, whose eyes are boring holes into the side of Jim’s face at that very second, averts his gaze almost guiltily.

“No, Leonard,” Gaila says, pretending she hasn’t seen. “The Gaze. Capital G.”

The three males sitting at the table look at her blankly.

Nyota’s eyes widen. “Wait, shit,” she says, turning to Gaila. “Ok, admittedly, I only read a little bit, but I…think I know what you’re talking about? I can’t believe I—damn, Kirk.” There is a new respect in her eyes when she looks over at Jim. “That was smooth.”

“I have no idea what any of them are talking about,” says Jim, looking plaintively at Leonard.

“Stoval becomes enraptured by the shape of Ophelia’s ears,” says Spock, and the table falls silent.

When he notices that four expectant faces are turned to him, Spock’s shoulders straighten, and he assumes his classroom voice. “With regard to Ophelia, almost from their very first encounter, Stoval exhibits the characteristic possessive and protective behaviors of a courting Vulcan male. Yet he does not become consciously aware of what he has been doing until after a—scene, in Chapter Nine—”

“Ooh, that one.” Gaila winces. “Good call putting a content footnote on that chapter, Jim.”

Jim says nothing, but his foot finds hers under the table and his toe rubs her ankle comfortingly.

“After Stoval has returned them both to the shuttle and secured Ophelia’s safety, he finds himself newly aware of her aesthetic and sexual appeal. While appraising her attributes, Stoval becomes fixated on Ophelia’s distinctly Human traits. Her ear, in particular: the roundedness of it, the semi-transparent pink membrane which reminds him of the interior of a seashell.”

“And do you have any idea how rare that is?”

Nyota, clever girl, had caught up to Gaila and Spock almost immediately, and is suddenly bursting with enthusiasm over her new revelation. Leonard and Jim both flinch under her regard.

“Terran literature since First Contact has had a terrible representation issue when it comes to non-Human characters,” she tells them enthusiastically. “Human authors always frame the non-Human characters as weird and exotic. Sometimes they get to be sexy, too, but always in this really objectifying way.”

Gaila nods. “Orion females are lucky to even get speaking lines. The last story I read with an Orion character, she was described as ‘the green hottie with the tits he’d gone three rounds with last night’. That was it. She didn’t even get a name.”

Uhura gestures to Gaila, with a “see?” gesture. Leonard’s eyes widen, and Jim looks dismayed, while Spock looks blandly unsurprised.

“Frankly, that’s why I didn’t bother reading the book all the way through,” Nyota says, shrugging semi-apologetically. “I was expecting lots of horny passages about Stoval’s tall, muscled form and his pointed ears and green skin—"

“Green is quite erotic, to be fair,” says Gaila, smiling sweetly when Leonard blushes.

“But, instead, you wrote Ophelia like she was the exotic one. All of her Human differences are portrayed through the filter of Stoval’s perspective. His point of view is treated as the default. That’s…” she trails off.

“Groundbreaking,” says Gaila smugly, sipping her mojito.

Jim finally straightens up in his seat, but it’s only to open his mouth and spread his hands pleadingly.

“I wasn’t thinking about any of that,” he says bluntly. “I mean, I see what you’re saying, but I wasn’t, like, trying to strike a blow for equal representation. I was so deep in Stoval’s head that it just made sense to show the reader how he sees Ophelia, how a Vulcan would see her.”

“I’m not claiming to be any kind of literature expert,” says Leonard, darting a smug sideways glance at Jim. “But how exactly is it groundbreaking for a male writer to sexually objectify a female character, hmm?”

Jim scratches the back of his neck. His cheeks, which had started turning pink almost as soon as he sat down, are flushed crimson at this point.

“I had to make Ophelia hot,” he says forlornly. “She turned out way more messed up and combative than I thought she was going to be, and it started feeling less and less believable that someone like Stoval would ever fall in love with her.”

Spock jerks in his seat like someone has slapped him, but doesn’t, to Gaila’s disappointment, actually say anything.

“And I don’t really know what Vulcans find hot about Humans, if anything,” Jim continues, “so I just made her look as unlike a Vulcan as possible. I figured that would intrigue him, and once I had it down on the page, it seemed to work. As soon as Stoval notices all that Human stuff about her, he’s basically doomed.”

“Doomed?” says Spock, sounding alarmed. “In what way?”

Jim looks at him, confused.

“At the novel’s conclusion, Stoval and Ophelia are bonded. They have returned to Vulcan, and Stoval is preparing to present her to his clan as his mate. Are you suggesting that, if you were to write a sequel, it would be revealed that their bond was not, ultimately, successful?”

Gaila sucks tequila down through a straw, her eyes glued to the soap opera unfurling across the booth from her.

“What?” Jim laughs. “Okay, one, I’m definitely not writing a sequel. Two, no, as far as I’m concerned, Stoval and Ophelia get their happily-ever-after on Vulcan. The novel is pure wish-fulfillment, in case you hadn’t noticed. I wasn’t about to tear them apart, like—"

Jim stops abruptly, clearing his throat.

Spock’s eyebrows immediately begin to droop in concern.

“I just meant, doomed, like, Stoval was doomed to love her,” Jim finishes explaining weakly. “They were in an enclosed space for months with bad guys chasing them. It was over for him the minute he started pondering all the differences in their comparative physiognomy.”

“I actually loved that part?” Gaila cuts in, startling everyone into looking at her. “Jimmy, you don’t understand. Every single time someone cites that ‘Vulcans are three times stronger than Humans’ statistic, I want to tear my hair out. I’m like, first of all, it’s interesting that you can pull that factoid out of your ass, but did you know that Orions are almost twice as strong as Humans? No, is always the answer. Plus, it’s like—have you seen Humans? Do you not understand how many different kinds of Humans there are?”

“Yeah, that statistic is incredibly androcentric,” says Nyota, to Jim’s visible shock. “I enjoyed that part too, when Stoval notices the sexual dimorphism gap among Human males and females? Like Gaila said—Spock might be three times stronger than Jim, but Jim, much as I hate to admit it, is probably at least three times as strong as me.”

“And I am genuinely sorry for that,” Jim says, provoking giggles from most of the table.

Everyone thinks he’s joking, but he’s not, which has a lot to do with why Gaila loves him.

“But you went and called that ‘statistic’ out from the point of view of Vulcan logic, Kirk. That’s pretty bold stuff.” Nyota smirks at him, not ill-naturedly. “Now that people know who you are, I wouldn’t be surprised if you started getting speaking invitations from university English departments, and book stores. Stuff like that.”

“Hard agree,” says Gaila. “Jimmy, I’ve never read another story written by a Human that even tried to assume an authentic non-Human perspective before. That’s important, to me, as an Orion living in the Federation.” She looks slyly at Spock. “I bet it means something to Spock, too.”

Spock arches an eyebrow. “Indeed. Jim’s novel appears to have had a significant effect on the greater number of Vulcans living in this city.”

All of a sudden, Jim swears viciously under his breath and drops his face into his hands.

“The ear thing,” he whispers. “How did I miss the fucking ear thing, I am such an idiot, oh my God.”

Spock intervenes before Gaila has to, which gives Gaila the opportunity signal the waiter for more mojitos.

“Jim, I would prefer that you not demean yourself in my presence,” he says seriously. “My instinct is to defend you against insult, and this would prove logistically complicated.”

Leonard laughs so hard that he has to rest his head on the table. Gaila looks down at him fondly. He probably shouldn’t drink anymore tonight, but she’s not his mother.

“Please explain what you are referring to when you say, ‘the ear thing’?” Spock continues relentlessly, like the world’s most patient interrogator.

“It’s just something Makal said,” Jim shrugs dismissively.

“What did he say?” Spock demands, refusing to be dismissed.

“Who’s Makal again?” says Leonard, seeming to sober up by at least three drinks in the space of a few seconds.

Jim looks around and notices the expressions of keen curiosity that Gaila and Nyota are directing his way. He sighs.

“Okay,” he says, “so, Thursday night, I went to a bar, and I got hit on by a really horny Vulcan with zero chill.” He makes eye contact with Uhura, as if to distract himself from the bristling Vulcan at his side. “When he was hitting on me, Makal said something, like…he used to think the erotic qualities of Human ears were overrated, but now that he was seeing mine up close, he was starting to see the appeal. It was…weird. So weird, I mean, someone complimenting your ear should not be that intense? He was very intense.”

Jim looks around the table. “But here’s the question. Have Vulcans ever been attracted to Human ears before? Or did a handful of Vulcans just start thinking of them that way because they read my book? Because, if that’s the real reason I had to listen to someone blatantly objectify my ear, right to my face, then I’m guessing karma is responsible.”

Spock leans into Jim until their arms are pressing together. Jim leans back into him—automatically, unconsciously, like trusting Spock at his back is already the most natural thing in the world to him—and Gaila nearly melts.

“Now that you mention it,” says Nyota slowly, “Krevak wasn’t that obvious, or I never would have agreed to go out with him. But, in hindsight, he was a little too fixated on how tiny and breakable I was compared to him. At first, I thought he was trying to be considerate of our differences, but then...you know.”

Jim looks at Nyota with the hugest blue eyes. “I am so—”

“Kirk, I will kick you if you apologize for that.”

Leonard begins inching away from Jim, presumably putting some distance between their legs underneath the table.

Spock clears his throat. “Illogical though it would be, I too feel oddly moved to apologize on behalf of the males of my species. There has never before been such a string of such incidents in the history of Vulcan-Human diplomacy. The behavior of his staff has proven to be a source of serious consternation to my father.”

Spock is blushing very slightly—Gaila is a little more attuned to the fluctuations of a green-tinted complexion than the others—and she has a sudden flash of insight.

“Oh no, Spock,” she assures him hurriedly. “It’s okay if you think Jim’s little round ears are sweet and sexy. You respect Jim, and you care about him. That makes it totally different.”

Leonard and Nyota choke on their drinks at the exact same moment, Leonard staring between Jim and Spock like they’ve suddenly sprouted a third head.

“You didn’t know?” Gaila says, as three sets of eyes begin to glare at her. “I mean, they walked in together. And Jim’s never brought anyone to study group before.”

Jim isn’t glaring at her, but he is squinching his eyes shut, like he’s trying to make the whole table go away. Spock, the only person who looks completely unperturbed, touches Jim’s arm, then says, “You do have an advantage in this area which the others do not possess, Gaila.”

Gaila is pretty sure that’s a spark of amusement she sees in his eyes. “Well, yeah,” she says. “But you guys are pretty obvious even to the pheromone-blind. At least, I think so.”

Leonard has switched his narrowed gaze from Jim and Spock, to just Spock. Uhura is trying to disguise the fact that her eyebrows have climbed to her hairline by staring into her drink.

That’s when Jim decides to up and abandon ship.

“I…um, I’m gonna dance,” he says, slipping underneath the table and crawling around Spock in a move that leaves the Vulcan stunned and green in the face. Jim emerges on his feet next to the table and rubs his hands together. “Who’s dancing with me? Bones?”

“Hell, no.”

“I don’t mean you have to dance with me, with me.”

“Still no.”

“Fine. Gaila?”

She’s danced with Jim a thousand times, but Spock’s possessiveness is kind of a libido killer. Which is exactly what nature designed those pheromones to be, and for good reason. Getting in between a Vulcan and his prospective mate would be like trying to commit suicide by climbing the partition at the dangerous animals exhibit at the zoo.

“Gonna sit this one out,” she says. “I’ll watch you from here.”

Jim pouts.

Gaila can tell that Spock is equally torn between hoping that Jim will ask him to dance, and dreading that he will ask him to dance.

“I’ll dance with you, Kirk,” says Nyota, sounding as though she can’t quite believe she’s volunteering.

“Really?” Jim looks stunned.

“Yes, unless you’re just going to make it weird. I feel like dancing tonight. And as I recall, you have a few moves.”

“Just for that,” says Jim, reaching for Nyota’s hand, “you see someone you actually want to dance with, and I will help you reel them in. Scout’s honor.”

“He wasn’t actually a Scout,” says Leonard casually, like he corrects people on this regularly.

“You’re on,” says Nyota, and she and Jim disappear down a few steps and into the crowd of dancing bodies below them.

Well. To Gaila, at least, they seem to disappear. But she’s fairly certain that Spock has a target lock on both their positions, judging from the way he glares at their retreat.

In the corner of the booth, Leonard tips his head back. A few seconds later, he begins to snore gently.

“She’s not a threat,” Gaila tells Spock, dropping the pretense now that they’re as good as alone. “Jim and Nyota have a very childish, sibling-style relationship, but when they flirt, it’s just another way for them to be competitive. She’s only dancing with him because, when they go out on the floor together, no one ever looks at anything but the two of them. And Jim knows that.”

“They do have an appreciable combined aesthetic appeal,” says Spock, sounding distracted. Either Uhura is behaving herself, or whatever she’s doing to Jim is turning Spock on, because most of the jealousy has faded from his expression.

“You haven’t known Jim for very long, have you?” she says.

It’s a gamble, getting a Vulcan to open up at the best of times, but Gaila senses that Spock is desperate to talk to someone about Jim. She wonders if he even has any other friends.

“On the night that I met yourself and Nyota for the first time, you may remember I was called away suddenly,” says Spock quietly. “The message I had received was in regards to Jim. I met him for the first time after I arrived at the Embassy.”

Gaila blinks. Even for a Vulcan, that is moving fast. “So you’ve known him a little over two days, now.”

“That is essentially correct.”

“Wow,” she says softly. “You must be terrified.”

Spock stiffens. “I am unaware of—”

“You didn’t know Jim until a couple of days ago, but you’d heard of him, right?” Gaila prompts. “You know what people say about him.”

“Within minutes of meeting Jim, I had cast aside any preconceived notions I may have possessed regarding his character.”

“That’s good.” Gaila nods approvingly. “Because just about everything they say about Jimmy is cowshit.”

Spock’s forehead wrinkles. “Is ‘bullshit’ not the expression?”

“Oh, right.” Gaila tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “The way it works is that Jimmy shows up here, looking like he looks, and by morning, three different people will be claiming they fucked him. And he never denies it. That way, no matter how many people he turns down, no one will ever suspect that he’s actually more or less celibate.”

This, finally, makes Spock turn and look at her. He appears gobsmacked.

“I was aware that his reputation for licentiousness was grossly exaggerated, if not entirely fabricated,” he says faintly. “But I…did not expect that.”

Gaila is Orion; the only one in Starfleet, one of less than 5000 living on Earth. There is a reason Orion females get automatic refugee status under Federation law, and everyone knows what that reason is. Including Spock, though he’s far too well-mannered to allude to it.

“People who grew up like Jimmy and I did either go wild or completely shut down when it comes to sex,” she says bluntly.

It takes Spock about three seconds to begin processing what she’s just implied. She watches his eyes fill with dread, then denial, then, finally, with a heat powerful enough to consume cities.

It doesn’t frighten Gaila, because that same anger lives deep in her heart, a perpetual combustion that powers everything she does.

“Fucking everybody, or fucking nobody—either way, it’s a tactic to make sex feel less important. Less powerful,” she continues. “Because, then, all the ways people have used sex to hurt you can also feel less important. Less hurtful.”

Spock looks a little bit like he’s going to faint.

“Occasionally, Jim would go home with someone,” she says, careful to use the past tense. “Not often. Jim’s a complete puppy dog when he likes someone, and that kind of energy tends to attract a certain…type. The partners he’s been with in the past weren’t always as careful with him as he needed them to be. I worry, you know?” Gaila reaches for her glass. “Actually, I’ve always thought he’d get along well with an Andorian, or a Vulcan—someone from a culture with dominance-based mating behaviors. That way, he could get what needed without it being some kind of toxic power struggle.”

“When the appropriate amount of time has passed, I intend to ask Jim’s permission to court him formally, with a view to bonding in the future.” Spock says this very quickly, as if he thinks that Gaila’s some kind of matchmaker with a list of Andorian and Vulcan rivals for Jim’s hand.

“But that’s for Jim, because you’ve already made up your mind,” says Gaila, her right cheek dimpling.

Spock releases a breath. “Indeed.”

Bless Leonard—he stopped snoring a few seconds ago, and Gaila’s pretty sure he’s awake again, but he’s acting like he’s still asleep. She’s not sure if it’s because he wants to eavesdrop, or because he’s trying give Spock his privacy.

“Jim trusts you,” she says, with emphasis. “Do you have any idea how long it takes him to trust new people, normally? This absolute fuckery that Gary’s pulled is going to make it even worse. Jim really cared about him, once.”

Spock’s eyes narrows. “Jim mentioned that Gary Mitchell was once a member of this…study group. Are you expecting him here tonight?”

Gaila points two fingers at her eyes, then points the same two fingers at the front entrance. “I have eye-balled every single person who has walked through that door since I got here. That’s the whole reason I got this table.”

The toothy smile she gives Spock makes him blink, suddenly. On anyone else it would have been a flinch. She knows what she looks like—dangerous, feral. It isn’t a side of herself, of her own Orion nature and upbringing, that she shows very many people.

But this is for Jim, and Spock deserves to know that he’s not fighting a one-Vulcan battle against all the different kinds of darkness that keep trying to put out Jim’s light.

“If Gary has any sense of self-preservation, he’ll stay the hell away,” she says. “But if he is stupid enough to show up, I plan on getting to him way before he can get anywhere near Jim.”

Spock gives her a look that she’s inclined to think may be respect.

“As Mitchell is also a Starfleet cadet, your…pre-emptive efforts to defend Jim might well leave you vulnerable to charges of criminal assault. I am not certain that even the testimony of your friends would be sufficient counter-evidence to protect you from a conviction and a stain upon your Starfleet record. I, personally, would find it regrettable if, in your laudable desire to protect your friend, you should also become one Mitchell’s victims.” Spock folds his hands and straightens his shoulders. “Should you indeed spy Mitchell’s appearance, I request that you simply inform me of the fact. I am more than qualified to remove him from the premises swiftly and discreetly, and as a senior officer I have the authority to do so without risking censure.”

Gaila resolutely doesn’t let herself shudder, not even in the good way.

“You know about Gary’s past with Jim?” she ventures.

“I know enough.” Four short syllables, all very clipped, and very, very angry.

“So, you know that Jim trusted Gary, opened up to him, cared about him—and that Gary paid him back by fucking around on Jim and then beating the shit out of him every time someone noticed Jim was hot. And you know that Jim protected him, for months, because he believed Gary every time he said it was Jim’s fault—"

The plastisteel table, painted to look like old-fashioned slab wood, is beginning to take on permanent indentations in the shape of Spock’s fingertips. Well, good, Gaila thinks. Spock needs to be honest with himself about this, and if he can’t even hear the short version of the story without mentally imploding, then he’s in no shape to look into Gary’s smug, smiling face and hear whatever poison he’s saved up for the occasion.

“Knowing all that,” she repeats, “do you really think you can just…make Gary go away? Or do you think that there’s a chance that, maybe, just maybe, you’ll twist his smug head right off his shoulders instead?”

Spock opens his mouth, then shuts it again. He spends about a minute meditating on Gaila’s suggestion.

“At the very least,” he says, finally, “I should join you in confronting him, since he may be less likely to attempt physical violence against you if I am nearby.”

Gaila frowns. “You do know that Orion females are a lot stronger than a Human male Gary’s size, right?”

“Then, together, we should present a truly formidable front. One that may impress upon Mitchell the seriousness of our intent.”

She tries not to smile, but a few seconds later she caves and beams at him.

“That works.” She pats his arm over his jacket. “You’re really very lovely, you know that?”

He flushes, and she doesn’t really expect him to answer.

Except, then he bows from the neck, like the smooth-ass Ambassador’s son everyone at Starfleet forgets he is, and says, “Likewise, I have so far gathered only favorable impressions of yourself.”

Gaila grins.

“You wanna dance?” She tilts her head curiously. “I know some Vulcan dances, and if you have any sense of rhythm, I bet we can adapt them to this beat.”

“Would that not distract you from your stated goal of minding the entrance for signs of Gary Mitchell?”

“No, Gary’s not that slick. I can still watch for him, and this way we’ll be closer to the door.”

Spock considers this, and arches an eyebrow, as if surprised. “Your logic is sound,” he says. “Very well.”

He rises gracefully from the booth, something Gaila has never seen a male of any species pull off before, and offers Gaila his arm. She grasps his sleeve and springs to her feet with a giddy smile.

“If only you weren’t so taken that I could smell it from outside the bar,” she sighs playfully.

The corner of Spock’s mouth puckers in a badly-suppressed smile.

*

“Where’s Jim?” bellows a voice in Gaila’s ear about twenty minutes later.

It’s Leonard, looking rumpled and worried.

Spock has just spun Gaila—or rather, his hand had hovered above hers while she twirled on tiptoe, giving the impression that he was spinning her, while they avoided skin to skin contact—and it takes her a moment to reach a complete standstill.

“I just saw him,” she says, dismayed. With every twirl, Gaila has been scanning the bar. She knows she’s seen Jim at least three times since she and Spock left their table, but now that Leonard’s asking, she can’t remember how long ago the last time was. “Spock!” she shouts, reaching out to tug at his jacket. “Where’s Jim?”

Spock’s head whips towards the northeast corner of the room, and his panic when he doesn’t spot Jim in his last known location is visible even to Leonard.

“Y’all two, check the restrooms,” Leonard orders, accustomed to taking charge whenever there’s any kind of crisis over Jim. “I’m gonna—check someplace else.”

“Leonard.” Gaila knows where he’s going, and she can’t help thinking he shouldn’t go there alone.

“Just. Bathrooms, Gaila. Then come find me outside.” Leonard tears himself away.

She can tell that Spock wants to follow him, and so does Gaila for that matter, but she trusts Leonard’s judgment. “Come on,” she tells Spock, nudging at his back until he has no choice but to make a path through the crowd for them.

They sweep the tiny bathrooms in under 30 seconds and immediately start back towards the front of the bar.

“Not there,” calls Gaila, when Spock’s steps turn towards the main door. “Side door.” There is an alley outside where people smoke. And urinate. And fuck. And…other things.

Spock hasn’t even grasped the door handle before an explosion of vicious yelling and swearing becomes audible from the far end of the alley.

Spock nearly tears the latch out of the antique wood wrestling the door open, and Gaila runs after him, hot on his heels, as the echo of Leonard’s voice comes roaring towards them.

“You sonuvabitch, I oughtta kill you!” He screams so loud that his voice cracks. He sounds furious enough to cry.

When Gaila finally spots Leonard a second later, he’s weaving on his feet, clutching a bloody fist to his chest. A man lies on the damp pavement at his feet, groaning faintly.

A few feet away from them, slumped against the wall with a hand clamped to the side of his head, is Jim. His eyes are screwed up with pain, but Gaila looks at him and looks at him, and she doesn’t see any blood, no bones hanging at funny angles—nothing to explain why Jim looks like that, why he’s breathing so hard, why he’s holding his skull like he has the worst headache—

“Gary was doing something to him when I got out here.” Leonard doesn’t look at anyone. His fists are clenched at his sides; he sounds wrecked. “He was hurting Jim. He had ahold of Jim’s face, and—and Jim was crying, he was begging Gary to stop—”

There is a moment of silence, into which falls the sound of a tiny, hitched breath.

“Jim.” In an eyeblink, Spock is at Jim’s side. He peels off his jacket and tries to wrap it around Jim’s shoulders, but as soon as Jim takes his hand off the wall he starts to list sideways. Spock catches him, holding him stable with one hand while getting the jacket on him with the other.

Spock leans close to Jim’s face, studying him, grazing the tips of his fingers lightly against Jim’s brow. He murmurs inaudible words in low, soothing tones. Gaila thinks some of them may be in Vulcan.

Gaila looks away, at the ground, where Gary’s face is just a groaning mask of blood. Leonard is still standing over him, like he’s afraid Gary might try for Jim again if he relaxes.

“I never hurt nobody that bad on purpose before,” says Leonard, so low only Gaila can hear him. “I never thought I could.”

The pain in Leonard’s voice is so raw that Gaila wants to throw up.

“Jim’s mind has been violated.” Spock’s voice cuts through the alley like the beam of a laser scope. “You did well to stop him by any means possible, Leonard. It would be ideal if Mitchell were rendered unconscious until Jim has recovered from his influence. Can he safely be sedated?”

Leonard begins trembling head to foot. “You gave Jim brain damage, you sorry sack of shit?” he hisses.

For a second, Gaila thinks Leonard is about to line his boot up with the side of Gary’s head. Then he breathes deeply: in and out, in and out.

“He’s fine, more or less,” he tells Spock. “I busted his nose up pretty good, but his only real problem is that he bounced his head when he hit the pavement. He didn’t lose consciousness, though, so sedation won’t hurt him. I just don’t make a habit of carrying hypos to the bar with me.”

“I’m guessing someone’s already called medics,” says Gaila. She can see at least five different people staring at them through the windows of the bar, three of whom are on their comms. “Security too, probably.”

Spock steps briskly from Jim’s side, bends down next to Gary, and reaches for his neck.

There is a jerk of his wrist, and an audible snap.

For a long moment, Gaila is not entirely certain that Spock didn’t just break Gary’s spine right in front of them. Nor is she entirely certain that she won’t be helping him dispose of the body, if that turns out to be the case.

“There may be damage to the collar bone,” Spock tells Leonard. “A…sometimes unavoidable side-effect of the nerve pinch.”

“Unavoidable,” Leonard nods. “I’ll bet.”

Spock rises and goes straight back to Jim, who is still hunched against the wall, hiding in the bulk of Spock’s jacket like a child with a blanket.

“Jim,” Spock says, ghosting the back of his hand over the fine, short hairs at Jim’s temple. “You can hear me now, so I ask you to heed my guidance. Do not strain yourself any further. The pain in your head will begin to ease soon, along with the sense of invasion. Allow the process to happen naturally. You cannot make it happen faster by trying harder. Relax.”

Gaila inches closer to Leonard, pressing against his side until Leonard turns and tugs her into his arms. He is comforting himself by comforting her, which is practically the only way people like Leonard ever get any comfort at all. She can feel him trembling, as if his rage from earlier is still searching for an outlet.

They are still standing there, all of them—Gaila and Leonard holding onto each other, Spock trying to make Jim invisible to prying eyes in the shadow of his arms—when campus Security arrives a few minutes later.

At first, the Security officers take one look at the state of Gary and try to arrest Leonard. But Spock rises to his full height and presents the ranking team member with his Starfleet identification, since he isn’t in uniform. Spock informs Security that, since he is assuming personal responsibility for all parties to appear before Captain Pike the next morning, any arrests are unnecessary.

It’s difficult for most people to argue with a commander, and no personnel on the scene appear interested in trying. Gary is whisked away in a med shuttle; Jim is released on the promise that he won’t spend the night alone.

“I must take Jim to see my father,” Spock says, rising with his arm firmly around Jim’s waist.

“What for?” says Leonard hoarsely.

Spock looks at Leonard. Then he looks at Gaila, for the first time since they ran out into the alley together. His mouth pinches with worry.

“Leonard,” says Spock. “Can I rely upon you to ensure that Gaila and Nyota reach their dormitory safely?”

Something inside Gaila cracks open with the weight of unexpected relief. She could get herself home, obviously—like, of course she could, but—

Leonard doesn’t bother replying aloud. Gaila thinks maybe he nods at Spock, but all she’s conscious of is the arm tightening around her waist.

Jimmy’s survived worse than this. Much worse. So has she. And if you have to, you can get through it without help—at least, she always could—

But it’s such a relief, being able to bury her face and her tears in Leonard’s shirt instead, for once.

“All right, darlin’,” Leonard says hoarsely. “All right, it’s gonna be fine now.”

Even though she’s not really sure if he’s talking to her, to Jim, or to himself, she tries very hard to believe him.

Chapter Text

When the pain in his head forces Jim to open his eyes, he finds himself lying in an unfamiliar bed with Christopher Pike sitting in a chair next to him.

Immediately, Jim begins struggling to sit up, and just as quickly, Pike reaches out and sets a heavy hand on Jim’s shoulder.

“Slow,” he says, squashing some pillows down to support Jim’s back. “Slowly. That’s it. You’ve probably got the mother of all headaches. Here. Drink some water.”

Once Jim is leaning against the headboard, and Pike has finished fussing over the cushions like the world’s most awkward nursemaid, he presses a glass into Jim’s trembling hand and helps him lift it to his mouth without spilling.

Jim takes one sip and discovers that he is ravenously thirsty. He gulps half of the water while evaluating his surroundings. There are tapestries on the walls, and the velvet brocade blanket Jim is lying underneath weighs about 80 pounds. He’s pretty sure he was sweating in his sleep.

“Where the hell am I,” Jim rasps, “your secret boudoir?”

Pike’s mouth quirks up at the corner. Jim can see a spark of humor in his eyes, and more than a spark of relief. “I guess if you can still be a smart-ass, your brain can’t be all that damaged,” he says, leaning back a little.

Jim sets the water down, thinking fast. If Pike is here, someone must have called him. Which means that something must have happened. But Jim’s not even sure how he got here. Everything that happened after he and Nyota split up on the dance floor is a blur.

For a moment, at least. A few seconds later, it all comes rushing back.

There had been a familiar face, half-glimpsed in a crowd of bodies—Jim had panicked, stumbling outside for air—then there was a hand, clamping down on his jaw—and pressure, pain, terror, a scream that wouldn’t leave his mouth but still seemed to reverberate through his whole body.

Jim shoves at the heavy covers and pushes past Pike before the captain can stop him. He makes it to the en suite just in time to puke into the toilet, and not on the carpet.

Jim kneels on the cool tile floor, bracing himself against the wall. He has just enough energy to feel grateful that Pike is giving him space, instead of trying to be helpful.

By the time Jim stumbles back into the room with the tapestries, he’s thinking more clearly, and his surroundings—the décor, at least—seem a little more familiar.

“This is the Embassy, right?” says Jim, his throat burning. “I swear, I’m going to start having nightmares about this place.”

“Spock made the call to bring you here,” says Pike. He sounds like he’s keeping his voice low for Jim’s sake, which Jim appreciates; the headache got a lot worse while his body was doing its best to turn itself inside out. “Starfleet Med doesn’t have a lot of resources for treating psychic injuries. Spock thinks his father can help, but they both said it was better to let you sleep as long as possible first.”

Jim looks down at himself. Just like the last time he woke up in the Vulcan Embassy without remembering how he got there, someone had removed his boots and jacket before putting him to bed.

He really hopes that it was Spock, and not Pike. Or Sarek. Or some random Vulcan with a newly-acquired fetish for Human feet, or something.

“How long was I down for?” he says.

“About two hours.” Pike gets up and guides Jim to a small sofa, making him sit. For the first time since Jim met him, he’s not in uniform, which gives Jim a better idea of how late it is, how quickly Pike must have taken action after receiving Spock’s call.

The dark jeans and fitted black t-shirt Pike is wearing underneath his leather jacket makes him look uncomfortably like the type of handsome older guy Jim used to pick up in cocktail bars when he couldn’t afford his own drinks. It isn’t the kind of thought that would ever cross Jim’s mind normally; he doesn’t seem to have a lot of filters at the moment, even in the privacy of his own head.

Or the former privacy of his head.

Jim still doesn’t know what happened to him, exactly, but he feels kind of like he got fucked rough with no lube, only inside his skull.

He probably shouldn’t say that to Pike.

His mentor sighs and gives him a long look, fondness and exasperation and concern all jumbled together. “Why does trouble seem to love you, kid?” he says.

“It’s what the T stands for.” Jim can hear how macabre the worn-out joke sounds in his hoarse voice. “Uh, sorry you got dragged out of bed for this.”

Instead of serving back a witty retort, Pike just hands him another glass of water. There are three different water pitchers in the room, Jim has noticed. It’s a Vulcan thing, having to do with the symbolic value of water in their culture—an amenity offered to guests, like a mint on a hotel pillow.

“Take slower sips this time,” Pike tells him. “Don’t guzzle it.”

After Jim has swallowed enough to soothe his throat, Pike says, “I should tell Sarek you’re awake soon. Before I do that, though, I need to ask whether there’s anything you want to tell me. Privately.”

Jim knows what Pike is implying, but he doesn’t think—not like he can remember, exactly, not like a normal memory, but he’d got a pretty clear glimpse of the inside of Gary’s head before the pain washed everything away.

“Gary…had plans for me, but he didn’t get the chance,” says Jim, holding his glass in both hands and staring into the distance. “Bones got there, and…”

He shrugs. Then he screws his eyes shut. The pain is like a thick greasy smoke in his head; it feels the way the back rooms of shitty bars smell.

“Where’s Bones?” he says, when Pike doesn’t respond. “And Gaila? Gaila was…I think she was there. I don’t think she was…okay.”

“Last I heard, Leonard and Gaila were together. I got the impression he’s keeping an eye on her tonight.”

“Good.” If Bones can manage Jim at his lowest—and he’s proven, over and over, that he can—Gaila will be easy.

“He sent me two vidcom messages, both of which I have elected to delete, since I don’t want to have to present evidence against him if someone fishes Mitchell’s body out of the bay next week. Suffice it to say he’s upset, but he’s not injured. He didn’t give Mitchell the chance.” Pike lets out a small huff of laughter. “Laying Mitchell out with one punch like that—if every last one of his superiors wasn’t convinced that Leonard McCoy is the second coming of modern galactic medicine, I’d say he was wasted on med track.”

Jim knows that it’s supposed to be a compliment, but he remembers how Bones had sounded, screaming like he was in the kind of pain that medicine can’t heal. It was wrong, and it made Jim want to be sick again.

“He hates violence.” Tremors are starting in Jim’s hands again, so he puts the glass aside. “He’s only ever seen it from the other side, patching people up. I don’t think he’s ever hit someone outside combat training before.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Jim,” says Pike softly.

“Yeah.” Jim is clear on that. It doesn’t change the fact that shit like this never happened to Bones before they met.

“It wasn’t your fault. Listen to me.” Pike looks at him sternly. “Your friends care about you. You showed them the kind of loyalty you’re capable of, so they return it. I know that surprises you. I can even guess why. But it’s still true, and you know something else?”

Pike sighs, rubbing his hand over his mouth.

“Once you started at the Academy, I wasn’t surprised by your grades, or your performance. Given your intellect, and everything you had to survive just to make it to Starfleet, I expected excellence from you. What I didn’t expect, what I didn’t dare hope for, at least not this fast, was that you’d find family. I thought that would take years—maybe until you were posted to a starship. Instead, you came here, you looked at the people around you, and you drew the very best of them to your side. And that? That is harder than keeping top of your class three semesters in a row.”

The headache, Jim discovers, makes an excellent excuse for not replying to confusing, open-ended statements. He keeps his eyes shut.

“I don’t know everything about your past,” Pike continues. “But I know you’ve been on your own since you were old enough to operate a replicator by yourself. You don’t trust easily, and for good reason. But you’re going to be a captain one day, Jim. Being captain doesn’t mean having all the solutions all the time. It also means surrounding yourself with the kind of people who will have your back and help you find the solutions. You’ve achieved that, already, against incredible odds. And I’m…proud of you, Jim.”

Jim feels pretty sure that he’d be working his way up to a panic attack if Pike had sprung this on him any other day, but tonight, he’s frankly too tired.

He clears his throat. “You said Ambassador Sarek wanted to talk to me, sir?”

It’s a daunting idea, meeting Spock’s father—and not just because he’s a freaking planetary ambassador. Jim’s never met any of his friends’ parents before, let alone the parents of someone who…might want to be more than Jim’s friend.

“Yeah.” Pikes nods slowly. “First, though, I want to talk to you a little bit. About Spock.”

“What about him?” Jim says, croaking slightly,

Pike hesitates, like he’s picking his words carefully. “Did you and Spock know each other, at all, before Thursday night?”

“No, sir,” says Jim.

“Did you know he was taking you back to his apartment that night, instead of to your dorm?”

Jim casts his mind back, but that evening is pretty blurry. “I can’t remember exactly, but I think he must have told me. Or asked. I mean, when I woke up Friday, I wasn’t like, what the hell am I doing at Spock’s place? It was fine.”

“I know Leonard met you there pretty early the next morning.”

“Yeah. Spock made us breakfast, actually.” Jim scratches the back of his neck. “Friday morning was a little rough, but it wasn’t Spock’s fault. I, uh, found out he knew about the book, and I got kind of…unnecessarily freaked out over that. Bones was there, though, so he just gave me a hypo. I got over it pretty fast.”

Which is a lie, but Pike doesn’t need to know that.

“When I saw you two in that garden, it didn’t look like you were over anything,” says Pike flatly.

Jim’s head jerks towards Pike, startled. “You saw us?”

“I caught an eyeful. Then I about-faced and went to wait in my car. It looked like a private moment.” Pike pauses. “I’ve never seen Spock touch anyone it was absolutely necessary.”

Something miserable, coiled, and defensive in Jim unleashes itself. He knows Vulcans don’t touch people they aren’t close to. He also knows that Spock has touched him a lot, by Vulcan standards, and that he’s just…been letting it happen. Because Spock was there, and he seemed to want to, and Jim…

Jim is weak, in some ways.

“I guess he thought it was necessary,” he grunts.

“Don’t. Don’t be like that.” Pike’s tone of voice suggests that he knows exactly what Jim is thinking. “I’m only asking because…because two people I happen to care about very much somehow fell into each other’s orbits recently, and I don’t think that’s a bad thing. I’m just trying to understand how we got here.”

“I don’t know,” Jim admits. The couch is surprisingly comfortable, for Vulcan furniture, and he feels like he could go back to sleep if he tried, in spite of his throbbing head. “So much crazy shit happened to me this week, you know? And Spock just happened to be around for most of it. He—I don’t know. We became friends, somehow. He’s smart, and funny, and interesting. Kind of insanely protective, admittedly, but I’m starting to think all my friends are a little insane.”

Pike gives him a steady look. “He has feelings for you.”

For a moment, Jim concentrates very hard on remembering to breathe.

“I know Spock’s interested in me,” he concedes, trying to keep his voice level, professional. “We hung out today. Played chess. It was nice. We talked some, and he…clarified his intentions. But we’ve only known each other for two days. Two intense days, admittedly.” Jim shrugs. “I’m not really sure Spock is motivated by feelings right now. Instinct, maybe.”

“Jim.” Pike leans forward, like he wants to make sure Jim is hearing him. “Right now, Spock is out there, trying to persuade his father to ask their clan matriarch to travel to Earth so she can evaluate the damage Mitchell did to you. Do you know who the head of Spock’s clan is? It’s T’Pau, Jim. And here’s the crazy part. The last time I was in there with them, Sarek was considering it.”

Jim feels a heavy weight start to form like a ball in his stomach. He presses his hands to his temples. “Sir, please tell me that you—you can’t let the Vulcan Ambassador bring the head of the High Council to Earth because of me. Please. I really need to hear you tell me that isn’t going to happen.”

When Jim was living on Vulcan, children younger than him used to whisper that T’Sai T’Pau didn’t even need to touch you to read your thoughts. Jim knows that isn’t true now, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t still terrified by the thought of having her to face her in the shape he’s in right now.

Pike huffs a small laugh. “I could persuade Sarek, maybe. Spock…I don’t know.”

“Then I’ll talk to Spock. He’ll calm down once he sees I’m fine.”

Pike gives him a sour look. “You are a lot of things, kid, but you are not fine. You’re in so much pain you’re sweating, and the only reason we’re having this conversation right now is because…” He stops, sighing. “I’m worried.”

“I have had headaches before, sir.”

“It’s more than a headache and you know it, but that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Then I’m sorry, I don’t know what we are talking about, Captain.”

Pike sighs and stands up, waving Jim back down automatically. He paces around a little and stops with his back to Jim.

“I’ve stood shoulder to shoulder with Spock on the bridge of a starship taking heavy Klingon fire, and never once seen him so much as arch an eyebrow. I’ve never even seen him unnerved, much less frantic. But right now, he’s…”

Pike shakes his head, gesturing vaguely with one hand. “I’m going light on McCoy for popping Mitchell in the face instead of waiting for Security, mostly because I’m damn glad he was there. More importantly, I’m glad that Leonard got there before Spock. Because I honestly don’t know what would have happened if Spock had found you first. I’m glad I didn’t have to find out.”

“It was an intense situation,” Jim demurs, or tries to.

“You’re not getting it.” Pike turns to face him again, his expression an unsettling mixture of authority and uncertainty. “You want the truth? I think part of the reason Spock brought you here is because he knows Sarek is the only one who can stop him if he gets it in his head to walk into Starfleet Medical and snap Mitchell’s neck like he snapped his collar bone.”

Jim’s mouth falls open. “I…I don’t remember that.”

Pike continues like he hasn’t spoken. “The thing is, I’m only about eighty percent certain that Sarek would stop him. From what I’ve been able to gather, what Gary did to you is one of the most serious crimes a telepath can commit. At least, that’s how the other telepaths seem to feel about it.” He gestured toward the door, presumably indicating the rest of the Embassy and the Vulcans inside it. “When Spock was telling his father about you, he referred to you as his ‘intended’. Do you understand what that means?”

Jim knows exactly what it means. Just because T’Silla and Sakal lived in the middle of nowhere, it didn’t mean Jim never went into the cities, or talked with other Vulcans.

“Vulcans don’t make a lot of distinctions between an intended mate and a bonded mate,” he explains to Pike, dutifully, wearily. “Spock isn’t actually…courting me yet, though. He said he knew I wasn’t ready, that we should get to know each other first.”

“That was probably good enough for him before Mitchell assaulted you, but not anymore.” Pike’s mouth tightens. “If Spock decides that the only way he can protect you from Mitchell is with lethal force, Sarek can cover him with diplomatic immunity and ship him back to Vulcan before the body is cold.”

The shock is so intense that it makes Jim forget the pain in his head for a few seconds.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “I’m no Surakian, but even I can see the flaw in that logic.”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Spock isn’t logical right now. And his father…” Pike scrubs a hand over his face. “I think maybe Vulcans aren’t all that logical when it comes to the people they care about. It’s looking like they’re pretty much like the rest of us, that way.”

“Sarek doesn’t care about me,” Jim declares bluntly. “He’s never even met me.”

“But he loves his son.”

Pike holds his gaze until Jim can’t bear it anymore. He ducks his head, resting his forehead in his hands.

“What do you want me to do?” he says roughly.

“I want to know what you want.” Pike takes a halting step towards him, then sits down on the couch again. “Son, please don’t shut down on me when I say this. I’m not trying to poke at old wounds, I’m just—”

“Worried,” Jim says, blinking irritably at the stinging in his eyes.

“About both of you. But you, more so. Always. Spock has a support system. You…have one too, but I worry sometimes that you don’t know it. That you won’t think to rely on your friends the way they rely on you.”

Jim looks at him, surprised. Pike’s face softens, and for a second Jim thinks Pike is going to touch him again, but he clasps his hands in his lap instead.

“Spock has a reputation for behaving like a walking computer, but that’s just his idea of professionalism. When it matters, he’s actually incredibly kind. Thoughtful, considerate. He may not always give you the reaction you’re looking for, but nothing you say to him is ever forgotten.” Pike smiles wryly. “And you don’t even realize it, until one day he walks into your ready room with a bottle of some stupid fizzy fruit drink you can only get on Starbase 5, because he remembered you mentioning that it was your favorite. Once. During a conversation you had two years ago.”

Pike adjusts his position very slightly, until his shoulder is brushing Jim’s. “Take it from someone who knows. The overwhelming force of Spock’s positive regard can make a person’s head spin. And that’s without taking into account—”

“How fucked up I am?” Jim tries not to sound bitter.

“If that’s how you choose to characterize the lingering effects of profound trauma, fine. I’m not here to argue semantics.” Pike looks at him across his shoulder. “Jim, you’ve been on your own since you were old enough to operate a replicator by yourself. You didn’t have people to look after you, to stand up for you when it mattered. And Spock knows that, or he’s figured it out. You could ask him for anything right now, and I’m not sure he’d be capable of refusing you. But if you do…get into this with him, I need to know that you understand what you’re getting into. That you’re not just trying to make him happy because you’re grateful, or flattered, or…”

“Overwhelmed,” Jim says quietly.

“Yeah. Exactly.”

“I’d appreciate if you would be frank with me, sir.” Jim looks steadily at Pike. “In your opinion, do I need to tell Spock, tonight, that we can only be friends, in order to keep him from throwing his career away, or starting some kind of interplanetary diplomatic clusterfuck?”

“Absolutely not. One, Spock is the only person responsible for Spock’s actions, present or future. No matter what he does, or what his reasons. I won’t have you believing otherwise. Two, no, I don’t think Spock is that far gone. Yet. I’m…slightly concerned about how he will react if Sarek finds that Mitchell’s injured you seriously. Just to soothe my own paranoia, there’s Security posted at the hospital, and I’ve had Spock’s visitor’s clearance to the whole of the Med plaza temporarily revoked.”

“Frankly, sir, if you really think Spock is capable of killing Gary while he’s lying defenseless in a hospital bed, I don’t want to be his ‘intended’ or his anything else.”

Jim didn’t stare Pike down deliberately. He was just too tired to adjust the position of his head.

“I did say it was just my paranoia, Jim,” says Pike, shrugging in concession. “That’s why they pay me the big bucks, you know. My finely honed paranoid instincts. But listen, interplanetary diplomacy aside, I don’t think you should decide anything important tonight. You’ve been assaulted and injured in ways we haven’t been able to assess yet. If Spock gets the bit between his teeth, I think between his father and I, we can talk him down. Spock listens to me, usually.”

“And Sarek can probably perform the neck pinch.”

“As Gary Mitchell will live to attest, Spock knows that move too.”

Pike’s tone of voice takes an unexpected turn for the sincere. “When I ask you to be mindful of what’s at stake here when you talk to Spock in a few minutes, it’s not because I think he’ll lose control and hurt someone. It’s because…Spock already sees his future when he looks at you. I know it’s only been two days, and I agree, it’s crazy from a Human perspective. But, I think you of all people understand, that just because his feelings aren’t Human don’t mean that they aren’t valid. That you can’t trust them.”

Jim swallows, hard.

“You know,” says Pike, musingly, “apart from me, I think you’re the first real friend Spock’s made in Starfleet. That might be a good sign—that you could be good for each other.”

“Maybe.” Jim forces lightness into his voice. “But I can update your intel. He’s got plenty of friends now. I’m pretty sure Gaila adopted him tonight, they talked for like, an hour. And Uhura likes him, and likes looking at him, which I do not begrudge. Even Bones tolerates him pretty well, and you know that’s saying something.”

“I do.” Pike smiles, shaking his head to himself before he rises, wincing at the strain and creak of joints and muscles. “Okay. You ready for this?”

“As I’ll ever be, sir,” says Jim, forcing himself to his feet.

“No, sit back down. Sarek won’t mind—”

“Sir,” Jim interrupts as politely as he can, “since the situation is…delicate, I think it will really help if Spock sees me walk into that room on my own two feet. Proof of life, you might say.”

Pike hesitates, eyebrows grumping together. “By that reasoning, you realize, you’ll just make things worse if you happen to collapse in the hallway.”

“It’s a headache, Captain, not a broken leg.”

He heaves a huge sigh. “You are one stubborn pain in the ass, you know that?”

“I forget, occasionally, but then you always remind me again. Sir.”

Pike just shakes his head, then starts out of the room, Jim falling in behind him.

*

They pass a number of Vulcans on their way to Sarek’s office. They all stare as Jim and Pike walk past. For the most part, they’re staring at Jim, but Pike, he’s amused to note, turns a few heads as well.

Jim wonders if anyone’s yet mentioned to Pike that over the past week, his novel somehow got every Vulcan in the city hot and bothered re: the erotic merits of Human physiognomy.

If not, Jim wonders who he can pay to make sure that Pike never finds out.

Pike raps twice on the door of Sarek’s office, but it isn’t Sarek who opens the door. It’s Spock.

Spock, who looks haggard, white, and full of tense, brittle energy that seems to drain from his body the second his glittering his eyes move past Pike, to Jim.

“Jim,” he breathes, and before Jim knows it, Spock is neatly sidestepping their superior officer without acknowledgement, to close the gap between the two of them.

Spock reaches for him with both hands, like he’s ready to pull Jim into his arms. But he catches himself at the last moment, and brings his hands to settle on Jim’s shoulders instead.

It’s the same way Spock tried to comfort him in the garden yesterday morning, mimicking a gesture that he knew would be safe because he’d watched Bones demonstrate it. And Jim knows, somehow, that Spock is restraining himself, for Jim’s sake, uncertain what right he has to touch Jim, so soon after…everything.

Jim is a creature of instinct. Always has been. Without wondering how it will look to Pike, or anyone else in the building, he leans into Spock’s grip, allowing most of his weight to rest in Spock’s hands. Then, without quite meaning to, he sags forward, bowing his head until his forehead is touching Spock’s chest.

Instantly, Spock’s arms clamp round him like bands of iron, carefully not crushing Jim in his hold.

“I…” Spock isn’t quite whispering, but his voice is very low and very close to Jim’s ear. “I feared—most irrationally—that you might not wake.”

“I’m all right,” says Jim. Not because he thinks Spock will believe him, any more than Pike had, but because he thinks that hearing the words might (illogically) comfort Spock anyway.

“You are not,” Spock breathes, his grip growing just a bit tighter. “But you will be. I shall ensure it, ashayam.”

Chapter Text

Sarek is much taller than Spock.

His hair is dark, with streaks of grey along the temples. He’s handsome, even elegant in his long embroidered robes, and just looking at him makes Jim want to stand up straighter and think serious thoughts.

His face is like Spock’s face, minus every trace of Humanity.

Earlier that morning—though their chess game feels like it happened a week ago now—Spock had told Jim that he was “very far” from being an “ideal Vulcan”.

At the time, Jim thought Spock was just talking about his illogical fondness for Terran literature. Now, he thinks he knows better.

Spock has one Human parent and one Vulcan parent. If Spock sees himself as a Vulcan first, if Vulcan is the standard he’s been trying to live up to his whole life, then of course, Sarek would be his role model.

But Jim only needs to take one look at father and son, facing each other in the corridor outside Sarek’s office, to understand the hopeless nature of the battle Spock is fighting.

Sarek doesn’t seem especially cold or forbidding by Vulcan standards. In fact, he reminds Jim slightly of Tudok, the Vulcan educator who began personally overseeing Jim’s remote learning program, once Jim started working ahead of his Vulcan peers in the curriculum. They have a similarly remote and scholarly air about them, gentle curiosity mixed with benign dignity. No doubt years of living on Earth, and being married to a Human, has worn the ambassador’s sharp edges down a little. There has to be a vein of real warmth in Sarek somewhere, or surely Spock’s mother wouldn’t have wanted to spend her life with him.

Even so, Sarek is so neutral, so effortlessly controlled, that his face looks like it might crack along the seams if he tried to smile.

Spock…isn’t like that at all.

Maybe Spock’s students do think of him as a walking computer, like Pike said, but Jim doubts any of them have interacted with enough Vulcans to have a basis for comparison.

The real difference between Spock and Sarek is that even when Spock is wearing that mask of Vulcan control, Jim can tell that it’s a mask. He can intuit the emotions that Spock is controlling based on the shape of the negative space created by their absence.

Compared to Sarek, Spock positively bleeds emotion. Differently from the way a non-hybrid Human would, but equally differently, Jim is beginning to suspect, from how a non-hybrid Vulcan would.

“Father.” Spock’s voice jolts Jim out of his reverie. He has released Jim from their embrace in order to stand shoulder to shoulder with him, but they are still practically touching. “May I present James Tiberius Kirk. Jim, this is Sarek, son of Skon, Vulcan Ambassador to Earth. My father.”

That’s it. Nothing about Jim’s Starfleet status, who his parents were, or why he’s here. But then, Spock and Pike probably told Sarek everything he needs to know while Jim was down for the count.

“Ambassador,” says Jim, nodding to Sarek.

“It is an honor to meet you, Mr. Kirk,” says Sarek, surprising him. “Now that you are awake, we should not delay. Please join me in my office when you are ready.”

The ambassador turns without another word and disappears through the open door.

Jim nearly follows him, but at the last moment, he hesitates.

He finds himself looking questioningly, maybe pleadingly, at Spock. He’s not even certain what kind of reassurance he’s seeking, but Spock seems to read him with no difficulty.

“Sarek judged it wise to conduct his examination of your injuries in private,” Spock tells him. “I…deferred to his logic.”

Spock is averting his eyes, which suggests to Jim that Spock very much did not want to defer to Sarek’s logic, or anyone else’s, but is doing his best to restrain his dissatisfaction.

Pike, who had taken a discreet step back while introductions were taking place, speaks up. “It’s a delicate procedure,” he says, glancing very quickly at the office door, “at least, from what I understand. Sarek thinks you’ll be better off without distractions. But if you’re uncomfortable alone, we can—"

“No,” says Jim instantly. He’s not going to look like a coward in front of Spock’s father during their very first meeting. “I understand. It’s fine.” He swallows. “What…what’s the procedure?”

“During your time on Vulcan, did you learn anything of the kash-nohv?” Spock’s voice is softer, now that there is distance between him and Sarek.

Kash-nohv. The mind-meld. Abruptly, his heart starts pounding loudly in his ears.

“So, he’s.” Jim swallows. “Sarek wants to—"

“He will do nothing you do not wish him to do.” Spock cuts him off, his voice firm. “He will request your consent before taking any action, and if you do not give it, he will not reproach you for the refusal. What was done to you is a crime. Sarek will…accommodate your understandable sensitivity to further mental intrusion.”

“How can he do that and meld with me at the same time?” Jim looks at Spock, trying to ignore the way that Pike is studying him. Studying the two of them, together.

“It is best if my father explains what he wishes to do, and why. The psi-talent in my family line is strong, and Sarek has many more years of training and experience than I.”

Well, that answered Jim’s next, plaintive query, which was, Why can’t you just do it yourself?

“Jim, Starfleet doctors could scan your neural activity, but if there’s damage on the psi level, there’s nothing they can do to fix it.” Pike gives him a grim smile. “Cheer up. At the very least, Sarek can probably take care of that monster headache of yours.”

“You are in pain?” says Spock, his voice gone high and sharp. He looks at Jim, white-faced. “Why have you said nothing?”

Jim just gives him a bewildered look. “I, uh…didn’t figure you’d have any aspirin on you.”

Spock’s nostrils flare irritably. Suddenly, he lifts a hand, and brushes his fingertips over Jim’s left temple.

Jim takes a quiet, startled breath, but he clamps down on the urge to jerk away.

“Permit me,” Spock says, his voice so low that Jim doubts Pike can hear. “Any sensation you may feel…should not be unpleasant.”

Not unpleasant. Jim might be hearing what he wants to hear, but that sounds like the way a reticent Vulcan might reassure a nervous Human that whatever he’s planning to do won’t hurt.

And Jim trusts Spock not to hurt him. He’s not sure how long that’s been the case, but now, in this moment, his feelings are clear to him.

Spock wouldn’t risk hurting anyone, if he could help it. Much less someone he regards as a…friend.

Jim wets his lips, then gives Spock a jerky nod.

Spock’s fingers press firmly, not painfully, into the side of Jim’s face. Jim shuts his eyes out of instinct and waits for…something. The sensation of ghostly fingers wiggling in jelly, perhaps.

Instead, Jim feels nothing. Literally nothing, save that the pain in his head begins to melt away, leaving a warm, spreading sensation of security and relief in its place.

Thirty seconds later, Jim opens his eyes again and stares into Spock’s warm, concerned gaze. “Holy shit,” he breathes, unable to look away.

Spock swallows, visibly relieved. He’s breathing a bit faster than normal, as though he was worried, or as though he had just exerted a great deal of effort without seeming to.

“You should find that the meld my father wishes to initiate with you is similarly non-invasive,” Spock says. “But if you become uncomfortable at any time, inform him, and he will adjust his approach.”

“Right. Okay.” Jim exhales slowly then squares his shoulders. “I’ll see you afterwards, I guess.”

“Spock and I will be waiting in the sitting room.” Pike gives a half-smile and squeezes his shoulder, before gathering Spock with his eye and setting off down the corridor.

Spock follows him, but pauses after a few steps, like he’s being tugged backwards by an invisible string. He turns around and touches the side of Jim’s face again.

It’s all Jim can do not to lean into the warm grip.

“Do not be afraid,” Spock says, firmly but quietly. “There is no one in this building who does not wish you well. I include Sarek in this.”

Jim nods, not trusting his voice. Spock looks into his eyes one last time, then executes a swift turn on his heel and continues following Pike down the hallway. Jim watches him go until the sitting room door shuts behind him.

Then he turns, and walks into Sarek’s office.

Jim expects to find Sarek sitting behind his desk. Instinctively, Jim has decided to treat the ambassador as he would a Starfleet admiral, and that’s how an admiral would receive him.

Instead, Jim finds Sarek standing patiently in the middle of the room, his stance so similar to Spock’s that for a moment the similarities between the two Vulcans leaves Jim breathless.

Is this what Spock will look like in twenty years, or fifty? Jim can’t help but wonder.

Pike told him earlier that when Spock looked at Jim, he saw his own future. If that’s true, and if Jim decides he wants the same thing, then this stately elder Vulcan—Sarek, son of Skon, son of Solkar, of the House of Surak, tomasu to T’sai T’Pau—could be his father-in-law one day.

Jim isn’t sure how that makes him feel. His ability to imagine a future, any kind of future for himself, has always been limited. Probably because his self-estimated lifespan has never been higher than his present age plus five years.

That will have to change, though. If Jim decides that he wants what Spock wants, he’ll owe it to Spock to…try harder.

Bones thinks that Jim is scared of commitment, and he’s not entirely wrong; it just isn’t for the reasons Bones thinks. Jim doesn’t ever want to fail another person the way that his family failed him. He’d rather be alone the rest of his life than live with the knowledge that he’d done that to someone who loved him, someone he was supposed to take care of.

“Please be seated,” says Sarek, rescuing Jim from the rabbit hole of his thoughts. He indicates a long settee with a low back, against the wall.

They are off to one side, in a part of the spacious office that has been furnished for group meetings, or informal gatherings. The couch faces a semicircle of comfortable armchairs, and there is a low table in the center.

A steaming tea service sits on the table, on a burnished copper tray.

Jim, in obedient model cadet mode, sits on the couch, as he was instructed. Sarek joins him.

“Did you rest peacefully?” says the ambassador, leaning forward to pour the tea into two tiny clay cups.

Jim sniffs the air surreptitiously, and tries not to betray his relief that Sarek is serving them the spiced tea Jim actually enjoys, and not the tea that tastes like the red dust of Vulcan.

“Yes, sir,” he says, “I had a headache when I woke up, but it’s gone now. I’m fine, I think.”

Sarek tilts his head without averting his eyes from the teapot. “I meant to inquire whether your sleep was troubled by dreams.”

The problem with Jim being in model cadet mode is that he tends to avoid answering questions with specific answers whenever possible. It’s not even that he’s trying to be evasive; he just doesn’t like to give his superiors answers they didn’t want to hear, which is almost impossible when you’re not sure what they want.

“I wasn’t asleep long enough to do any dreaming,” Jim says. “It takes about three hours for Humans to enter the dream stage of their REM cycle. I was only out for about two.”

Sarek passes Jim a tea cup. The cup is cool to the touch, despite the steaming contents. Jim nods his thanks.

“My research into the matter suggests that the Human sleep cycle becomes irregular in the aftermath of traumatic events,” says Sarek blandly. “In such cases, is not uncommon for memories of trauma to manifest as dreams within the first hour of sleep.”

…Okay, from now on, Jim is going to have to remember: Sarek is the same kind of scary-smart as Spock. Times however many years older than Spock he is.

Either Jim is going to have step up his bullshit, or just start telling the truth. Which, he can admit, will take a lot less energy.

Sarek drains his small cup of tea in a single swallow. “Spock described to me the condition in which he found you earlier this evening. His information is useful, but incomplete. I will be better able to assist you if you can provide me with a description of the assault as you experienced it.”

“It hurt,” says Jim shortly—not because he’s offended, but because that’s the first and most relevant fact. “I got the feeling that he was—prying. Trying to see things. And…he made me feel things. Remember things. Up here, I feel kind of…bruised?” Jim taps his head. “I can’t say I understand why, or how that would even work, but that’s the best way I know to describe it.”

He’s hoping that Sarek won’t ask him to go into further detail about which memories, exactly, Gary had been pawing at, or what kind of emotions it had triggered. If the ambassador intends to meld with him, he’ll probably see it for himself soon enough.

“Mr. Kirk.” Sarek is making a palpable effort to gentle his voice. He’s not as good at it as Spock, but Jim can still appreciate the intent. “The kae’at k’la’sa is one of the most reviled crimes known to Vulcan society. My son tells me that you speak Vulcan fluently. Are you familiar with this term?”

“No.” Jim’s heart starts pounding again. It’s the truth—he’s never heard the phrase before—but he knows the root words well enough to guess at a meaning.

“Standard lacks nuanced vocabulary for concepts related to telepathy,” says Sarek. “The nearest equivalent concept, however, is rape.”

Jim stands up so fast that he nearly drops his empty cup. Reflex allows him to catch it in his hand at the last second; he sets it on the tray with a clatter and takes a few paces away from the couch.

Sarek rises as well, but he remains by the sofa, watching him. Jim paces the office rapidly, struggling for control, and eventually comes to a halt next to an armchair.

His hands are trembling. He thinks he’s getting a headache again. Jim grips the back of the chair and forces himself to regulate his breathing.

Eventually, he risks glancing at Sarek, intending to apologize for the outburst.

But Sarek is watching him, not with annoyance, or even typical Vulcan blankness, but with open concern—maybe even just a hint of worry. Coming from a man who probably rations himself to five emotions a day, it’s startling enough to jerk Jim out of his downward spiral.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I was just surprised.”

Sarek frowns. “Apologies are unnecessary. You have suffered significantly this evening. Some reaction is only to be expected. Even Vulcans are prone to…outbursts, under these conditions. Please, come and be seated once more. For the next several hours you will find yourself prone to unexpected bouts of faintness and fatigue. Sustaining a physical injury would not improve your condition.”

Jim nods, staggering back to the sofa, half-collapsing against it. Sarek does not attempt to assist him, for which Jim is grateful. He does sit slightly closer to Jim, however, and Jim isn’t sure whether it’s intended as a gesture of support, or if Sarek is anticipating the possibility that he will need to restrain him if his “outbursts” become more violent.

“Before you joined me here, my son initiated a light meld with you to relieve your pain,” says Sarek, apparently deciding that there is no more time to be wasted. “When we meld, I will need to enter your mind on a deeper level than Spock did, though I do not believe you will be conscious of my presence. To use an analogy, I will be standing at a distance, surveying the shape of your mind as a whole.”

Jim nods. “Okay. What do you need me to do?”

“If possible, you should relax.”

“That is beyond my abilities at this time, Ambassador,” Jim says, switching to Vulcan.

Sarek blinks. “My son did not overstate your proficiency. Who instructed you?”

“My foster family and my teachers on Vulcan.”

“I know of only two instances in the last thirty years in which a Vulcan family fostered a Human child. You are James, the child from Tarsus IV.”

Had they been speaking in Standard, this would have been Jim’s cue to shut down. Mostly because Sarek is staring at him the same way everyone stares at Jim when the name of that fucking planet comes up in conversation. Like he’s looking at a ghost, someone who shouldn’t have survived, who shouldn’t be here.

But that was why Jim switched languages. Vulcan has the same dearth of vocabulary for emotional expression that Standard has for telepathy. Jim can only embarrass himself so much, as long as he’s speaking Vulcan.

“I was fostered by T’Silla, daughter of Prelok, and her bondmate Sakal, alongside their two daughters. I resided with them for thirteen months in their home on the eastern borders of the Plains of Gol.”

Sarek frowns, as if Jim has just said something troublingly illogical. “Did you leave the care of T’Silla and her family because your own family on Earth resumed caring for you?”

“No. At my request, Sakal arranged for an injunction to be filed against my step-father, which prevented him re-claiming custody of me.”

Sarek’s eyebrows do not unknit themselves. “On what grounds?”

“He was an unfit guardian.”

In Vulcan, a little nuance goes a long way. There’s no need to say anything else about Frank; Sarek now understands everything that is relevant.

“If he was unfit, why then were you not returned to the care of your Vulcan guardians?” says Sarek. He sounds, not stern, but official, like he’s using his ambassador voice.

“It was too late by the time the judge ruled on my case. I was already back on Earth, in Federation custody. Even if they’d wanted to foster me again, T’Silla’s family wasn’t…well off. They couldn’t just book passage on an interplanetary shuttle to come get me.”

There’s a reason Jim doesn’t usually talk about that year of his life. There’s a reason he doesn’t usually talk about his past, period. When he thinks too long about Vulcan, about his family there, the sensation of loss, of being utterly, helpless bereft, the way he’d felt as a teenager, comes flooding back over him. It makes him useless. It makes him weak.

“James.” There is a strange, sharp note in Sarek’s voice. Jim nearly flinches, except he can read Vulcans just well enough to understand that Sarek is conveying urgency, not anger. “If you are prepared, we should commence the meld now.”

Jim bites into lower lip until he forces himself to stop. “Ha, kevet-dutar.”

He holds his breath as Sarek’s hands rise to either side of his face. The ambassador’s fingertips, as they arrange themselves along Jim’s psi-points, are cold as ice.

He chants low in Vulcan, and then Jim is plunged into a deep dark ocean, something heavy clutching at his feet, dragging him below the surface.

*

“Spock.”

His father’s unexpected appearance in the doorway—94.3 minutes sooner than Spock had predicted—brings him to his feet in uncontrollable alarm.

It is small comfort that Captain Pike, who has been passing the time with him in a game of chess, reacts in a similar manner.

“What’s going on?” Pike says, his tone just short of a demand. “Is Jim okay?”

Sarek nods at Pike. “Mr. Kirk is unharmed, Captain, but he has need of my son. Sa-fu, come.”

Only the enormity of Spock’s respect for Captain Pike makes him hesitate long enough to give him a parting nod before he strides out of the room. His father is already walking ahead of him, but Spock catches up quickly.

“The meld?” he inquires.

“It did not unfold precisely as I intended.”

Coming from a telepath of Sarek’s ability, there was something chilling in that statement. Spock fights against outward reaction, even as fear makes his pulse quicken.

“There were complicating factors of which no one was aware,” Sarek continues. “James Kirk is not psi-null.”

Spock is so startled that he stops dead in the middle of the corridor. Sarek walks a pace or two more, then turns to face him.

It was logical that they should pause here, where Jim will not be disturbed by the conversation Spock now finds it necessary to have with his father.

“What other complications existed?” he asks, as calmly as he can.

Sarek folds his hands into his wide sleeves and lifts his chin.

“In his mind, I found evidence of familial bonds—weak remnants of once-healthy connections with four telepathic individuals.”

Had a chair been available, Spock might well have chosen that moment to avail himself of it.

He is faint with horror, with self-disgust. Had he not particularly noted the raw, ragged pain in Jim’s voice, in his eyes, when he spoke of his time on Vulcan? Had Jim not confessed that he had written his novel as part of an effort to reconnect with his Vulcan past, only to discover the profound emotional consequences of confronting that loss?

All this evidence pointed in but one direction, yet Sarek had discovered in 43 minutes what Spock had been blind to for over 36 hours.

“You speak of his Vulcan foster family,” says Spock, his mouth very dry.

“That seems the only explanation, yes.” Sarek exhales, averting his eyes. “Until now, Mr. Kirk has not been consciously aware that the bonds ever existed, much less that they have been in place for many years.”

“But he is aware now,” Spock concludes. “And this is the reason for his distress?”

“Yes. And no.”

Spock quells the verdant rage swimming in his vision before he allows himself to say anything.

“Sa-mekh,” he says, through gritted teeth, “I request that you speak plainly.”

“Am I correct in believing that, at one time, Mr. Kirk shared a romantic connection with the man who attacked him tonight?”

Spock tastes bile, but he forces himself to disgorge the information. “Jim was romantically involved with Gary Mitchell for approximately four months, during his first year at Starfleet Academy. Mitchell abused him throughout their relationship. How is this relevant?”

Sarek’s face grows a shade paler, but he does not otherwise react.

“There is evidence that the bonding center of Mr. Kirk’s mind was tampered with, consistently, over a substantial period of time.”

Spock’s mouth falls open, but a second later he loses all memory of what he meant to say.

“I judge this Gary Mitchell to be an exceedingly powerful telepath, but so wholly untrained as to be incapable of disguising signs of his interference.” There is perceptible distaste in Sarek’s voice. “It has been more than a decade since Mr. Kirk was last in contact with his Vulcan family. By now, his familial bonds ought to be dormant, incapable of causing him further pain. Instead, I found that they were sensitive, agitated. I believe this to be Gary Mitchell’s doing. A trained telepath, even one with malicious intent, would not have needed to employ the same degree of force in order to achieve their purpose.”

“What purpose?” says Spock hoarsely. “What possible purpose, save to cause Jim suffering?”

“I can only conjecture. But given what I know of Mitchell’s character, he may have wished to retain Mr. Kirk as a mate after the point when Mr. Kirk would have dissolved the relationship.”

“I—how is this possible?” Spock has not stuttered in front of his father since he was five years old.

“A languishing familial bond, like Mr. Kirk’s, creates profound sensations of loss, as well as a…childlike hunger for closeness. These needs cannot be sated, unless the bond either grows dormant, or else is fully restored.” The thunderous placement of his father’s eyebrows bespeaks his distaste for what he is compelled to say. “I believe that Mitchell exploited this weakness in order to make Mr. Kirk emotionally reliant upon him. He is sufficiently telepathically receptive that Mitchell may have ensured his compliance through both means. By ensuring that Mr. Kirk felt the loss of his bonds, he was rendered vulnerable to—”

“There is no need to explain further.” Spock spins on his heel and walks away from his father. He gets as far as a table with a decorative vase that he would dearly love to smash against the wall, before he turns and walks back.

“What can be done for Jim?” he says, his voice toneless.

Sarek nods, as though he approves of the question. “I have constructed a temporary shield around the bonding center of Mr. Kirk’s mind. He is capable of dismantling it himself, but I advised him against doing so. For as long as it lasts, it will protect him from further assault of this kind. It will also spare him the pain of the sensitized bond.”

Sarek resumes walking, and Spock follows, now agonizingly conscious of every millimeter separating him from Jim.
“Once Mr. Kirk has…recovered, he will no longer be so vulnerable to emotional manipulation. He possesses impressive mental discipline, for a Human. He will find it easier to maintain his balance with the shield in place.”

“His balance?” Spock says.

His father looks mildly surprised. “Since you became acquainted with James Kirk, have you not found his emotions to be erratic?”

There is nothing illogical, nor even insulting, in Sarek’s words, and there is no reason, therefore, for Spock to bristle defensively.

“I suppose that they might be described as such,” he says, his voice clipped. “But there have been inarguable mitigating circumstances in each instance of diminished emotional control. Furthermore, Jim is remarkably resilient, and though he is susceptible to anxiety attacks, he is also capable of centering himself again with only minor assistance, of the kind which all Humans require.”

The corner of his father’s mouth turns inward by a fraction. “You speak of affection,” he says. “Physical contact.”

“Indeed.” Spock’s shoulders stiffen. “His friend and physician, Leonard McCoy, employs an integrated approach to treat Jim’s anxious outbursts. A combination of drug therapies and…as you say, affectionate contact. I have witnessed its effectiveness first hand.”

They have reached the door of Sarek’s office. It is, to Spock’s surprise, and sudden gratitude, locked.

There had been little time, before Jim awakened, to offer his father a truly adequate explanation of Spock’s personal investment in Jim’s well-being. But his actions, it seems, and perhaps his choice of words as well, had been correctly interpreted by Sarek nonetheless.

He has, it seems, accepted Jim as Spock’s intended bondmate, and at the same time accepted the traditional familial obligation to protect Jim as if he were his own son.

“As this Dr. McCoy is not present,” says Sarek, inputting his security clearance, “I suggest that you supply your intended with the efficacious treatment which he now requires.”

The door is open before Spock is able to fully process the fact that his father has essentially ordered him to go and…cuddle Jim.

“I shall leave the two of you in privacy,” says Sarek, reinforcing the hint. “I believe Captain Pike is waiting impatiently for news of his protégé. If you require anything, inform me at once.”

Spock steps toward the door, then turns back to Sarek. “I thank you, Father.”

“Thanks are illogical.” Sarek’s expression grows placid. “I have seen into Jim’s mind. Truly, he is…a remarkable young being. A challenge, perhaps, but nothing more easily obtained would suit you, I believe. In any case, I can find nothing to object to in your choice. He would be a credit to our family.”

For the next several seconds, Spock finds himself in the unenviable position of one who cannot cease gaping at his father.

Sarek turns, leaving Spock without an audience for his lapse in control.

“Your mother will expect an introduction soon,” Sarek calls from down the corridor.

Spock blinks and shakes his head. Then he steps through the office door, watching as the security lock pad turns from green to red. The door will open from the inside, but not from without.

He turns, then, casting his gaze across the small room, to find Jim lying on a sofa that is too short for his legs. His body lies at an angle, hips thirty degrees from the back of the upholstery.

Jim has thrown his arm over his eyes, probably to block out light. The expressive lower half of his face, including his lips, is exposed and vulnerable.

Spock takes a deep breath, in and out, and Jim lifts his arm. “Ambassador?” he says weakly.

“No, k’diwa,” he says, crossing the room in three strides to kneel at the sofa, next to Jim’s head. “It is I.”

Chapter Text

The following week, between the hours of 00:00 Monday night and 07:00 Monday morning, Gary Mitchell vanishes from Starfleet Medical. The exact timeline of the disappearance is impossible to establish, and relevant security footage from the hospital has been tampered with. There are no witnesses. The doctors who have been supervising Mitchell’s induced medical coma are baffled.

Captain Pike has no answers, or at least none he is willing to share with Spock. Which is infuriating—inasmuch as Spock is capable of harboring such sentiments towards a man he respects so highly—but more so is the fact that Jim, still on medical leave, appears neither surprised nor especially perturbed by Mitchell’s escape. Rather, it is as if he has been waiting for such news. Spock cannot tell whether Jim credits Mitchell with being impossible to contain, or whether he simply has no faith in Starfleet’s ability to secure him. In either case, he betrays no outward sign of increased anxiety.

Spock attempts to make allowances for the fact that depression, which restricts emotional affect in Humans, is to be anticipated in a survivor of traumatic assault. But this is not the first time Spock has noticed that Jim has rather low expectations of the organization he has vowed to serve with his life. Nor has Spock forgotten that Jim spent a portion of his adolescence aboard a Starfleet vessel, for reasons he has not yet seen fit to explain.

These two data points, taken together, suggest that Jim’s experiences with Starfleet prior to his admission to the Academy have given him reason to doubt that the loyalty Starfleet demands of its officers will ever be returned to him in full measure. Yet try as he might, Spock cannot imagine what those experiences must have been.

There are a limited number of scenarios in which the crew of a Federation starship would bring a child aboard. There is no precedent, to the best of Spock’s knowledge, for keeping a child aboard a starship for an indefinite period of time, merely because suitable guardians could not be found.

Spock does not press him for an explanation, because Jim has already indicated that he may be willing to share that story with him—one day. And Spock would rather gain Jim’s trust than circumvent him by researching possible answers on his own. Still, it is difficult to manage the tumult of his own emotional reactions to Jim’s distress when Jim is barely willing to acknowledge that there is any cause for said distress.

It is just as well that Jim’s physical condition prevents him being returned to active duty immediately. Though Spock trusts his father’s expert assessment that Jim will recover completely from Mitchell’s attack, Jim remains almost unnaturally detached from the reality of his circumstances. To put it bluntly, Spock does not feel he can currently rely on Jim to be as vigilant with regards to his own safety as he should be. It would be more than Spock could bear to think of him wandering unaccompanied across campus in such a state while Mitchell’s whereabouts are still unknown. It is difficult enough to know that Jim is spending most of his convalescence alone and vulnerable in his room, guarded by nothing more than the bored ensign manning the Security cubicle at his dormitory, and a standard set of passcodes on his door.

Ruthlessly, Spock prunes his schedule of every expendable commitment—chess club, study groups, even the hours he normally devotes to his personal research—but he is still a Starfleet instructor, with duties he cannot rearrange or abandon. Every moment he can make available, he spends in proximity to Jim, but it is not enough to quell the anxiety that haunts him when they are separated.

At length, the strain is too much even for Spock’s self-discipline. On Thursday night, after he has dismissed his evening lecture, he takes his hovercar to the Embassy and approaches his father with a most unprofessional request: that Sarek use his superior security clearance to look into the circumstances surrounding Mitchell’s escape.

Which is how Spock learns that Mitchell has not, in fact, escaped at all.

Rather, he has been transferred, secretly, under heavy guard, from Starfleet Medical Center to a Vulcan medical vessel. The ship is presently en route to a highly secure facility which specializes in the treatment of telepathic patients. There, surrounded by Vulcan healers from whom he cannot conceal dishonest motives or malicious intentions, Mitchell will either be rehabilitated, or he will spend the rest of his life among those who are equipped to protect others from his anti-social tendencies.

The transfer orders, Sarek informs Spock, were issued by Captain Pike—at Sarek’s request.
The captain, well aware that Starfleet is not equipped to control Mitchell indefinitely, had quickly acceded to Sarek’s logic that a telepathic race should assume responsibility for a telepathic prisoner, out of duty to the Federation.

Duty to the Federation or no, Spock highly doubts that Sarek would have taken it upon himself to intervene in Starfleet’s affairs, if Mitchell did not pose an ongoing threat to Jim. As matters stand, however, Jim represents the future of Sarek’s clan. It is thus only logical for Sarek to approach Pike with a…diplomatic solution to the problem of keeping Mitchell contained.

Vulcans do not thank other Vulcans for doing what is logically to be expected of them, so Spock does not express his gratitude to Sarek. But his relief is impossible to disguise, and his gratitude increases when Sarek does not choose to comment upon it.

The next evening is a Friday—six days since the attack, the last academic day before Jim is medically cleared to return to normal duty. Spock asks Jim over text to join him for a private dinner at his apartment. Due to the demands of his schedule, he had found it more convenient to visit Jim at his dormitory while he was still convalescing, so this is the first such invitation he has ever issued.

Jim accepts, on the condition that Spock not pick him up, but instead allow him to make his own way from campus to Spock’s home. Grudgingly, Spock accepts his terms.

Spock is not adept in the preparation of Earth-based cuisines, and he is unwilling to experiment when Jim has so many allergies to be wary of, so he orders delivery from a restaurant he knows Jim particularly likes. Jim arrives thirty minutes before the food does, and they embrace briefly at the door. Jim had introduced this element of intimacy into their relationship, and though it is increasingly difficult for Spock to relinquish his hold on Jim after the customary few seconds of contact, his control is still intact.

Marginally.

When the food arrives, they spread the cartons out over Spock’s table, and Spock ignores the irrational fear that Jim will bolt from the premises again, as he had done the last time they shared a meal in this kitchen.

While Jim winds noodles around his fork, Spock tells him of his conversation with Sarek, explaining why Mitchell had appeared to vanish from Starfleet premises, and the nature of his present whereabouts. Jim listens quietly, and does not eat until Spock has finished.

“Why would your father do something like that?” he says finally, after taking a single bite and chewing for longer than strictly necessary.

Spock thinks carefully about how best to answer. “Sarek respects you highly,” he says.

“I spent an hour with the ambassador, and we didn’t talk about anything except—what happened.”

“Nevertheless.” Asking Jim to accept that his worth is self-evident to anyone who has interacted with him on a more than superficial level is a losing battle. Spock will reserve his energies on that score for a more tactical moment.

“So he’s really gone.” Jim’s face remains oddly expressionless. “Or at least, we won’t be seeing him again for a while.”

“He is gone,” says Spock, restraining the urge to assure Jim that he will never see Mitchell again, regardless of what measures must be undertaken to ensure it. “Prodigious though his abilities may be, he is no match for the faculty of a Vulcan medical institution. I believe we may regard him as safely dealt with.”

Jim nods. Which is an acceptable response, but Spock cannot help but attempt to coax something more from him.

“Are you…displeased?” he ventures.

“No.” Jim looks up at him, surprised. “No, it sounds like an ideal solution, under the circumstances. I didn’t even think about a Vulcan hospital. It was…really good of your father to help him.”

Spock’s nostrils flare. “I do not believe Mitchell’s wellbeing was foremost in his concerns.”

“Maybe not. It’s still better than keeping him in a coma until he dies of old age, and Bones said that was the best idea anyone at Medical had come up with so far.”

“Agreed.”

Spock bites down on his protest when Jim pushes his barely-touched carton of spiced noodles away. He is still unusually pale, but his headaches are controllable with hypos now, and his sleeping patterns, according to Leonard, have more or less returned to normal.

“I will make tea,” says Spock, rising from the table. He snatches a carton out of Jim’s hand when he attempts to clear the remnants of their dinner away. “Please rest in the living room. I will join you shortly.”

Jim rolls his eyes, but they have had enough arguments recently regarding Spock’s desire to be of assistance vs. Jim’s distaste for being assisted for Jim to understand the futility of re-engaging the conflict. He retreats to the other room.

Satisfied, Spock gathers and refrigerates the leftovers while the water boils for tea.

He carries the tray into the next room to find Jim sitting upright, with his eyes shut and his head tilted to rest against the back of the sofa. Recognizing the signs of incipient headache, Spock sets the tray down and produces from his pocket one of several hypos that have been entrusted to him by Leonard for this precise purpose.

Jim’s eyes open abruptly as Spock touches the point of the hypo to the side of his neck. He sends an ineffectual glare Spock’s way, and Spock reflects that there is something very satisfying about circumventing Jim’s irrational insistence upon self-sufficiency. Perhaps that is why Leonard seems to take delight in administering most of his medications by stealth.

Spock takes his seat on the sofa. Normally, he leaves some room between the two of them—enough to be respectful of Jim’s boundaries, while still implying that he is welcome to breach those boundaries, should he wish to.

Today, however, Spock sits close enough for their knees to bump together, and is encouraged when Jim does not startle or pull away.

“Your head?” he says, and Jim nods, very slightly. “Leonard’s opinion is that you are no longer suffering the effects of the assault. Rather, he believes your most recent headaches to be ‘stress-induced’. If you would permit me, I may be able to assist. Physical contact is required, however.”

“Uh, sure, that’s fine.” Jim looks slightly bewildered, but not wary, and complies with Spock’s request that he lie face down on the sofa.

Spock, kneeling on the floor beside Jim, arranges his fingers over the taut muscles that run upwards from Jim’s trapezius to the back of his neck. In order to manipulate them, Spock must exert more of his strength than he would typically dare employ against any Human, much less Jim. But the muscles are stiff, resistant, and in order to make them relax, some force is necessary.

“Ah, okay, okay.” Jim leans up on his elbows, breathing heavily, and meets Spock’s startled eyes. “That really hurts.”

Appalled, Spock snatches his hands back. “Jim, I am sorry—”

“No, that’s, uh, normal, actually. It’s my own fault—I haven’t been to the gym all week, so I haven’t been stretching like I should.” Jim takes a deep breath. “I’m probably going to make funny noises, but don’t stop, all right? Trust me, a little pain is worth it.”

Spock is not certain he trusts Jim’s reasoning, but his muscles are indisputably tight and knotted, and Jim presumably knows his body well enough to judge how much force he can withstand without injury. So when Jim flops back down onto the sofa, Spock digs the points of his fingers into his back.

He is incapable of ignoring Jim’s high, startled groan of pain. Equally incapable of not being affected by the way Jim begins to writhe under his hands, moaning like something tortured and hungry and needy all at once. But eventually, as Jim had promised, the pain seems to give way, leaving him in a state of dumb, utter relaxation.

Spock can feel the change through their points of contact, but he continues to grab greedy handfuls of Jim’s flesh, irrationally pleased by the way his hands, which have worked their way underneath Jim’s shirt, leave bright white imprints against flushed pink skin.

Jim’s erotic appeal is…profound under these conditions, but Spock’s self-control still does not lapse. Nonetheless, it might be argued that Spock is, in a sense, taking advantage of him. Certainly, if anyone other than Spock were touching Jim this way, Spock would think so.

Already, he has begun to regard Jim as his. For Spock to allow himself to grow any more attached, without first seeking some sign of requital, would be…irresponsible.

“Jim,” says Spock, drawing away reluctantly from the feast at his fingertips. “May I ask you to resume an upright position? There is something I wish to discuss with you, and it cannot wait.”

“Um. Okay. Just—give me a second. I’m kinda wrung out.”

Spock forces himself to keep his hands at his sides as Jim slowly pulls his shirt back down and turns to face him. “What’s up?”

He takes a deep breath. “I wish to request your permission to initiate a period of formal courtship between us.”

The sudden stillness that overtakes Jim’s posture might have gone unnoticed by someone who has studied him less closely than Spock. But the red flush that highlights his cheekbones would be apparent to even the casual observer.

“Can you…” Jim rubs at his eyes. “Is it okay if I ask what that means, exactly?”

It is a reasonable and intelligent question. Coming from the author of K’diwa, however, Spock finds it surprising. He had simply assumed that Jim was either acquainted with a courting couple while he was a child on Vulcan, or that he had learned enough about Vulcan custom during that period of his life to accurately extrapolate beyond the limits of his experience.

“At the moment, we are friends,” Spock explains carefully. “As such, we socialize regularly, pursue common interests, and have a significant mutual investment in each other’s wellbeing. I have also made you aware that my emotions are…more deeply engaged, where you are concerned. You have been tolerant of this fact, and not retreated from our friendship in response.”

Impossibly, Jim’s flush deepens to a vivid scarlet, like sunburn. “Well, no. I…I guess I kind of knew you were interested, but that would never make me stop being your friend, Spock.”

“To describe my feelings for you as mere interest is to tread narrowly on the border dividing understatement from falsehood.” Spock looks at his shoes, too distracted by the innocent widening of Jim’s eyes to sustain a narrative while looking at them.

“I wish to court you, not because I am dissatisfied with our friendship, but because I wish to be a figure of even more significance to you. I am already certain that a committed romantic connection between us would be successful, and add immeasurably to our mutual personal happiness. I know that you do not yet return the fullness of my regard, but this courtship, if you permit it to progress, will allow me the opportunity to prove myself worthy of your esteem.”

Silence follows. When Spock can stand it no longer, he forces himself to tear his gaze away from his footwear and examine Jim’s reaction.

Unfortunately for him, Jim is biting his lower lip, a gesture which inevitably makes Spock’s fingers twitch with the desire to protect the bruised flesh from further abuse.

“And what about me?” Jim says. His voice is hoarse, but his eyes are wide and impossibly young looking. “What do I need to prove?”

“Nothing.” Spock reaches out and grips Jim’s forearms; to ground him, to possess him, it is no longer possible to tell the difference. “I have failed to make myself clear. In my eyes, you are already all that could be wanted. You are the choice I have made. My endeavor, if you allow it, is to persuade you to choose me in return.”

Jim’s chest heaves twice, his breathing fast enough that Spock frantically begins a mental catalogue of the anxiolytic hypos remaining from Leonard McCoy’s last visit.

“Okay,” he says. “So you’re…serious about this.”

“Deathly,” says Spock, without hesitation. “As I explained to you during our first chess game, I conceived an ardent curiosity to know more about you before I knew you as anything but the creative force behind K’diwa. Then, mere moments after your identity was confirmed to me by Gaila and Nyota, I was informed that other Vulcans had taken possession of you while you were in a defenseless condition. I found myself…overwhelmed by a protective impulse more powerful than I have ever felt towards any other person.”

Spock turns his face aside and forces himself to disregard the risk he is taking by speaking so frankly.

“As you depicted with such artistry in your novel, Vulcans—particularly, though by no means exclusively, male Vulcans—are territorial towards their mates. Once I became conscious of the fact that my peace of mind had become inextricably intertwined with your continued safety and happiness, there was no longer any point in denying my own wishes. All that remained was to make those wishes explicitly known to you, in the hopes that they are not fundamentally incompatible with your own desires.”

Jim stares at him. Then, quite unexpectedly, he laughs.

“Jesus.” Bright blue eyes peer at him through the half-lighting. “So you’re telling me that all that stuff I wrote in my story—like, Stoval wanting to crush Ophelia’s frail human bod in his strong Vulcan arms—that’s…real?”

Spock is aware that there is a difference between teasing and mockery, and that Jim is engaging in the former, at his own expense as much as Spock’s. Nonetheless, he cannot help responding slightly in the defensive.

“Under ordinary circumstances, Stoval’s possessiveness towards his Human mate would be considered…an extreme reaction,” he says stiffly. “The circumstances, however, are very far from ordinary. Ophelia is being pursued by Orion agents who wish to kill or enslave her. Moreover, she cannot so much as set foot in a drinking establishment without attracting the attention of unsavory characters who find her desirable and attempt to take advantage of her physical frailty. It is this, far more than any aspect of Ophelia’s pleasing appearance, which would provoke an unbonded Vulcan such as Stoval to regard her as rightfully his own.”

Jim’s expression sobers as he listens to Spock.

“You said the circumstances were ‘very far from ordinary’. And yet, here we are.” His expression turns wry. “So is this a case of life imitating art, or art imitating life?”

Spock blinks. “I do not understand.”

Jim shrugs. “Stoval’s reaction is extreme because he gets caught up in, let’s say, extreme circumstances. But the circumstances aren’t all that far out of the ordinary for Ophelia.”

“Are they not?”

“Not if you read between the lines. I mean, think about it. The slavers are chasing her because she helped Arria and her sisters escape when she was just a teenager. And creeps have been pushing her around in bars since she was old enough to go to bars. She’s never had family or friends she could rely on. Her whole life has been like this.” Jim waves indistinctly. “It only seems extreme to Stoval because it’s all new to him. He’s brilliant, but he’s sheltered—hell, he’d never even been off-planet before that linguistics conference at the start of the book.”

Spock draws a short, sharp breath, as Jim’s words take on new dimensions of meaning.

“Certainly, Stoval has led a privileged existence,” he acknowledges. “But surely you would not argue that Ophelia’s life is typical of a young Human female whose profession is ‘poet’.”

“Anyone can be a poet,” Jim says dismissively. “But my point, actually, is that there is no such thing as a ‘typical’ existence—for Humans, Vulcans, or anyone else. Everyone’s circumstances are unique. Anyone’s life can change drastically in a snap of the fingers. Me, for instance.”

Jim leans back against the sofa, and Spock, reluctantly, releases his hold on Jim’s wrists. “I joined Starfleet. Had no idea I was going to do it until about an hour before I rode my bike up to the recruit shuttle. It changed everything. Now I’ve got friends, and a future to plan for. I’m still not a ‘typical’ Starfleet cadet, though. I’m too old, too damaged.”

Before Spock can open his mouth to argue any of these points, Jim plunges on. Spock is beginning to suspect that, though Jim is certainly not babbling, he is nonetheless becoming hyperverbal, as an anxiety response.

“Did I ever tell you what made me write K’diwa in the first place?”

Spock shakes his head. “I believe you mentioned something about a dare.”

“Yeah. Me and Bones and…the rest of the study group were kicking back one evening, and we got talking about other jobs we’d had before the Academy. It was a pretty boring conversation, to be honest. Most people who join Starfleet grow up knowing that’s what they want to do, so they’re basically professional students. Uhura’s a good example of that—not that she doesn’t have street smarts, but school’s been her whole life. Bones has never had a job that wasn’t related to medicine. Gaila’s never had what we would think of as a job, apart from waiting tables during the summer sessions. And then there was me. I’ve had tons of jobs. One of them…”

Jim smiles, the corner of his mouth trembling like he is restraining laughter. “One of them was writing erotic interspecies fiction for an online literary magazine. Two hundred credits per five thousand words. Shitty pay, but it was fun, and I could do it anywhere.”

Spock clamps down on the immediate instinct to demand the name of said literary magazine. “I take it that one or more of your friends doubted the veracity of your claim.”

“Uhura. Yeah. Told me to my face that she didn’t believe me. So, I wrote ten pages and texted them to her right in the middle of our History of the Federation lecture.” Jim grins widely. “The look on her face was priceless.”

For a moment, Spock contemplates how different the present landscape of his life would be if Nyota Uhura were not uniquely capable of agitating Jim Kirk into taking rash action.

Jim’s smile slips away, and he leans forward, resting his elbows in his knees. He looks at Spock for a long moment, as though searching his face for the answer to an unknown question.

“I’m not Ophelia,” he says. “But I didn’t make her up out of nothing, either. I have more history than a lot of Humans my age. Humans from the core Federation worlds, anyway. And…I mean, my life is different now. But Gary still happened. Stuff like Gary never really…stopped happening to me.”

Spock flinches, but Jim does not blink. “At the end of the book, I sent Stoval and Ophelia home to Vulcan because I wanted them to have a happy ending. I wanted them safe, stable, boring even. But…honestly, I’ve wondered. What if Stoval changed his mind? Would Ophelia even be attractive to him when he’s not saving her life all the time? The world can look really different when you’re not seeing it through a constant haze of adrenaline.”

Spock’s heart thumps loudly in his side. Though on the surface it would appear that they are having a civilized discussion about literature, he is fully aware that it has become a mere screen for their own situation. It is crucial that he choose his words with the utmost care.

“I cannot speak for Stoval, as he is a fictional character of your creation,” he says. “Speaking as myself, however, I can say confidently that I would relish a period of…boredom, as you put it.”

Jim ducks his head, laughing slightly. Spock cannot help giving him a small smile in return.

“Though the jeopardy which seems to follow you has acted as a catalyst for the rapid clarification of my own emotions, I do not regard it as necessary to the success of our courtship,” he continues earnestly. “I would see you safe, above all things. I would…welcome the chance to know you, and have you know me, under circumstances in which our feelings are not artificially heightened due to our biological stress responses. I certainly do not anticipate that my regard for you would lessen. Nor, I hope, would I damage my own chances of persuading you to accept my suit merely because my vigilance on your behalf is no longer crucial to your safety.”

For a long moment afterwards, Jim does not reply. He takes several deep breaths; to Spock, it appears that he is attempting to gather his nerve.

“Spock,” he says. “That’s…not really necessary.”

Both of Spock’s eyebrows arch to his hairline. “What is not necessary?”

“Persuading me.” Jim does not meet his eyes. “I’m, uh, pretty persuaded already. I mean, I still need time—we’ve only known each other for a week. But…you don’t have to make any kind of effort to win me over.” His laugh, this time, is self-deprecating. “I never worried about Ophelia changing her mind, you know?”

Slowly, careful to telegraph his movements, Spock reaches out and cups either side of Jim’s face with his hands. He feels moisture beneath his palms—tears, hidden from view in the dim light.

“Have you an answer for me, then?” Spock whispers.

“Yes. No. Yes—Jesus, Spock.” Jim wipes clumsily at his face. “How are you even real? I mean—sometimes I honestly don’t think I deserve you, you know? You’re too good.”

Spock makes a low, pained noise and leans in, touching his forehead to Jim’s.

“This,” he whispers, his lips within a hair’s breadth of Jim’s skin. “This is precisely the problem.”

Jim wraps his arms around Spock’s ribs, planting his face against Spock’s shoulder, where he fits like he belongs. Shudders begin to wrack his body.

There is so much contact between them that their clothing becomes irrelevant; to Spock, it is as if Jim is broadcasting his thoughts in the clear.

Spock learns that he is the first person Jim has been emotionally intimate with since he terminated his association with Gary Mitchell almost a year earlier. More faintly, he receives the impression that Jim has often been hurt or harmed by persons who have touched him in this manner—that this has been the case for many years, since Jim was far too young for any intimate contact to be voluntary. There are only two people who have ever touched him with both regularity and kindness: Leonard first, then Gaila.

Jim has not known either of them for longer than eighteen months.

Spock hears a choked cry, only belatedly realizing that it has come from his own mouth. That is decades, that is a lifetime without affectionate contact, something that Humans require like adequate nutrition.

He does not pause to think his options through logically before bundling Jim into his arms and repositioning him on the sofa, where Spock may lie alongside him, offering his body as a barricade between Jim and the world.

Jim does not fight him. He gasps as Spock manhandles him into place, but he remains pliant, offering no defense.

They lie together in this manner for over an hour, face to face, Spock continuing to knead and stroke Jim’s stiff neck and shoulders. Jim leans into Spock’s chest as he works, shivering under his touch, and Spock continues to learn his Human from the inside out.

Jim’s blank, unaffected countenance is not a side-effect of depression; it is a ruse. He has been terrified of Mitchell since the moment he learned that he was being held at Starfleet Medical. Leonard works long hours there, and should Mitchell overcome his guards, Jim feared that his friend would become a target for revenge. Then, Spock had informed him of Mitchell’s escape. Jim had shut down outwardly, incapable of communicating the depth of his fear, because he knew how his friends would respond, disrupting their lives and schedules in order to provide him with the company he was desperate for. He could not, would not be such a burden to them.

Jim wants to believe that Mitchell is truly on a Vulcan ship, bound for a hospital staffed by healers equipped to deal with him. Yet some part of him expects, will always expect, to wake up in the middle of the night with Mitchell’s hand clamped over his mouth, because Gary liked to fuck with his head best of all, and what better way to do it than this—to escape, to let everyone think he was safely on Vulcan, and then—

“The hospital is not on Vulcan, but on the moon of one of our sister planets,” Spock murmurs, unable to withstand another moment of Jim’s uncertainty. “My father would not lie, nor would he fail to guarantee every detail necessary for your safety. Nonetheless, I am sorry. I should not have left you alone this week. I ought to have taken leave from my duties in order to adequately care for you. I deeply regret that we have seen so little of each other recently.”

“Spock,” Jim laughs, despite the fact that tears continue to roll freely down his face. “We’ve seen plenty of each other. Actually, now that I think about it, we’ve seen each other every single day since the day we met.”

“There has not been a day this week when I was able to spend more than 76.44 consecutive minutes in your company. That is…grossly insufficient.”

Jim blinks at him in the darkness of the space between their bodies. “Insufficient, huh?”

“Grossly,” says Spock, and kisses him.

He has visualized and anticipated this moment more times than even he can count, yet somehow, none of his rehearsed scenarios match his present situation.

Even in the grip of his most ardent yearnings, Spock never dared dream that Jim would reach for him this way, as if trust was a foregone conclusion between them. He did not imagine that Jim would melt in his arms the moment their lips met, his fingers scrabbling at Spock’s biceps for support, mouth opening obediently at the first press of Spock’s tongue.

Anything, Jim seems to be saying with his body. Anything you want, it is yours for the taking.

It is a struggle, amidst the heat of his desire, for Spock to remember that Jim is more than his body. He forces himself to strain for the faint whisper of Jim’s thoughts; he hears Jim telling himself to calm down, this is Spock, he’s not like anyone you’ve ever known, just relax, this could be good for once.

Spock tears his mouth from Jim’s and breathes deeply, listening to Jim do the same.

“You—” he pants, only to realize that he cannot say what he’s thinking. No one must touch you save those who love you. You are too great a temptation; you will never be safe in lesser hands.

Spock leans back from Jim slightly, propping his head on his hand so he can see Jim’s face. He looks beautiful and dazed in the dim light.

“You did not answer my query,” Spock says, when he can breathe once more.

“I didn’t?” Jim’s tousled confusion is unbearably endearing. “Uh, which query?”

“I wish to court you,” Spock reminds him. “Do you consent?”

He knows the answer, but he also knows Jim’s fear. He must hear the words spoken aloud, for his own sake, just as Jim must say them, for his.

“Oh.” Jim tilts his head, and Spock cannot resist brushing the tips of his fingers over the swell of his cheekbone. “Sure. Courting. Sounds like fun.”

“It will be that, and many other things,” says Spock, and kisses him again.

Chapter Text

**transcript of chat log: user KIRK, JAMES TIBERIUS, CADET, ID = JTK2233**

JTK2233: hey bones hows it going

LHM2227: Well, look who it is. I’m just dandy. You??? How are the headaches?
LHM2227: That Vulcan voodoo still working for you or is it time for another EKG?

JTK2233: for the last time, stop CALLING it that
JTK2233: jesus bones way to be xenophobic AND old school Earth-racist at the SAME TIME

JTK2233: anyway I’m fine, and so is my head, and so is Spock, thanks.

LHM2227: Did I ask about Spock?

JTK2233: no but you should

LHM2227: Why.

JTK2233: bc Spock and I are courting now. officially.
JTK2233: and don’t act like you don’t know what “courting” means, you’re so southern you reek of overripe magnolia, it’s basically the same thing for Vulcans
JTK2233: but in person just call him my boyfriend pls. also, don’t freak out if he calls me his intended, that’s just Vulcan for going steady.

LHM2227: …
LHM2227: I don’t know who I want to kill more right now, you or Legolas.
LHM2227: And before you tell me that’s a speciest remark, just picture Spock in a blonde wig for a minute.

JTK2233: …
JTK2233: so how’s Gaila, hmm

LHM2227: Why, did you lose her number?

JTK2233: reliable sources tell me the two of you have been joined at the hip all week.

LHM2227: Well, if you’d bothered coming home at all this weekend, you’d know the answer already.

JTK2233: I WAS RIGHT
JTK2233: this is so great you guys are perfect for each other

LHM2227: now hang on
LHM2227: she ain’t exactly put a ring on it yet

JTK2233: BUT YOU WANT HER TO, OMG

LHM2227: Twist my words, infant, go on.

JTK2233: …that was way too mellow for you. OMFG Bones is she there. have you been making tender healing love in our dormitory while I’ve been sleeping over at Spock’s

LHM2227: Jim, you know I love you. But I’ve killed people I loved before.

JTK2233: goddamn bones chill ok no disrespect. I love Gaila. in a very platonic and sisterly way. and i’m serious, she needs someone like you.
JTK2233: you’re a mother hen. she actually thinks that shit is sweet and not annoying as fuck

LHM2227: Thank you, I think.

JTK2233: you know what this means

LHM2227: Don’t tell me I’m begging you.

JTK2233: DOUBLE DATE

LHM2227: I would prefer one of a selection of plagues.

JTK2233: noooo c’mon bones seriously it won’t be bad
JTK2233: I’m thinking the park, 1500, you guys bring your food, we’ll bring ours
JTK2233: we’ll just enjoy being out in the sun when it’s not cold as fuck for once
JTK2233: no locked doors, you can bail over a fake medical crisis any time you feel like it
JTK2233: oh oh, gaila is great at pretending to faint? just give her a cue and then insist that you have to take her straight home to bed
JTK2233: you would then be honor-bound to follow through

JTK2233: wink wink

LHM2227: THIS IS GAILALALA WE WILL BE THERE <3 :-D
LHM2227: EVEN IF I HAVE TO CARRY LEONARD OVER MY SHOULDER
LHM2227: WE FOUND OUT I CAN DO THT LAST NIGHELRMGLER

LHM2227: Jim I swear to god if you don’t delete this chat

JTK2233: Leonard, this is Spock. I have taken temporary possession of the communicator, as Jim is currently incapacitated with laughter. I will presume to answer for Jim that this chat log will be deleted, per your request.

JTK2233: However, as I fear Jim will insist that I partake in this outdoor excursion regardless of your answer, I can only say that you and Gaila would make acceptable company.

LHM2227: …Gaila says we’ll be there.

JTK2233: Acknowledged. I will inform Jim.

**transmission deleted**

**transmission restored, authorization user JTK2233**

**file printed to hard copy**

**original transmission: delete [ (Y) / n ]**

*

“He’s definitely going to break up with me now,” says Jim to Gaila, flopping backwards onto the thick wool blanket Spock has procured for their picnic. “And I’m pretty sure it’s all your fault.”

“You two’ve been together officially less than a day,” Bones scoffs. “Whatever happened to the honeymoon period?”

“Yeah, I know, but I can’t really blame him. I don’t think Spock knew about cats before today.”

“I assure you,” says Spock, even as he lifts his chin to accommodate the black cat purring in his arms and trying to rub her head against his invisible beard stubble, “I was familiar with the existence of the common domestic shorthair cat prior to this afternoon.”

“But is this the first time one’s ever purred on you?” says Gaila, sounding strangely sympathetic.

Spock hesitates. “It is.”

Gaila nods, then turns to Jim. “It’s okay, Jim. Leonard says you aren’t allergic to cats. Spock can love you both!”

“Spock’s not going to get a cat, Gaila.” Jim tries not to choke on barely restrained laughter. “It would be illogical, or something.”

“Indeed, it would be unwise to take responsibility for another living creature when I may be deployed off-planet in the relatively near future.” Spock shuts his eyes as Kaiya sniffs his eyebrows. “Although, I believe that there was once a tradition of ‘ship’s cats’ amongst the naval fleets of Earth’s former nation-states.”

“That’s true! They had their own ranks and everything.” Jim pushes himself up on his elbow and grins. “Maybe by the time the Enterprise is ready for her shakedown you could talk Pike into it.”

“Number One, who is also fond of domestic felines, tried to interest Captain Pike in such an arrangement during our term of service on the Farragut. It would seem, however, that the captain is oddly suspicious of—as he put it—allowing ‘sneaky little assholes with knives attached to their feet’ to prowl his ship at liberty.”

“Well, that’s just prejudiced,” says Gaila, while Jim tries not to asphyxiate over the fact that Spock is capable of saying ‘sneaky little assholes’ just as blandly and evenly as he says everything else. “Oh, but if you were thinking of getting a cat, Spock, you should know they’re obligate carnivores. And their food stinks like rotting fish, usually.”

“Ah.” Spock’s brow creases, as though he is weighing this inconvenience against other factors.

Even though the picnic had been Jim’s idea, Spock had been oddly insistent that he be allowed to choose the exact location, and that they arrive at precisely 1500 to begin unpacking their supplies. Or rather, Spock had unpacked their supplies, because Spock seems to think this courtship business means that Jim isn’t allowed to do anything that might be construed as physical labor, as long as Spock is there to butt in and take over.

Arriving punctually, as Jim could have told Spock, is the equivalent of arriving fifteen minutes early, whenever Bones is involved, and counts as at least half an hour early, when you add Gaila to the mix. But Spock had been unperturbed by the tardiness of their friends, possibly because he was just as pleased the two of them would have the additional time alone together.

Spock had just finished arranging the contents of their lunch bags into a small but elegant spread on the blanket when Jim looked up and saw a cluster of figures cresting the grassy knoll and heading in their direction.

One of the figures was Bones, who was carrying a large wicker basket. The other was unmistakably Gaila, who had a blanket draped over her arm.

The other four figures were cats, trotting alongside Gaila’s heels on thin leashes, which were attached to slim, colorful collars adorned with name tags. And bells.

Even Spock had gaped for a moment at their approach. “This is not ordinary behavior for that breed of animal, is it?” he’d said, looking to Jim for confirmation.

“No it is not,” said Jim, choking on his laughter. “But why would that stop Gaila?”

Jim grinned as their friends approached, thinking, with some satisfaction, that Bones and Gaila made an unsurprisingly attractive couple. Especially in civilian clothes.

Bones, normally a terrible dresser, is wearing a white t-shirt today that actually fits, along with a pair of jeans that Jim had picked out for him ages ago, making them the only pair of non-Dad-jeans he owns. Meanwhile, Gaila, red curls tumbling loose down her back, is wearing a surprisingly flowy and demure white sundress that makes her skin look lush as new spring grass.

She isn’t wearing any underwear under the sundress—Jim isn’t a creep, he’s just helped enough of his girlfriends pick out their outfits to know the difference—but otherwise, she could have been on her way to church on a Sunday morning in Georgia.

The look is apparently having the desired effect on Bones, because he’s barely been able to take his eyes off her since they all sat down together—despite the fact that all four cats, whom Gaila releases from their tethers, immediately begin investigating the new surroundings, and the new people, and distracting everyone thoroughly from whatever they had been thinking about before.

Jim approves. Of the cats, because they make Spock’s face light up in a way Jim has literally never seen before. And of Gaila’s low-key seduction methods, because it’s clear that she knows exactly the right way to handle a person with Bones’s particular set of issues. Which are exactly the opposite sort of issues that most people have when it comes to dating Gaila.

The thing is, Bones isn’t the type to get hung up on a set of lush curves and forget about the person inside them. He already knows how to look past that, how to respect and care for Gaila as a person. Which is why Gaila is with him in the first place.

Bones’ trouble is the mile-high mental wall he’s built around romance, sexuality, and anything else that belonged to his life before the divorce. And breaching those defenses is going to take some heavy siege work, but Gaila—who stretches out and tangles her feet with Bones’ as soon as they get settled—is up to that challenge, Jim feels.

Once everyone, quadrupeds and bipeds alike, have been fed, the cats immediately start claiming the warm bodies of their choice for their post-prandial nap. Jim’s lap is quickly occupied by Kuwue, an overfed, orange-and-white blob with a remarkably loud purr. Spock is allowing his face to be groomed by Kayia, a slender, sleek cat whose black fur is remarkably similar in color, sheen, and texture, to Spock’s. To Spock’s hair, that is.

Meanwhile, Truyue, a fluffy grey with a majestic white bib and general air of queenliness, drapes herself across Gaila’s knees, while Prrirp, a lean brown tiger-striped cat, stands on her back legs with two paws planted on Bones’ shoulder. She’s grooming his hair, and occasionally his ear and eyebrow.

Jim does his duty as a best friend and ignores the fact that Bones is losing the fight not to giggle as Prrirp repeatedly headbutts his face.

“How did you train these animals to such a high level of discipline?” says Spock, because of course he wants to know the science behind it. As opposed to Jim, who’s content to just bury his face in warm fur and let his mind blank out. Like at the hospital, when they give you the good drugs.

He doesn’t say the last part out loud, because he doesn’t want Spock to get curious about Jim’s history of hospitalizations while he’s sitting a mere four feet away from Jim’s overly-chatty personal physician.

“I found them starving under a bush near the Cochrane building last summer, so I wrapped them up in a blanket and took them to Admiral Archer’s house,” says Gaila, matter-of-factly.

Jim nearly chokes on a sip of spiced tea. “You—did you know Admiral Archer?”

Bones, who has clearly heard this story before, grins like a maniac. “No, she did not,” he says.

“No, I didn’t,” Gaila confirms, as though she’s not sure what to make of Bones’ delighted reaction. “But everyone knows about his dogs, and his house was closer than my dormitory.”

“Logical,” Spock murmurs. Jim looks at him sharply and catches a twinkle of amusement in his dark eyes.

“Thank you, Spock,” says Gaila pertly. “Luckily, he was already awake—”

“What time was it?” Jim demands. He’s been friends with Gaila for over a year and a half; he can’t believe he’s never heard this story before.

“0230. But it was a Saturday! Who goes to bed that early on a Saturday?”

Jim covers his eyes with the hand that isn’t supporting Kuwue’s bulk. “A Saturday. Of course. Sorry, go on?”

Gail huffs. “He was awake because one of his beagles had just whelped prematurely, and only two of the puppies from the litter survived. They were too small, and not eating very well. So we decided to introduce the kittens to Arabella, the mother. She accepted them and nursed them, and that brought the puppies around, so they became littermates. By the time the pups were old enough to start being trained, Archer decided to train the kittens with them. Otherwise, the beagles would have been too distracted, wondering what their sisters were up to.”

“So your cats just…live in Admiral Archer’s kennels,” says Jim, not certain if this is the most amazing or the most horrifying thing he’s ever heard in his life. “And you just…visit the Admiral’s house whenever you feel like it? And he’s okay with this?”

Gaila’s eyebrows crimp together. “Jonathan is a beautiful soul,” she says, almost chidingly. “He’s one of the most compassionate people I’ve ever met.”

Jim turns slowly to face Spock, who is already looking at him, his eyes as wide as Jim has ever seen them.

“Jonathan,” says Jim. “Jonathan Archer.”

Spock says nothing, but Jim can sense that his bewilderment has not lessened.

The thing is, Jim could almost see it, if it were someone like Pike—he pretends to be a hard-ass, but he has a soft spot for strays and misfits, c.f., his recruitment and dogged mentoring of one Cadet Jim Kirk.

Legendary centenarian admiral Jonathan Archer, on the other hand, is semi-retired, and while scuttlebutt says he never hesitates to throw his weight around Starfleet Command when there are big issues at stake, he keeps a grudging distance from the Academy, having declared himself too old to deal with adolescent cadet drama.

Not that Jim blames him. He’s old enough to find the antics of his fellow cadets tiresome, and he’s barely 23. But that just means that Jim would have to be bleeding out and dying before it would occur to him to knock on the Admiral’s door at 0230 on a Saturday morning.

“There were lives at stake, Jimmy. He understood.” Gaila giggles as Truyue’s tail goes straight up in the air, her butt wiggling as she springs from Gaila’s lap to land on something crawling invisibly through the grass.

Bones shuts his eyes as Prrirp bats at the hair falling over his forehead. Jim has never seen his best friend look this relaxed. It makes him wonder, suddenly, if this is what Bones had been like before the divorce—before he found his wife in bed with another man and somehow lost Joanna as a result.

“You know, I reckon Gaila’s gonna be an admiral before she’s forty,” Bones declares, a propos of nothing. “And when you ask her how she did it, she’ll just say something vague and sweet, like, ‘the other admirals are very wise beings’.”

Jim laughs so hard that Kuwue digs her claws into his stomach to keep her balance. Jim stops laughing immediately.

“I believe your conjecture may be sound, Leonard,” says Spock, too distracted by Kayia’s abrupt decision to leap onto his shoulder to notice Gaila flushing under this affirmation. “These creatures are inveterate climbers. They are a—a tree-dwelling species in their undomesticated state, are they not?”

Jim is pretty sure Kaiya has needle sharp claws with the strength of pitons—cats like her always do, for some reason—but despite the fact that Spock has to be riddled with punctures and accruing new ones every time the cat adjusts her precarious perch on his shoulder, he never attempts to dislodge her. In fact, he tilts his neck to accommodate her.

Kaiya stares directly into the branches of the shade tree above them, and Jim starts trying to remember how long it’s been since he’s had to climb a tree to retrieve a trapped cat.

“Yeah, they’re pretty much built for climbing,” he says, diverting Kaiya’s attention by dragging a sprig of grass in a teasing pattern on the ground. “I mean, they’re ambush predators. The big ones still live wild in the nature preserves up north. If you ever go camping up there, I don’t recommend sleeping under trees. And if you hear something scream like a woman being murdered, that means one’s stalking you.”

Spock’s eyes widen even further, and one of his eyebrows disappears beneath his bangs.

“I never met your beat for knowing random shit about random things,” says Bones, finally seizing Prrip and arranging her in his lap, where she begins to purr under skillful petting.

“At one point in my life, I lived entirely off my winnings on quiz machines,” says Jim flippantly.

Bones opens his mouth to retort, but Spock cuts him off. “Leonard, may I ask you to restrain your understandable skepticism? If you challenge Jim’s claim openly, I am afraid that he may feel honor-bound to prove its veracity.”

“Huh. I reckon you got to know him pretty well after all.” Bones gives Spock a narrow, considering look. “Well, well. I guess it’s my birthday! Now that Spock’s signed up to be Jim’s permanent babysitter, I can finally go back to worrying about the little things, like, oh say, my patients.”

For a second, Jim seriously considers throwing a grape at Bones’ head, and the only reason he hesitates is because he has issues about food waste.

“I’m not sure you can take credit for that, sweetie. I think Spock found Jim all on his own.” Gaila winks at Spock, and Spock blushes, because Gaila has that effect on everyone, regardless of their sexual orientation.

“True, but I’ll reap some of the benefits, so I’m counting it a personal win.” Bones jerks his chin to the left, where Truyue is still stalking invisible prey through the grass. “Is Tru okay over there?”

Just as Gaila cranes her head around to look, Truyue takes off in hot pursuit of whatever local fauna has been unfortunate enough to catch her attention.

“Damn it. Truyue!” Gaila yells—maybe yodels—something in Orion (a language Jim had thought he was pretty fluent in, but apparently his vocabulary isn’t extensive enough to cover ‘things you yell at disobedient cats’.)

In one swift move, Gaila extricates her legs where they’re tangled up with Bones’, and leaps to her feet, darting after the cat in a cloud of whirling white skirts and streaming red hair.

“Should we assist?” says Spock. He sounds uncertain, but he is no doubt thinking that he is capable of running a good deal faster than Gaila. Possibly faster than the cat as well, though Jim gives them even odds.

“Nah.” He shrugs. “Cats get spooked pretty easily when strangers are after them. Better let Gaila handle it.”

Nonetheless, Jim, Spock, and Bones all watch closely as Gaila chases Truyue about 30 meters away to a low brick wall, where the cat stops, jumps up, and looks at Gaila, meowing piteously. (Jim just happens to be able to lip-read in cat, but he bets Spock could actually hear her and confirm.)

“So how long did it take before she introduced you to the kids, Bones?” says Jim, kicking his best friend’s foot with a wide grin. Gaila will come back to them in a moment, so this is Jim’s big chance to get some ribbing in.

(He isn’t afraid of retaliation, because whereas Gaila thinks it’s hilarious when Jim pokes fun at Bones, Spock…does not give off the aura of a person who would find it humorous if another man started making salacious inferences about his boyfriend’s private affairs.)

“She took me up to Archer’s place the day after—you know. The bar.” Bones clears his throat. “She said she needed some therapy. I had no idea what she was talking about—thought maybe she meant that Archer was mentoring her, or something. But I had beagle snouts in my face all afternoon, let me tell you.”

“Is Admiral Archer, indeed, mentoring Gaila?” says Spock, curiously. “To my knowledge it has been some time since he took a personal interest in the cadets of the Academy.”

“I know that Archer hates cadets. You know it, Jim knows it. But does Gaila care that she’s got the Admiral Jonathan Archer wrapped around her little finger? No she does not. Far as she’s concerned, he’s just her respected elderly pal who likes small furry creatures as much as she does.” Bones shakes his head. “I’ll tell you what, though, I saw that man’s face when she was talking, and mark my words—if someone was hurting her, he’d fire a full photon torpedo array at whoever it was to make them stop. He didn’t even bother giving me the shovel talk. One glare was enough.” Bones preens a little bit. “I am the first person she’s ever brought over to meet him, though.”

“It is comforting to know that Gaila has such an ally,” says Spock readily. “The Academy—Earth itself—can be highly disorienting to off-worlders. I, likewise, depended a great deal on Captain Pike’s friendship and patronage during my first years at the Academy. Adapting to Human society was a challenge unlike anything I had ever faced. The Captain took it upon himself to smooth that transition as much as possible.”

“Wonder if all of Command is like that? Picking out secret favorites in the student body like horses at the OTB.” Bones chuckles. “I mean, speaking of photon arrays, I’m sure you’ve noticed that Pike’s taken to Jim like a hen with one chick.”

“People who live in glass henhouses, Bones,” says Jim distractedly.

He’s listening to what Bones and Spock are saying, but his eyes are fixed on the tall, dark-haired man—youngish, Human, judging by the way he’s dressed—approaching Gaila and Truyue from the other side of the brick wall.

He pauses, seems to say something to Gaila, and scratches the top of Truyue’s head. When the cat permits the attention, Jim tries to relax.

It isn’t that Gaila can’t take care of herself. She wouldn’t be here, in the Federation let alone the Academy, if she was helpless.

It’s just that Jim has been Gaila’s friend for long enough to know what tends to happen when she meets new people for the first time. Especially if she doesn’t have a friend with her, although even Jim and Uhura get included in the filthy leers and threatening stare-offs occasionally.

He doesn’t like the fact that he can’t tell what they’re saying, or hear the man’s tone of voice.

He really doesn’t like that he can’t see Gaila’s expression.

“Does Gaila know that man?” says Spock, as though he has just noticed where Jim is looking.

“Huh?” Bones’s head snaps up. “Who?”

In the distance, Jim watches as Gaila scoops up Truyue, who had flopped down to sun herself on the brickwork.

She takes a step backwards, and like a sudden storm darkening the sky, the energy between Gaila and the stranger changes. He says something, and the line of Gaila’s shoulders stiffens.

The guy moves a little closer to the brickwork. It’s a low wall, easy enough for a tall person to step over.

Maybe Jim is overreacting. He knows he has issues, he knows he gets triggered—and again, he knows Gaila can take care of herself.

He just doesn’t think she should have to, all the goddamn time, especially not when Jim is standing right here.

Suddenly, Gaila pivots away from the wall and starts marching back toward them at a quick clip. Truyue is clutched against her chest, and her tail is lashing like she’s not happy with the pace Gaila is settling.

Bones, Jim, and Spock all watch Gaila tensely, unsure what to do, until she’s halfway to them. However, when she looks back over her shoulder, as if she’s afraid someone might be following, Bones swears viciously under his breath and springs into a jog until he meets her.

“Are you all right?” Jim hears him say. He sets a hand on her arm, trying to make her stop.

Gaila could break every bone in Bones’ body without breaking a sweat, and they both know it. He touches her like she’s fragile, anyway.

Jim adores him for that, and at the same time wants to tell him that it’s okay to just grab and hold on sometimes, that people like Gaila, and Jim, only insist on being independent all the time because they don’t really believe there’s another choice.

You have to be stubborn to break through that kind of resistance. Just ask Spock. He’s still trying, and Jim is still being…Jim. But Spock seems almost to relish the opportunity to prove that he can be patient, and persistent.

Except when Jim is hurt, or weak, or crying, and then Spock grabs him and holds him like it would take a planetary event to shake Jim loose from his grasp. Somehow, he always times it exactly right, and it is always exactly what Jim needs.

Jim knows that Bones wants to be for Gaila what Spock is for him, but he can’t just stand there and explain why they should get over themselves and cuddle, with Spock as audience for maximum awkwardness. They’re his two best friends. He’d have to kill himself if they both shunned him.

Gaila wiggles loose from Bones’s grasp. “I’m fine,” she says, sounding very determined. Too determined. “Fine. But we should go. Or I should, I should go. Right now.”

Bones’ face turns thunderous. He steps forward. Jim nearly walks after him, in case someone needs to restrain him from doing something stupid.

Spock, however, stops him, with a single touch to the wrist. He tilted his head towards Bones and Gaila. Watch, his expression seems to say.

“Darlin’ what happened?” The iron in Bones’ voice is wrapped in a velvet glove of gentle concern. “Was that guy back there giving you a hard time?”

“It’s nothing, I just—”

Gaila lifts her head, and her helpless look lands on Jim, and Jim understands instantly what she’s not able to say.

On the one hand, he knows how Bones feels. He’s furious. He wants to knock the guy’s teeth down his throat too.

But Jim also knows what Gaila is feeling—the humiliation, the instinctive need to hide somewhere safe, in a world where nowhere feels safe.

Tracking the guy down, hurting him, it won’t help.

Jim has no idea how to help Gaila right now.

He feels Spock’s bright, sharp eyes resting on him for a moment. Then Spock turns to face Bones.

“I chose this location for our outing due not only to its aesthetic qualities, but because of its proximity to the grounds of the Vulcan Embassy. If all of you will follow me, there is a concealed gate nearby leading directly to the Embassy gardens, which will provide us with both privacy and security.” He hesitates. “Gaila, you are welcome to remain at the Embassy as long as you require, but I feel I should warn you that my mother is presently in residence, and you are therefore unlikely to escape her attention, or her—I believe the expression is, ‘fussing’.”

Jim’s heartrate accelerates, because Spock’s mom. He did not wake up this morning prepared to meet Spock’s mother, the one Human Spock freakin’ idolizes.

“I don’t know about anyone else,” says Bones, his voice gruff, “but I reckon Gaila could use a little motherin’ right now.”

Spock looks to Gaila, who nods, which apparently settles it. Jim takes a deep breath and tries not to be annoyed by the fact that Spock built a security failsafe into their carefree Sunday afternoon picnic. No wonder he’d been so picky about the location.

Jim busies himself getting all four cats clipped back onto their leashes, and he’s relieved when Gaila takes the leashes immediately—he’d been by no means certain that the little beasts would behave for him the way they did for her.

“We may leave the rest of our picnic items here,” says Spock. “They will be gathered and returned to the Embassy by Security officers.”

“By the I-beg-your-pardons?” Jim halts their march toward the Secret Vulcan Garden by striding ahead of, then spinning to face, Spock. “The what, Spock?”

“Jim.” Spock’s expression is longsuffering. “I am the son of a planetary ambassador. Since childhood, I have been attended at all times by a small detachment of officers from my father’s personal Security retinue. My mother has one as well, when she is separated from my father. They maintain a discreet perimeter everywhere save the Academy and the grounds of Starfleet headquarters, which are secure enough already as to make personal guards redundant.”

While Jim is recovering from this information, Spock opens his communicator and begins texting someone rapidly. From the pauses between paragraphs, Jim judges that he is getting answers as quickly as he is asking questions.

“Gaila,” says Spock, and when he looks up from the communicator, his eyes are gentle again. “My father’s security officers have apprehended the man you were speaking with. They are holding him, pending further information.”

Jim could love Spock just for that—just for giving Gaila the choice. But he sees, with a sinking stomach, that she’s already shaking her head, which makes her hair fall over her face like a curtain.

“He didn’t break any laws,” she says, sounding tired. “He didn’t touch me. And didn’t actually threaten me.”

Jim believes her. They didn’t have to threaten you, when they were big enough. They didn’t have to do anything, or say anything, for you to read a violent future in their eyes.

“Criminal harassment is not limited to actions which bring the perpetrator into physical contact with the victim,” says Spock. “If he used threatening body language against you—”

“I didn’t let it get that far,” says Gaila, her voice clipped. “I walked away first. I know what he probably would have done, but that doesn’t matter, because I got away.”

Bones, whose expression is somewhere between “murderous” and “crushed”, strokes a hand over her hair. “Is that what got you upset? Did he look like he was gonna get mean?”

It’s the kind of question that could have been incredibly condescending, except Bones is clearly taking this as seriously as he would a medical diagnosis.

“Oh, I don’t know how to explain. It’s not important.” Frustrated, Gaila starts to pull away from Bones again.

“Hey, Gaila,” says Jim quietly, unable to help himself. “Would I get it?”

Gaila peeks at him through her hair. “Of course you’d get it, Jimmy,” she says softly.

Rather than calming the ambient tension, this merely makes Bones and Spock look at Jim like there’s something he’s been keeping from them.

“Then tell me,” he says to Gaila. “I mean, it’s ok if Bones and Spock listen, right? I heard a rumor recently that they care about us, or something.”

Bones snorts, and when he wraps an arm around Gaila’s waist again, she allows herself to slump back against his chest.

Spock, as if not to be outdone, trails a warm hand up Jim’s spine and grips the back of his neck above the collar. It’s supportive, and unmistakably possessive, and if it had been anyone else Jim would have elbowed them in the face.

Since it’s Spock, he just leans in, and lets himself enjoy the feeling that someone has his back.

“There’s nothing to tell,” Gaila mumbles, sniffling. “I’m not really upset because of him. He wasn’t any worse than normal.” She takes a deep breath. “It’s just because you guys are here!”

“Oh.” Bones’s mouth falls open. “Do you want us to—?”

“No, I don’t want to be alone!” Gaila bursts out. “Don’t you understand? I’m always alone!”

For some ineffable reason, Bones looks to Spock for help, but Spock is looking even blanker than normal, and Jim senses his confusion.

The remains of lunch are starting to churn in Jim’s stomach, but he reaches for Gaila anyway.

“You’re always alone when this kind of thing happens,” he says, squeezing her hand. “They’re too smart to go full creep-mode in front of witnesses.”

He knows that by talking to her like this, he’s revealing as much about himself as about her, but that can’t be helped.

“Exactly!” says Gaila, her voice small, yet vindicated. “And you have to just keep going with your day, like nothing happened—”

“But not today,” Jim finishes for her. “It’s different, you feel different today, because you’re with us. You know it’s safe to let yourself get upset here, because you know we’re not going to let anyone sneak in a second shot while your guard is down.”

Gaila nods frantically. “And all of a sudden, for some reason, I’m upset about all the times it’s happened, even though this was nothing compared to—”

“Just because you have to deal with worse doesn’t make this nothing.” Bones, who has been paying careful attention to their interchange, jumps in at exactly the right moment. Jim knew he would, eventually. “Honey, you be just as upset as you want. No one here minds a bit. We’re in the same boat, we’re just too emotionally stunted to show it.”

Gaila laughs moistly, and Spock tightens his grip on Jim’s neck. Jim clears his throat lightly and blinks rapidly to get the water out of his eyes.

“If you will all follow me,” says Spock, once everyone’s taken a moment to breathe through their emotions, or intentional lack thereof.

It’s only a few more paces up the hill before they reach a thick row of hedges planted along a brick wall. Spock takes out his communicator, enters a long code (sixteen digits, Jim doesn’t count on purpose) then waves the communicator at a certain patch of shrubbery.

The bit of shrubbery swings wide, slowly, like a gate offering entrance.

Jim lets Bones usher Gaila through first. He follows, knowing Spock will be directly behind him.

*

They are greeted by a staff member in Embassy robes as soon as they pass through the door of the atrium. Spock steps aside with him for a brief, hushed conversation in Vulcan.

Jim understands what he can hear, which isn’t a lot. Mostly he catches phrases like “security report” and “the privacy of my guests” and, finally, “my honored parents”.

The staff member ducks his head at Spock, then turns to Bones. “If you will follow me, I will show you to rooms where you may rest.”

“Your rooms are the guest chambers in the family wing,” Spock explains. “My room is directly across from yours. Jim and I will be there shortly.”

Bones nods, shooting one last look at Jim. “Come and find me if you need…anything,” he mumbles, and by “anything”, Jim knows he means “a hypo, in case Jim loses his shit as soon as you’re alone together.”

Jim appreciates the nod to his medical privacy, but now, thanks to being born contrary and stubborn, he has no choice other than to push his anxiety aside through sheer force of will.

“I didn’t know you had your own rooms here,” says Jim, once he and Spock find themselves alone.

It’s pathetic, even for small talk, but he’s not sure what else to say. This definitely wasn’t how he’d imagined their Sunday afternoon ending. And though he knows Spock doesn’t have any expectations of Human-style dates, except that they give him and Jim the opportunity to spend time together, Jim can’t help feeling like anyone else would have identified him as a disaster-magnet by now and bailed.

“By tradition, quarters are reserved for every member of the Ambassador’s immediate family,” says Spock blandly. “Indeed, were I not a member of Starfleet, it would be considered strange that I choose to reside apart from my parents, as I have not yet bonded or established a family of my own.”

“I guess that makes sense,” says Jim, locating a cushioned sofa that looks comfortable enough to collapse against. Out of deference to his surroundings, he doesn’t prop his feet up on the table. “I mean, it’s the same in a lot of Earth cultures.”

“Not yours, however.” Spock takes a careful seat beside him. “It is not…American custom, correct? Or do you identify regionally, as a mid-westerner, in the way that Leonard identifies as a southerner?”

Jim figures there isn’t a lot of mood to ruin, after the events of the afternoon. And Spock…

Spock is looking at him, not so much like he desperately needs the answer to this question, but more like his curiosity about Jim—his past, his upbringing, his whole life before Starfleet—is profound enough that he will take any random nugget of information Jim is willing to fling his way. Even something as trivial as Jim’s assessment of how American he is or isn’t, though to Spock, America is only interesting because it is the Terran nation-state where Zefram Cochrane happened to make his first warp flight, thus making it the logical location for Vulcan’s first contact with Earth.

The thing is, Jim could talk to Spock for hours about American history, western European history, African history, about how colonialism and the slave trade and the slaughter of indigenous populations and mass immigration and the sheer freakin’ amount of habitable land in the former United States had created a country where the meaning of words like “tradition” and “culture” depended entirely on the speaker’s individual context.

But Spock, if he doesn’t know that stuff already, could easily look it up. That’s not the kind of information he’s really after.

It’s Jim he wants to know about.

And Jim is going to have to start telling Spock the truth eventually. He deserves to know what he’s getting into before he digs himself in any deeper with this “I want to bond with Jim for life” thing.

“I left my parents’ house when I was twelve, Spock.” Jim smiles crookedly, but he doesn’t look at him. “We didn’t have traditions, because we were never a family. My dad’s death…ended all that, I guess. Mom was back in space before I could walk, my brother took off when we were both kids, and my step-dad…well, let’s just say, when he decided to send me off planet, I didn’t argue with him. I was glad to go.”

He can feel Spock’s gaze, riveted to the side of his head. “You have not returned to the place of your birth since your step-father sent you away?”

“My place of birth was the USS Kelvin medical shuttle number 37,” Jim snaps, because he used to repeat it to himself like a mantra every time he felt trapped in Riverside, every time he felt like the vastness of the night sky, with its blanket of stars and satellites and shuttle traffic, was only there to taunt him with how immense it was, how tiny his little speck of Earth was by comparison.

Then he sighs, because now he’s snapping at Spock, and if there is anyone who doesn’t deserve that from Jim, it’s him.

“I went back to Riverside once,” he says, making an effort to control his voice. “It was after I left the group home in Chicago. I waited till I was eighteen so no one could sent me back, then I went to check out the old house. My step-father was there.” Jim scrubs his face. “I ended up breaking his nose.”

“For what reason?” Spock’s voice is chillingly blank, and Jim is glad he’s not looking so he doesn’t have to see the disappointment and disapproval in his face.

“For a lot of reasons,” says Jim dully. “Mostly? To prove that I could. That I was too big and too mean and tough for him to lay a hand on me ever again.” He snorts under his breath. “It worked, I guess. He left town that week. Dunno where he went. Wherever Mom goes when she’s dirtside, I guess.”

“You…you are not in communication with your mother?"

“No.”

“How long since last you spoke with her?”

“I honestly don’t remember, but it was before I left Riverside. The first time."

Jim sits in silence while Spock does the math, then process the fact that he has not spoken to his only living parent—his mother, and Spock worships his mother, Jim’s still not 100% sure if that’s adorable or if they’re edging into Norman Bates territory—since he was twelve years old. Almost half his lifetime ago, now.

“As a member of Starfleet,” Spock says, slowly, like his brain is still working, “it is unlikely she did not hear news of your enrollment in the Academy."

“Maybe she did.” Jim shrugs. “But she didn’t get in touch with me, and I wouldn’t know how to get in touch with her.”

Jim can feel the weight of Spock’s frown filling the room. “That information is easily accessible—"

“Spock.” Jim forces himself to look at the quivering bundle of barely-suppressed confusion and worry sitting beside him. “I know. I could have found out where she’s posted any time I wanted. But there’s no point. We’re strangers to each other—we have been since a long time before I went off-planet. I told her what—what my step-father was like, once. She acted like she couldn’t even hear me. It was the only thing I ever needed her to do for me, to believe me and get rid of him.” Jim huffs a humorless laugh. “I spent a lot of time—too much time—thinking about it when I was younger, and I don’t think she ever…bonded with me, like mothers usually do with their kids. I was just a responsibility to provide for. And then, fate took me off her hands. So she forgot me."

Spock opens his mouth—then closes it, abruptly. But his eyes are as soft and sad as Jim has ever seen them.

Just then, a quiet, indistinguishable noise makes them both look toward the door simultaneously.

A small, slender figure steps out from the shadows, approaching them with light footsteps. She’s female—Human—but dressed in a neat headscarf and Vulcan-style robes.

Jim has to blink a little in the dim afternoon light, but when his vision clears, he realizes that the woman has the most familiar-looking eyes he’s ever seen on a complete stranger.

Spock shoots to his feet. “Mother,” he says softly, his voice full of warmth.

Jim swallows, and tries not to burn into a cinder when Amanda Grayson’s warm brown eyes move from her son’s face, to his.

It’s obvious—so obvious that he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to think about anything else—that she was standing in the doorway for a while before choosing the right moment to enter the room. Which means she probably heard Jim’s entire sad-sack monologue.

There’s a reason he doesn’t usually meet his friends’ parents.

“And you must be James Kirk. May I call you Jim? And you’ll call me Amanda.” She reaches out and grasps Jim’s hand, solving the dilemma of whether to offer the ta’al or not before it can arise. “May I just say what a pleasure it is to meet the young man who wrote that delightful story.”

And then Jim died, and it was very sad, the end, he thinks hysterically, and prays for an earthquake to swallow him whole before he has to think through the implications of the fact that his Vulcan/Human porn novel had ended up, somehow, in the hands his boyfriend’s mother. Who just happened to be the only Human woman in history bonded to a Vulcan male.

“You have read K’diwa, Mother?”

Is Jim imagining it, or is there a slight crack in Spock’s voice?

Actually, yeah—considering that Spock had used the novel like a strategic guide to seducing him—to say nothing of how Spock must feel about the sex scenes—Jim can see how this is an awkward moment for Spock as well.

“Indeed, your father and I have both read it. Shall we have tea, and I’ll tell you all the parts Sarek had to ask me to explain?”

Her dark eyes dance with mirth, and suddenly, all Jim can think of is that now he knows what mischief looks like, if he should ever see it on Spock.

“Jim requires rest, Mother,” says Spock, his voice slightly too high-pitched. “There was an incident earlier—”

“Yes, I heard, which is why I won’t keep you long. I want to look in on that poor girl before I have to get dressed for some dreadful formal dinner your father’s been invited to. One cup of tea? And then I’ll leave you alone.”

Maybe Jim’s a little more midwestern than he wants to think, sometimes. “Tea would be lovely, ma’am. Amanda.”

Beside him, Spock heaves a very quiet, very resigned sigh, and scoots a little closer to Jim on the sofa.

Chapter Text

“I was pretty freaked at first when the book leaked,” Jim says to Amanda. “Mostly because I knew it was only a matter of time until everyone figured out I was the one who wrote it. Actually, I’m not even sure what I thought would happen. I just assumed it would be…bad, I guess?”

Jim shrugs, with a sweet, humorous smile, as Spock’s mother laughs quietly, covering her mouth with her hand.

It is rare that Spock ever hears his mother laugh, but it does not surprise him that Jim can elicit such a reaction from her—despite the fact that the subject of their conversation is, in Spock’s opinion, no matter for felicity.

Jim has been “catching Amanda up” on recent events. Doing so necessarily required Jim to outline his recent ordeal at Mitchell’s hands, and though Spock admires Jim’s ability to do so diplomatically, skimming over the most disturbing aspects of the story and dispelling tension with ironic humor, he would, for preference, never hear Mitchell’s name spoken aloud again, much less hear his crimes made light of by Jim, of all people.

And yet, he knows that Jim is merely attempting to be considerate of Amanda’s feelings, and Spock can feel only tenderness towards him for making the effort.

His mind is in a state of some disorder, and such conflicting feelings are not helpful.

“I’m sorry,” says Amanda, to Jim. “I’m not laughing at you—I’m just imagining how I would have felt when I was your age. One learns to be less embarrassed by one’s own awkwardness as the years set in, but at 23, I would have felt like I’d swallowed hot coals.”

Jim’s eyes crinkle beautifully when he laughs.

“I mean, there was some humiliation involved, for sure,” he admits. “And there’s probably more to come—Christ, I haven’t even set foot in the mess since it happened. I’ve still got that to look forward to.” He scratches the back of his head, flushing. “But, uh…the way I see it, the events of the last couple of weeks ended up bringing someone pretty special into my life. So when you think about it, Gary actually did me a pretty huge favor.”

“Oh?” Amanda’s smile grows soft.

Jim darts a quick glance sideways at Spock and shrugs slightly, his smile crooked, tentative, and hopelessly endearing.

It is all Spock can do not to reach for his hand, in spite of his mother’s presence.

Amanda’s smile seems to fill the atrium with its soft glow, and Jim, still smiling, ducks his head to avoid her scrutiny. He looks precisely like what he is: an ill-treated orphan experiencing genuine maternal regard for the first time in his life. It is as if he doesn’t know how to behave under Amanda’s steady focus.

The fact that Jim has just inferred that the manifold abuses he endured at Gary Mitchell’s hands were worthwhile, simply because they had caused his path to cross with Spock’s, does nothing to quiet Spock’s inner turmoil, but he keeps this to himself.

It is probably for the best that Amanda, in her delight and curiosity at meeting Jim, has not required Spock to participate much in this conversation. Spock could not muster the necessary lightness of manner to perform satisfactorily in a social role just now. But he is following Amanda and Jim’s exchange closely, and he finds it most satisfactory. His mother is clearly fond of Jim already, and Jim obviously reciprocates her regard.

Spock is likewise reassured by the fact that Amanda is the first Human who has not seen fit to comment on the comparatively rapid pace of their courtship. Both Leonard and Pike had expressed varying levels of concern, and Captain Pike had taken it upon himself to speak to Spock on the subject at some length on the night of Mitchell’s attack, while the two of them were awaiting the results of Sarek’s meld with Jim.

The captain had proposed that they pass the time by playing a game of chess. Both of them had been fatally distracted, making the match little more than a pretense of a diversion. After ten minutes, and four moves, Pike had suddenly lifted his head and fixed Spock with his gaze across the board.

“You know, Humans used to have a popular saying—something along the lines of, ‘you can’t love others until you learn to love yourself’.” Pike’s tone was difficult to read, his expression shuttered. “But science eventually proved that wrong. I don’t know how it works for Vulcans, or any other species, but Humans have to be shown affection and kindness on a consistent basis when we’re very young, starting from infancy, or our capacity for empathy doesn’t develop like it should.”

Pike had nudged a pawn forward, a perfunctory move that did little to advance his progress.

“So when you have a Human child who’s been neglected since they were old enough to walk, a child who continues to experience abuse and trauma throughout their adolescence, you usually have the makings of a fairly lonely adult. Someone who finds it difficult to trust, to maintain relationships. To take that blind leap of faith and reach out to other people, knowing they could be rejected.”

Spock, moving on auto-pilot, captured Pike’s pawn, but Pike barely seemed to notice.

“I don’t know how much Jim has told you about his past,” said Pike, and Spock’s heart immediately began to beat harder in his side. “His story isn’t mine to share, but I can tell you this much. Jim Kirk’s got no goddamn right to be—the way he is. Loyal, caring. Honest. Giving. I don’t have the faintest idea where he got it from. He was alone in the world the day I found him in Riverside. Had been since the day he left Vulcan.”

Pike closed his mouth abruptly, as though he had been on the verge of saying more, only to change his mind.

“And,” said Spock quietly, not certain whether he truly expected, or even wished, for Pike to answer, “before Vulcan?”

The captain shook his head slowly. “Let’s just say, there’s a reason I’m willing to work with Jim on those barely-restrained authority issues of his.” A muscle jumped in Pike’s jaw. “They come from a valid place.”

“I see.” Spock contemplated the board, unable to see a pattern, a strategy that would lead him to victory.

“I need you to understand something, Spock, so I’m going to be very blunt.” Pike leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. “Jim is going to fall in love you. If you keep paying this much attention to him, he’s not going to be able to help himself. He’s not used to it, he’s got no defenses at all.”

Spock’s fingers fumbled on his knight, causing it to tumble to the first level. He flattened his hand carefully against the table top and did not bother to take it up again.

Pike’s eyes were intent, as though they were back aboard the Farragut, and he was conveying mission-critical information upon which lives depended.

“Jim can be a vicious little shit if you come at him aggressively. But you give him any positive attention at all, and…actually, that’s not even the problem. The problem is that I strongly suspect that there are times when Jim can’t tell the difference between actual kindness and the mere absence of abuse.” Pike shrugged. “I’m sure Gary Mitchell was charming when Jim first met him.”

Spock shut his eyes and drew a long quiet breath. “Captain. Do you mean to say—is it your belief that I have—taken advantage of Jim’s vulnerability in a time of—”

“No.” Pike cut him off. “Spock, I would never believe that about you. Understand me, I don’t disapprove of your closeness with Jim. It’s natural to develop strong feelings for someone you’re protective of, someone who’s trusted you with their vulnerability. Just—” he sighed loudly. “Dammit, I keep telling myself I’m not the kid’s father, but I can’t help it. This thing between you two looks pretty inevitable to me, and that being the case, I want it to work out. For both your sakes.”

Pike raked his fingers through his hair.

“Captain, any advice which you see fit to impart, I will hear gladly, and consider with all the seriousness it deserves.” Spock had swallowed, finding his throat strangely dry. “I, too, wish for…our relationship to ‘work out’.”

Pike nodded, and spoke in a flat voice.

“Jim’s going to try to run, at some point,” he said. “It’s a pattern with him. He’s got a serious deficit of self-worth, so if he ever gets it in his head that he’s failed you, or disappointed you, he won’t see it as something that can be fixed, because he thinks the problem is him, not—whatever the real issue is. He’ll remove himself from the equation, for your benefit. At least, that’s how he’ll see it.”

Immobilized by a sudden spike of intense anxiety, Spock had been unable to do anything but gape at the captain.

“So that being the case, the advice I want to give you is tactical.” Pike leaned forward slightly. “If Jim runs—when Jim runs—you follow him. If he blanks out in the middle of an argument and tries to walk out the door, you stop him. Don’t let him get away with it. Be gentle with him, but make him face whatever he’s afraid of.”

“I am…discomfited by the prospect of pursuing or restraining Jim against his will,” said Spock faintly. “Is this not behavior of the sort Gary Mitchell exhibited during their relationship?”

“If Jim is serious about ending things, you’ll know. But you can’t let him bolt in the middle of a blind panic. He’ll think he can’t come back, even if he wants to. And in the meantime, he’ll be incredibly off-balance, and he’ll think he has to handle it alone, and…there’s a chance he’ll get himself hurt before Leonard or I manage to catch up to him.”

Spock took a moment to gather his wits, and his breath. It was all he could do not to stride out of the room in order to press himself futilely against the door of his father’s office.

“From your tone and manner of delivery, I would venture to guess that you speak from experience,” he managed to say.

“Yes,” said Pike flatly. “Yes, I do.” He fiddled with a bishop, but did not make a move. “Jim’s first year at the Academy, I had to lock him in my office three times, because I pushed him too hard to talk and he had a panic attack. The first time it happened, I let him go, thinking that was the right thing to do. The next time I saw him, over a month had passed, and he was in the hospital, lying about his injuries.” Pike’s mouth tightened. “He’d just started dating Gary.”

Spock stared, appalled understanding gradually creeping over him.

“I know it isn’t in the nature of Vulcans to pursue a partner they aren’t serious about,” Pike said after a moment, appearing slightly more collected. “I know you’d kill to keep Jim safe. I know you were tempted to, tonight. But if you want to protect his heart, and not just his carcass? You need to be prepared to be patient. And stubborn.” He gave Spock a small smile. “Fortunately, I happen to know you possess both qualities in abundance.”

To Spock’s immense relief, Sarek had entered the room and led him back to Jim’s side before he was required to think of a response to this extraordinary statement.

Discomfiting, even frightening as Captain Pike’s insight had been, Spock has come to be grateful to him for sharing it. It had made him surer of his footing where Jim was concerned, especially over the course of Jim’s week-long convalescence. In effect, the captain had validated the very instincts Spock has been attempting to suppress ever since the night he and Jim first met—namely, the Vulcan drive to pursue, protect, possess his intended. Giving reign to those instincts had relieved him of a considerable burden.

Spock cannot imagine watching Jim flee from his apartment and not succumbing to the urge to pursue. Indeed, when Spock had not known him for longer than an evening and a morning, Jim had fled his home. Even then, Spock had not hesitated to follow him, to gather him up off the ground, to attempt to soothe and protect and care for him—

Spock takes a deep breath and exhales silently.

Though it had been Gaila and Jim who had entered the Embassy in an emotionally compromised state, the condition seems to be proving transferrable. He is deeply unsettled, and he counts himself fortunate that there are no other Vulcans in the room to witness the signs of his faltering control.

“Well, I suppose I should be diplomatic and pretend that I’m not delighted that you and Spock have become friends,” says Amanda, jerking Spock’s attention back to the present. “But I can’t, I’m afraid. I’m thrilled beyond all measure, and I can’t begin to tell you how much I’m looking forward to getting to know you better, Jim.”

Jim’s face, since he began speaking with Spock’s mother, has gradually become brighter, more animated, than Spock has seen it since before Mitchell’s attack—since their chess game in the park, almost a week ago, in fact.

Now, he actually covers his face with his hand, as if embarrassed by the brightness of his own smile.

Spock cannot help but drink in the sight.

Jim’s determination to be a supportive friend had given him the necessary focus to keep his emotions temporarily compartmentalized. However, Spock had touched Jim—deliberately, liberally—while he was counseling Gaila through her ordeal, in order to gauge his emotional state. Despite the frank and gentle wisdom he had dispensed to his friend, his own anxiety had been approaching acute levels by the time they were indoors.

Not having anticipated that they would encounter Amanda so quickly, Spock’s original intention had been to see to the welfare of their friends, then to take Jim alone somewhere and offer him whatever comfort he required. He is familiar by now with Human post-traumatic responses, and he is aware that Jim is experiencing a mild reaction, though Spock is at a loss as to what, precisely, had triggered it.

Spock has never been able to deny his mother anything, and that includes the opportunity to satisfy her justifiable curiosity about the Human Spock intends to make her son one day. Nonetheless, he had been concerned that Jim would find it difficult to hold a meaningful conversation with a stranger while he was in a compromised state, and had watched him closely for signs of worsening stress.

Contrary to his fears, however, this encounter with Amanda seems to have done much to restore equanimity to Jim’s state of mind. Furthermore, watching Jim gradually relax has allowed some of Spock’s own tension to dissipate.

Yet his mind keeps returning to his conversation with Pike. The captain clearly knew more about Jim’s past than Spock did; or rather, he knew details, where Spock had only deductions, inferences based on patterns of behavior.

Though Pike had said comparatively little, the things he had said all but confirmed suspicions that Spock has long dimly held. Now, a constant uncertainty gnaws at the primitive emotional centers of Spock’s mind, where the ancient bestial drives refuse to be assured that his intended is truly safe—not when the universe seems to contain a veritable abundance of persons who had harmed Jim when he was young and vulnerable.

“I’ll look forward to it ma’am. Amanda.” Jim clasps his hands on his knees. “The way Spock talks about you…I can’t imagine anyone loving a mother more. I’ve been curious about you for as long as I’ve known him.”

Amanda glances past Jim to hold Spock’s gaze for a moment. Spock would never be so disrespectful as to refuse to meet her eyes, but despite the continued warmth of her expression, Spock grows nervous, aware that she is more likely than anyone, even Sarek, or Jim, to see past the mask of his own composure.

“I’m planning a small dinner party, Wednesday evening, here at the Embassy,” Amanda says, rising from the sofa, Jim and Spock automatically rising after her. “We’re only planning on about a dozen guests, so it won’t be anything too stiff or formal. I’d like it very much if you and Spock would join us, Jim.”

Panic crosses Jim’s face, but he masters it quickly. “If…if Spock is free, then I’d be honored to come.”

“Oh,” says Amanda, with a wry smile, “I think Spock can find the time.”

Spock quells the illogical sensation that he is once again twelve years old and being committed against his will to a social engagement with the family of one of his peers, in the hopes that he will “make friends”.

He clears his throat.

“I do not believe that I have any previous engagements Wednesday evening, Mother, and therefore I will venture to pledge our appearance.”

To Spock’s consternation, Jim turns his head aside sharply—not to conceal distress, as Spock first thought, but to conceal a fit of giggling.

“I’m sorry!” Jim says, unable to look at anyone. “But seriously, Spock. I’m starting to think you learned Standard from reading Jane Austen.”

Amanda looks at Jim, wide-eyed. Then, she too bursts into high peals of musical laughter.

Spock considers excusing himself from the room.

“Well,” says Amanda, when she has regained her composure. “I should go and look in on Cadet Vro and Dr. McCoy before I have to start getting ready. Jim, I look forward to seeing you Wednesday, if we don’t run into each other any sooner. Just a warning, I might steal you away for lunch some afternoon, if I can find the time.”

Jim just smiles, and nods, though if not for the discipline of his training he might well have scuffed his shoe against the carpet. He is already beginning to retreat into himself again, and though Spock would ordinarily take this as his cue to remain close and offer comfort, his duty lies elsewhere for a few minutes more.

Spock is certain that Gaila is well, or soon will be, since she, like Jim, possesses remarkable resilience. Whatever she may require, he is likewise certain Leonard will do his best to provide it. But he also knows Amanda will not be dissuaded from checking on the welfare of her son’s guests, and that being the case, it is Spock’s role to perform the necessary introductions.

Spock takes his place at his mother’s side and offers her his arm. Looking pleased, and slightly surprised, she takes it.

Jim’s expression, as he watches the gesture, is suffused with a faint longing that Spock cannot easily interpret.

“Jim,” says Spock, gently. “I will return shortly, if you will wait for me here.”

Once more, Jim nods, giving him a bright smile, the sincerity of which leaves something to be desired. Spock senses that he does not wish to be alone, but that he is determined to say nothing, to not be a burden.

Spock must take Jim home quickly, before he succumbs in public to the urge to cage him in his arms, to hold him tightly against his chest, to erase all doubt in Jim’s mind that he is, of all things in the known universe, the worthiest in Spock’s eyes.

“Goodbye, Jim, dear,” says Amanda, and takes his hand, squeezing it gently. “We’ll see each other again soon.”

“I hope so,” says Jim, smiling back.

At the door, Spock casts a backward glance at Jim. But his intended has already paced towards the glass doors looking out on the garden, assuming a position of parade rest with his back to the door.

On auto-pilot, Spock conducts his mother towards the family wing of the Embassy. He does not speak. This is the first time he has seen his mother in several months, and given her Human social needs, his inattention is inexcusable. But he cannot help himself; it is as if his consciousness is lingering behind him, in the room where Jim stands alone, washed in sunlight, trapped alone in his mind with his suffering.

Suddenly, Amanda tugs sharply on Spock’s arm, dragging him off to one side.

Though Spock is more than twenty centimeters taller than his mother, and outweighs her by over one hundred kilograms, the element of surprise, combined with Spock’s deeply ingrained instinct to always be mindful of his superior strength when making physical contact with her, gives Amanda the leverage to haul him into a supply closet and shut the door on them before he can utter either query or protest.

She rounds on him breathlessly. “Spock,” she says, in a voice that transports him back to childhood so quickly that it suggests the plausibility of time travel. “What is going on with you and that boy?”

Startled, Spock blinks. “I am courting Jim, in hopes of one day bonding with him,” he says. “Forgive me. I had thought that Father would have told you.”

“Sarek suspected your intentions were serious, but nothing had been settled when he spoke to you last, and you’d only known each other a couple of days! And of course, after what happened with that horrible—with that vicious little—ooh.”

Amanda’s shoulders hunch up around her ears, as her eyes screw up tightly in what Spock recognizes as an expression of barely suppressed anger. He has rarely seen his mother in such a state, but he remembers well how she had reacted the first few times he came home from school sporting bruises and other evidence of his inability to assimilate with other Vulcan children. This is what the protective maternal impulse looks like, in Humans. Spock has cherished it, guiltily, since he was a small boy.

But it would seem that Jim’s well-intentioned effort to spare Amanda the worst was in vain; clearly, she is already fully informed, and has already arrived at the correct conclusions regarding the full scope of Mitchell’s guilt.

Spock cannot help feeling gratified that his mother has so quickly become invested in Jim’s well-being. He does not know what he would do if she disapproved of his choice.

At last Amanda exhales, and she seems to grow smaller, as though she had taken on additional mass in proportion to her righteous anger.

“After everything Jim’s been through recently, I thought perhaps you wouldn’t have had the chance to talk to him about serious matters,” she says, in her usual voice. “But Spock—you’re courting him? Really? And he understands what that means?”

Spock’s face grows heated. “Jim has consented to a period of courtship, and I have fully explained my intentions.” He hesitates. “That discussion…took place quite recently. Today was our first outing as a couple.”

“And it was ruined.” His mother gives him a sympathetic expression. “I am sorry, for you and your friends.”

Spock ducks his head. “While I am disturbed and distressed for Gaila’s sake, I must confess that my first concern lies with Jim. Merely witnessing her ordeal was sufficient to unsettle him. He is not entire himself at the moment.”

“Yes, I thought he seemed a little off-balance.” Amanda’s tone is soothing, and Spock conceals his surprise that she was able to read Jim so easily on so short an acquaintance. “You know that I can find the guest rooms on my own, Spock, and I promise I’ll knock and introduce myself properly before I go in. Go back to Jim. He needs you.”

Spock cannot keep the relief, or the gratitude, from showing in his face.

Amanda hesitates, and her hand, still resting on Spock’s sleeve, tightens in a reassuring grip.

“I’m so happy for you, my darling,” she says fervently. “Though I know how difficult all of this must be for you.”

“Difficult?” echoes Spock, blankly.

Amanda’s dark eyes are expressive. “Sarek would never tell you this, but he was—devastated after melding with Jim. Vulcans are so sheltered in some ways. There are societal problems that just don’t exist in telepathic cultures.” She sighs, pressing a hand to her forehead. “Some of the things Sarek saw in Jim’s memories, he had only an abstract knowledge of before.”

She blinks rapidly. “You’ve chosen to love a very brave, very hurt person, Spock. That takes a great deal of courage. But I know you will be good for him, and I can already see that he’s good for you. There is a light in your eyes that I haven’t seen since you were a very small boy.”

She smiles, ghosting her fingers across his face. “Go back to Jim, Spock. I’ll see you both soon.”

She leaves Spock alone in the supply closet, as if correctly supposing that Spock will require a moment to gather himself before facing Jim or anyone else.

“We support you, you know,” Amanda adds, pausing at the door to look back at him. “Both your father and I. You only have to tell us how we can help.”

When she leaves, Spock quells the impulse to call her back. He is not certain that he is good for Jim at all. And he does not feel particularly brave, at the moment.

*

Spock returns for Jim, and by the time they reach the exit, Spock’s hovercar is waiting for them—retrieved from the designated parking area by Embassy security. Their picnic things are neatly packed and folded and stowed in the rear storage compartment. Spock opens the passenger side door for Jim, and Jim gets in without even a token complaint about not being allowed to drive, which is how Spock knows that he is tired.

“Where do you wish to go?” Spock asks him, when he has taken his own seat behind the controls.

“Hmm,” says Jim. “What are my options?”

“My apartment, or your dormitory, or any other destination you care to name. I suspect, however, that…quiet and solitude would be congenial to us both at this time.”

“Ah. Um, yeah, if you need to be alone and decompress, you can drop me at my dorm. That’s fine.”

Spock looks at him sharply. “I do not require solitude from you.”

Jim looks at him, surprised. A small smile softens his mouth. “Alone together, you mean?”

Spock nods.

“Then we should probably head for your place. I don’t know when Bones will be back, or if Gaila will be with him.”

“The room is yours as well. I am certain that Leonard and Gaila would not wish to make you feel unwelcome there.”

“No, no. They wouldn’t. But since we have the option of somewhere that’s…more private…”

“Indeed,” says Spock, and programs his apartment as their destination.

The drive is fairly silent, so much so that Spock cannot help being reminded of the night they met. Less than two weeks have passed since then, yet already Spock finds it difficult to remember a time when Jim was not part of his life. His eidetic memory remains unimpaired, but events preceding Jim take on a dim, drab quality in his recollection, whereas everything that has happened since is as vivid as a fresh wound, the ache of it as precious to him as his own heartbeat.

Halfway back to the apartment, Jim bursts into a fit of giggling laughter.

“Your mom, man,” he says. “She’s kind of incredible.”

Spock permits himself a small smile. “I am pleased that you enjoyed your first meeting with her.”

“You really remind me of her. I mean, I thought the same thing when I met your father, but…meeting both of them really helps me see you. Like, the bigger picture of you.”

“Indeed?” Spock’s concern for Jim has not abated, but he cannot quell his curiosity. He delights in knowing that Jim thinks about him, wonders about him. It is only natural, as his own curiosity about Jim is matchless.

“When I met Sarek, I thought he was like you, but with something missing,” Jim says. “Then I saw your mom, and I thought, wow, yes, this. This is where he gets it from.” His head flops lazily, his gaze pointing in Spock’s direction. “All that sweetness. The gentleness.”

Spock feels heat rising in his face, but because it is only Jim watching, he does not make the effort to suppress it.

“That’s how you knew what to say to me when we met,” Jim continues. “When they told me you were coming, all I could think was, God, I’m stoned off my ass, I can barely sit up straight, and now I have to explain myself to another Vulcan. A Starfleet Vulcan. I thought you’d be…different. But you were so nice to me. I expected you to be a hard-ass, but you’ve never even yelled at me, even when I deserved it.”

Spock’s mouth grows dry. He remembers Pike saying, Jim can’t tell the difference between actual kindness and the mere absence of abuse.

“You have never deserved it,” Spock says shortly.

Jim blinks, then turns his gaze back to the window. “Don’t you think there’s a chance you haven’t known me long enough to know what I deserve?”

“No,” says Spock.

Another day, perhaps, he would take up the subject with greater intellectual energy, use the force of incontrovertible logic to shatter Jim’s flimsy, self-denigrating hypothesis.

Today, he hasn’t the energy for such games. Captain Pike had advised him to be patient when necessary, and stubborn when called for. He is not certain which quality is serving him now, but it seems to be doing the trick. Jim looks taken off-guard. There is no sign of the hunched, miserable posture he unconsciously assumes whenever he becomes lost to self-loathing.

“You’re really certain of yourself,” Jim says, after a silence in which it seemed he was waiting for an elaboration from Spock that did not come.

“I am certain of you,” Spock contradicts him.

Jim is still gaping at him when they arrive at the apartment a minute later.

Once they are inside, Spock finds himself acting without thinking; not in a fashion he is afraid he will later regret, but with an assuredness born of that unfamiliar thing, instinct.

He guides Jim directly to his own bedroom, where Jim has never been before. Jim is silent as Spock ushers him forward, startlingly compliant when Spock pulls the jacket from his shoulders, and when he kneels to remove Jim’s boots.

From his closet, Spock produces a sleeping robe. When he turns around again and sees Jim blinking at him with sleepy curiosity, he discards his original intention of handing Jim the robe and leading him to the bathroom to change in privacy.

They are courting, after all. This does not exceed what is permitted in courtship, even between Vulcans.

Keeping his movements deliberate, but slow, easy to anticipate, Spock pulls Jim’s shirt over his head, and Jim lifts his arms cooperatively. Jim unbuttons his own trousers, hesitating only for a second before lifting his hips from the bed and pulling them down to his ankles, kicking them away with bare feet.

Spock does not succumb to the temptation of gazing unduly long on this unprecedented display of bare skin. Instead, he helps Jim into the sleeping robe, even tying the sash, before walking back to his closet and changing into his own sleeping robe with slightly brisker movements.

He is aware that Jim is watching him as he disrobes, but Spock offers himself up to Jim’s perusal without embarrassment.

Jim is pulling the bedcovers back by the time Spock is finished. “What time is it?” he says.

“It is 21:34,” Spock replies.

“Later than I thought. So…I guess I’m spending the night? You don’t mind?”

For the eighty-seventh time since meeting Jim, Spock wonders how such a brilliant mind can be so selectively obtuse.

But then, he has learned the answer, has he not? Abstracted though it was, Pike had described Jim’s upbringing in highly specific terms. Neglected. Abused. Traumatized, with no respite, till he came to Vulcan, only to be torn from the safety of the family that had cared for him.

“If the decision were only mine, I would spend this night, and every night hereafter, at your side,” Spock says, because it seems that clarity is needed. “If we were to spend every hour of our lives together from now on, I would not ‘mind’. And tonight, in particular, I should not like to be parted from you. I know that you were distressed by the events of the afternoon, and I wish to comfort you. Furthermore, Leonard has mentioned that you often have difficulty sleeping. I suspect you will find that is not the case here, in my bed.”

Jim blinks once, twice, then swallows tightly. “Why’s that?” he says.

Spock gets into the bed and reaches for Jim’s hand to pull him down as well. “Because here, you will be safe.”

Even shielding, Spock can feel the emotions, changeable as the sea, swelling inside Jim. Doubt wars with relief. Affection and desire are shot through with a mistrust that Jim knows, rationally, is unwarranted, but which he cannot control. Self-loathing tells him he does not deserve the comfort Spock is offering. The part of him that does not care what he deserves, only what he needs, longs to bury himself in Spock’s arms, to know that if the nightmares comes, Spock will be there.

Spock orders the lights off. Then, moving swiftly, he grasps Jim’s upright body in an escapable hold and flips him onto the mattress, on his side, half underneath Spock’s body.

Jim gasps, sounding startled, even vulnerable, but Spock immediately relaxes his hold, keeping one arm loosely but securely draped across Jim’s chest. Spock is only a few centimeters taller than Jim, but Jim is positioned such that Spock can rest his chin atop Jim’s head. He does so, and finds it imminently comfortable.

“Sleep,” he orders, his voice a low, satisfied rumble.

Spock waits, timing the rise and fall of Jim’s chest until his breathing grows regular and even. Only then does he close his eyes.

*

The insistent chirp of his comm wakes him many hours later. Spock had slept by Jim’s side until the early hours of the morning, but after he had risen to meditate, shower, and consume a cup of tea, he found that he wished to return to bed.

He had not expected to fall asleep again, but apparently had done so.

The display on his comm indicates that the time is 07:37, and that the incoming video message is from his mother.

Spock slips quickly and quietly from the room, leaving Jim undisturbed behind him. When he has reached the kitchen, he accepts the call.

“Mother?”

His mother is not yet fully dressed for the day; her hair is only pulled back at the temples, the rest of it hanging long and loose down her back. She looks at him with wide, worried eyes, and Spock feels his heartrate increase.

“Spock,” she says. “Is Jim with you?”

Spock blinks.

“I apologize for prying, but is he?”

“He is.” Spock refuses to permit himself any embarrassment over this admission. His mother is well aware that Jim is his intended.

“Would it be possible for you to bring him here, to the Embassy?”

Spock cannot hide how startled he is by the request. “If it is necessary, I can wake him. Mother, forgive me, but you seem distressed. Has anything happened?”

“Nothing bad!” she says hurriedly. “At least—I don’t think so. But I think it’s best that you and Jim get here as quickly as possible.”

“Jim will wish to know the reason. He may become anxious if I cannot explain matters to him.”

“Yes, of course.” Amanda draws a deep breath. “It’s Sakal. Jim’s foster father. He’s here, Spock, he’s just arrived. And he wants to see Jim.”

Chapter Text

Amanda sends a car for them; it’s out front and waiting before Jim gets out of the shower. He dresses quickly, barely pausing long enough to catch Spock’s eye before stalking out the front door.

Any other day, Jim would be searching himself for words to set Spock’s badly-concealed anxiety at ease. Spock was the one who’d taken the call, who’d had to wake Jim up, who’d explained why they were needed back at the Embassy. If the circumstances were reversed, and Spock were in his position, Jim would be a hovering bundle of nerves, too.

Right now, though, he feels hollow, like a gong still vibrating long after the blow’s been struck. There are no words, comforting or otherwise, in him. He’s present and distant at the same time—functional, but dissociating so hard he can barely feel his own face.

Spock would understand if Jim explained, but he can’t explain, so he’s going to have trust Spock to understand anyway.

The Embassy car is outwardly indistinguishable from any other pricy four-passenger hover vehicle on the roads. Inside, however, Jim can feel the heft and drag of a vehicle that is armored against everything from old-fashioned combustion explosions to plasma fire. It moves slowly through city traffic, though it’s early enough that they’re missing the worst of it.

Jim stares sightlessly out the window, and thinks.

The key thing is that he has to be a grown-up about this. Whatever happens, whatever Sakal has come to say to him, Jim has to take it like an adult, not like a bereft teenager who’d rather face certain death in an alien wilderness than face his reality.

He just wishes he knew why Sakal was here. Why now, after eight years? Does he know Sarek, or was he surprised when the Vulcan Ambassador to Earth knew Jim’s name?

They’re halfway to the Embassy before Spock speaks up.

“After your shared meld with my father, he informed me that you are not psi-null. I trust he informed you as well?”

This is so absolutely the last thing that Jim is braced for Spock to say that the metaphorical clamp on his tongue loosens up.

“Yeah,” says Jim, frowning at Spock. “He said I’m only slightly telepathic, but that my empathic abilities are pretty strong for a Human.”

“Indeed. And despite your lack of formal training, your mental discipline is excellent. I have observed that you only project emotions when you are highly agitated.”

“Oh.” Jim grimaces. “What kind of emotions are you getting from me now?”

“Anger,” says Spock, his tone neutral. “Fear. Longing. An anticipation of being hurt.”

“Okay, that’s enough.” Jim looks down, wrapping his arms around his middle, like he has a stomachache.

Spock’s forehead creases. “I was not chiding you. I only wish to comfort you.”

Jim smiles, but he shakes his head and looks away again. “I wish you could. Right now, I think comfort would just…bounce off me.”

Spock reaches out and covers Jim’s hand with his. Jim looks down, then looks at Spock, who maintains eye contact as he threads their fingers together and squeezes slightly.

By Vulcan standards, it’s a more intimate act than a hug, but a hug would be overwhelming, and somehow, this is not.

“Your anxiety is understandable, but you have nothing to fear.” Spock looks up at Jim from beneath his eyebrows, and for an instant, his expression seems almost sinister. “My family would not have assisted him in making contact with you unless they found Sakal to be trustworthy.”

“No, I know. I’m not worried he’s going to…pop me in the mouth, or anything like that.”

It’s the truth. Bruises heal easy in comparison to what Jim’s afraid is going to happen when he sees Sakal.

Spock frowns. “I am unfamiliar with the phrase, ‘to pop in the mouth’.”

“I mean, I’m not afraid that he’s going to hurt me.”

“He certainly will not hurt you.” Spock is frowning openly at him now. “Why would such an idea even occur to you?”

“Same reason American English evolved a colloquialism to describe an act of child abuse with specificity regarding level of force.”

“I do not understand.”

“Yeah.” Jim scrubs his free hand over his face. “Ignore me, Spock. I’m useless right now.” He stares blankly at the privacy screen between them and the driver. “I don’t have the first clue what Sakal’s going to say to me, or how I’m going to feel when I see him. I don’t know if I’m relieved or fucking heartbroken that T’Silla and the girls aren’t with him. I don’t have any idea what’s about to happen, which means I can’t be prepared for it, and I fucking hate that.”

Spock opens his mouth, then shuts it again. He looks from Jim to the partition, and for a second Jim thinks he’s about to tell the driver to turn the vehicle around.

“I can only imagine what you must be feeling,” Spock says pensively. “Therefore, it would be illogical to presume there is anything I could do to make you feel better.”

Jim hears the helplessness behind Spock’s words, and feels his stomach clench.

“I can only promise,” Spock continues, “that I will not leave your side unless you ask me to do so.”

The idea of sending Spock away when he talks to Sakal hadn’t even occurred to Jim. But it probably should have.

“I want you with me,” Jim says, trying to be reassuring. “I do, but…Spock.” He chews his bottom lip. “It’s not going to be an easy conversation. You might…hear some things. All that stuff I don’t talk about, it could come up. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

Spock’s expression is so unbearably gentle that it is difficult for Jim not to look away.

“At a reunion such as this is, it would be unreasonable to suppose that only comfortable and pleasant emotions will emerge,” he says. “Your concern is gratifying, but unnecessary. I am grateful that you are willing to let me accompany you. It is not in the Vulcan custom to abandon one’s intended when they are vulnerable. I should not like to feel that I had failed in that duty.”

“You are not failing at anything,” says Jim, locking eyes with Spock. “You’re not, so stop thinking that way. You’ve given me something no one else ever has. Time, Spock,” he says, when Spock looks confused. “You know, Gary threatened to break up with me unless I told him where my scars came from? Not you, though. You…you picked me, even though you don’t know everything about me. That’s…that’s everything, Spock. No one’s ever had that kind of faith in me before. Don’t second-guess yourself.”

Something suspiciously bright flashes through Spock’s eyes before he makes it disappear with a blink.

Jim scoots a little closer to Spock. “What I’m trying to say is that I trust you. This wasn’t the way I planned to do it, but I was always going to tell you. I’m just saying things could get intense. If it’s too much for you, or if you need a break, or—”

“Jim.” Spock cuts him off, his voice soft and quiet. “When we touch, there is a perceptible thread of tension, like the string of a ka’athyra, that runs through your consciousness. It is rooted deep in your mind, which means it is old, and has been there since you were very young.”

Spock dips his head and presses his lips to Jim’s forehead. “Though you have not shared the details of your history with me, I am…aware that Gary Mitchell was not the first person who hurt you. No matter what is said, I can only reassure you that I will not judge you negatively on the basis of anything that is said or disclosed in my presence.”

“You’re sure about that?” Because Jim, of course, has no trouble thinking of a few things that might change Spock’s mind.

In response, Spock places his free hand on Jim’s back—just under his left shoulder blade, where a prominent scar from Kodos’s whips tore through the flesh and healed without regenerators. The heat of his hand bleeds through layers of fabric.

“This meeting which awaits us is no cause for distress,” Spock says, gentle, but insistent. “I confess that I feel a deep curiosity regarding the formative experiences of your early life, chiefly due to the fact that I wish to gain a better understanding of how to meet your needs. But I do not believe that learning the details of your past can compromise me more than your present suffering, of which I am already aware.”

Jim bites his tongue to keep from apologizing. Spock would find it illogical, and possibly even annoying. But he keeps holding Spock’s hand, and silence falls between them.

They spend the last few minutes of the ride clinging to each other quietly, while Jim focuses on his breathing, mirroring the rise and fall of Spock’s own chest. He’s nearly content by the time the car pulls into the semi-circle driveway at the Embassy’s main entrance.

The hollowness roars up inside him again as soon as he and Spock are forced to let go of each other. They each climb out their own side of the car, and once outside, Jim is careful not to touch Spock, not wanting to embarrass him in front of other Vulcans who might be squinting down at them through the windows.

Spock looks annoyingly attractive and well-groomed, his instructor’s blacks showing not a trace of lint, or even a stray cat hair. Jim did his best, but Spock always manages to make him feel scruffy.

Realizing that this is probably his last chance to expel some nervous energy before he faces the lion’s den, Jim springs up the front steps two at a time, tucking his cap back under his arm as he marches up to the receptionist’s desk.

“Cadet James Kirk, here at Ambassador Sarek’s request,” he says, just as Spock catches up to him. “And Commander Spock, as well.”

“Indeed,” says the Vulcan, who does not betray the faintest surprise or curiosity about the presence of a slightly sweaty Starfleet cadet arriving at his desk, accompanied by the Ambassador’s son. He’s probably an aide on Sarek’s staff, sent to wait for them. “If you will follow me, Cadet Kirk, Commander Spock.”

Jim’s steps begin to slow as the aide leads them directly to Sarek’s office door, the paralysis of dread finally overtaking the agitation of nervous energy. The aide presses a button on the security console; a second later, the light flashes green.

The aide steps aside to let Jim and Spock enter. Jim doesn’t actually move until Spock ushers him forward with a hand to the small of his back.

“Father.” Spock nods to Sarek, who immediately steps out from behind his desk to greet them.

“Spock. James.” Sarek nods to Jim. “You arrived most promptly.”

“These are rather extraordinary circumstances.”

Vulcan subtext is a lot harder to read when the Vulcans in question are speaking Federation Standard. The language allows for so many more shades of meaning than Modern Golic that a fluent Vulcan can hide in the shadows of ambiguity for a long time, if he wants to. But judging from his tone and stance, Jim’s pretty sure that Spock just demanded that his dad explain himself.

“They are indeed,” says Sarek. “Jim, it is gratifying to see you in better health. Your prompt arrival is also appreciated.”

Jim doesn’t have the nerve to tell him that adrenaline, not courtesy, had motivated that uncharacteristic burst of promptness, so he just nods.

Sarek is dressed more informally than when Jim last saw him. Somehow, his scholarly grey robes seem to suit him better than the grand, embroidered silk robe with the high collar he was wearing when Jim saw him last.

Sarek crosses his arms and his hands disappear into his sleeves.

“Amanda told you of Sakal’s arrival?” he says, somewhat hesitantly, as though even he is experiencing some uncertainty under the circumstances. Jim finds that oddly comforting.

“Yes. That is all we were told.” Spock’s voice doesn’t sharpen, exactly, but his intonation is so precise it could scratch glass.

When he darts a swift glance in Jim’s direction, the implication is obvious. Look at the Human, he might as well be saying. You gave him anxiety!

Jim supposes that, whatever his face looks like at the moment, it must support Spock’s implications, at least in Sarek’s eyes. The Ambassador hones in on him with startling focus.

“Jim, I should like to explain that I never intended for Sakal’s arrival to come as a surprise to you. I meant to give you ample warning to prepare, even to refuse the meeting if that was your wish. However, Sakal made his journey from Vulcan in a shorter time than anticipated, and his arrival late last night surprised even me.”

Jim has a million questions, but Spock presses forward before he can get his mouth into working order.

“You knew of his intention to come to Earth,” Spock says.

“Indeed. I requested that he make the journey.”

Why? Jim wants to say, but Spock is still talking.

“And you are certain that this is the same Sakal who fostered Jim?” he says.

Sarek nods gravely, and his eyes do not leave Jim’s face. “He is indeed Sakal, son of Skall, father of T’Vara and T’Vael. Bondmate to T’Silla, daughter of Prelok—now, unfortunately, deceased.”

Every muscle in Jim’s body freezes.

“T’Silla is deceased,” says Spock, faintly, after a long pause.

“Yes. But it is only appropriate that any further information on that subject come from Sakal himself.”

Jim blinks once, then twice. T’Silla is dead. Of course.

On some level, Jim thinks he must have known that already. At least, it feels as if he knew it. The grief bubbling up in his chest feels old—a familiar, almost cherished ache in his mind.

He can feel his lungs locking up, but he doesn’t know if he wants to be sick, sob, or hyperventilate.

“Jim.”

He must be breathing funny or something, because Spock grabs his wrist—the way he does when he’s trying to take Jim’s emotional temperature.

Whatever Spock reads from him causes him to instantly lifts his fingers to Jim’s meld points.

“Peace,” he murmurs, and before Jim can protest or ask questions, a calm descends on his thoughts, like a muffling blanket of snow over a landscape of jagged ruins.

It feels strange, and slightly uncomfortable. But it’s worth it, because he can breathe again.

“Is he well?” says Sarek, and through watery eyes, Jim can just make out that he looks concerned.

“I’m fine,” Jim declares hoarsely, not ready for Spock and his father to start talking about him over his head. “Ambassador, may I ask why you invited Sakal to Earth?

Sarek nods slowly. He speaks slowly too, as though he is choosing his words with care.

“As we discussed when last I saw you, your familial bonds cannot remain partitioned behind a mental shield forever. That was a temporary measure. For the sake of your health, it is necessary either to restore, or to sever, the bonds with your surviving Vulcan family members. They cannot remain as they are. Both options necessitate that Sakal be physically present. Therefore, I invited him.”

Spock, still holding onto him, feels it when Jim tenses up. As though Jim’s anxiety has prompted an automated response, he turns to Sarek again.

“Father, though your intentions were laudable, it is not reasonable to expect Jim to be prepared, on such short notice, to—”

“No, he’s right.” Jim hears his voice as though it’s coming from a long way outside his own body. “You heard him, my brain’s messed up. That’s how Gary got to me, right? Sakal’s here, so, it’s logical to deal with this now.”

If Jim had thought Sarek would look pleased by his citing logic, he was mistaken. The Ambassador’s look of uncertainty deepens, and glances from Jim to where Spock is standing, just behind him.

“I understand that after so many years, the prospect of reuniting with any member of your former family might provoke feelings of uncertainty.” Sarek walks slowly towards a window and twitches a curtain aside, looking down at the grounds below. “It is…possible that I acted hastily. Having glimpsed many of your memories, I was aware that, at one time, you desired very much to see your family again. Lack of resources frustrated your attempts. However, determining the location of a specific Vulcan is a fairly simple task for an ambassador. I…wished to do you a service.”

Jim shuffles backwards slightly, and hits a wall of immovable Spock, whose hands come round to grip his elbows.

“If I have erred, I apologize,” Sarek adds. He finally turns away from the window, giving Jim a swift glance, before returning to his desk.

“No,” says Jim hoarsely. “No, Ambassador. I…understand. And I, uh. I appreciate your concern. Really.”

Sarek nods. “Sakal is waiting in my audience chamber. I can call him to join us now if you wish. But I request that you permit Spock and myself to remain with you while you speak with him.”

“Spock isn’t going anywhere.” Jim frowns slightly at Sarek; maybe he wants to stick around because he thinks Spock is going to need support for this as well. “If you want to stay…”

“I do not wish to infringe upon your privacy. However, as I am responsible for bringing Sakal here, I am also responsible for any consequences of his visit. I shall endeavor to make myself unobtrusive.”

Jim nods. Sarek gives him, then Spock, a final look, before disappearing through an interior door of his office.

“Come and be seated,” says Spock, indicating the sofa.

Jim shakes his head, squeezing Spock’s arm. “I need to be on my feet for this,” he says.

Only moments later, Sarek returns.

Following him is a Vulcan male, several inches taller than Sarek, with dark skin and short black hair threaded at the temples with silver. He has high, aristocratic cheekbones and deep-set eyes, and he is dressed simply, but elegantly, in the immaculate white robes of a healer.

Apart from the grey, he looks almost exactly the same age as he had the last time Jim saw him, through the window of a shuttle.

Sarek collects Spock with his eye, and both of them takes seats. Jim can feel Spock’s reluctance to put even a meter’s worth of space between them, but he follows Sarek anyway.

Jim and Sakal are left to face each other in the middle of the room, like actors, performing for a very exclusive audience.

Jim takes one step forward, then stops. Already, it feels like his knees are getting loose in the joints. He takes a deep breath, and realizes that it’s the first he’s taken in a while.

“I—” he croaks, looking blankly up at Sakal. White static starts creeping into the corners of his vision. Jim grips the back of a chair, knowing it won’t support him for long.

Sakal was never as unemotive as Spock or Sarek, or any of the Vulcans Jim’s met at the Embassy. Logically, of course, there was no need for a simple agricultural researcher to affect the lofty airs and graces of a member of the House of Surak. Jim has heard Sakal laugh—not often, but more than once—and he knows what worry looks like on that long face.

Right now, Sakal’s eyebrows are hanging so low over his eyes that he’s practically frowning.

“Sorry.” As soon as Jim tries to talk, he realizes his breathing has grown ragged. “Sorry, I just…I’m so sorry about T’Silla. It’s weird, but I think I kind of knew? I don’t know, I just—shit. Shit, I’m sorry—”

When his knees buckle, it is Sakal who catches him.

Jim has grown used to Spock manhandling him for his own good. But unlike Spock, who would have wasted no time sweeping Jim into his arms, Sakal lowers Jim gently to the floor. Kneeling to face him, Sakal grasps Jim’s arms above the elbow, a steadying grip that keeps their faces only inches apart.

“Jim.” Sakal’s deep voice sounds to Jim like an echo from his dreams. His black Vulcan eyes peer intently into Jim’s face. “There is much for us to discuss, and much for me to explain. I intend to answer all your questions. But you will be more comfortable if you take a seat upon the furniture provided for this purpose, rather than sprawling on the carpet.”

Jim nods, to show that he understands. Because he does. He’ll get up in just a minute. He opens his mouth to say this.

“Sakal?” is what comes out instead.

The corners of Sakal’s eyes crease with concern. He lifts a hand to touch the side of Jim’s face.

“It is I,” he says. “Do you doubt me?”

“No.” Jim shakes his head too quickly, like a child. “No. But—you. I thought. I thought, all of you—”

“I believe Jim is having difficulty emotionally reconciling your unexpected appearance with the fact that so many years have passed with no contact between you.”

Spock, who had shot to his feet when Jim collapsed, stands next to his father, who is still seated. His hands are behind his back, and his shoulders are stiff as a board as he all but glares in Sakal’s direction.

Sakal looks at Spock, then looks away, blinking. He bows his head for a moment.

“Despite how it must have appeared, we did not forget you, Jim,” he says, his voice quiet, slightly hoarse. “Ever since the hour of our parting, you have been near my thoughts.”

Jim swallows around the massive knot in his throat.

Sakal lifts his hand again. This time, he runs a soothing hand over Jim’s hair, exactly as he’d done each time Jim had woken the entire house up with his nightmares, those first few weeks after Tarsus.

Jim hears a soft intake of breath from the couch, as though Sakal has done something shockingly un-Vulcan. But Jim could tell them, this is just what Sakal’s like.

Jim blinks a few times, scrubbing at his eyes in frustration.

“Please,” says Sakal, sounding firm. “Come and sit with me. Allow your intended to bring you water. It is his place.”

Jim will have to decide how he feels about hearing Sakal referring to Spock as his “intended” some other time. Sakal is already lifting him to his feet, and frowning as he does so.

“I would have expected you to weigh more at this age,” he says, his tone suddenly clipped. “Is your primary physician at Starfleet aware of your unique nutritional needs?”

“Sakal!” Jim, reddening, darts a look at Spock, whose expression is much too curious.

When he looks back at Sakal, and finds that he is carefully not-smiling, Jim realizes that he just played right into his hands.

“You must forgive me,” says Sakal, all innocence. “Since last we met, I have re-trained in a new career as a healer. It is only natural that I be concerned with your health.”

“Well, clearly I haven’t changed as much as you thought I would,” says Jim, as Sakal nudges him towards the sofa next to Spock, who does indeed have a glass of water waiting for him. “I was doing a pretty impressive re-enactment of that snot-nosed teenager you took in, just now.”

“You were not as you describe yourself.” Sakal sits in an arm chair placed at an angle with Jim’s end of the sofa. “Even when T’Silla first brought you to our home, you did not weep. You were mature, self-sufficient, and illogically convinced that your presence was a burden upon us.”

Jim can feel Spock stirring next to him, as if something Sakal said had struck a nerve.

“Sure,” Jim scoffs. “I never started bawling in the middle of the night, or—”

“I am curious what your Starfleet Ethics instructor must be teaching you, if you would count the actions of an unconscious or sleeping person to their discredit.” Sakal cuts him off, lifting one eyebrow expectantly.

Jim sighs and allows his head to drop into his hands. Immediately, Spock tries to press the water glass on him again.

Sakal steeples his hands in his lap. “Are you still suffering from any symptoms related to your recent assault?”

Jim’s head jerks up. “You know about that?” he says faintly.

Sitting at Spock’s right, Sarek stirs, and just like that the pieces fall together.

“Right, of course,” says Jim, looking down again. “You’re here because the Ambassador told you. Yeah, no, Bones—my roommate, he’s also a doctor—he says I’m good.”

There is silence in the room for a moment. Vulcans don’t make idle chatter, after all.

The house where Jim had lived on the borders of the Great Red Plain hadn’t been silent. With two tiny, illogical Vulcan toddlers running around, it couldn’t be. Jim wants to ask about T’Vara and T’Vael, whether they had been all right after T’Silla died, where they were now. But he can’t.

Sakal is being kind to him. He obviously cares enough about Jim’s well-being to come all the way to Earth for this…procedure, and Jim is grateful. He doesn’t want to presume by getting nosy. Vulcans are private about their families, after all.

“Jim.” Sakal exhales wearily through his nostrils. “I had been of two minds whether to speak to you about this today, but I sense that it is necessary. There were factors involved in our separation 8.3 years ago of which you are not aware. Firstly, it was not our intention, mine or T’Silla’s, that our last meeting should be our last. We intended to follow you to Earth and remain there until we were successful in petitioning for your release back into our care.” He hesitates. “In this, we were—prevented.”

Jim, assuming Sakal is referring to the cost of the journey and the disruption to their lives and careers, just nods. But Spock tilts his head. “Prevented in what way, might I ask, Healer?”

Bizarrely—at least, it’s bizarre to Jim—Sakal trades a knowing sort of look with Sarek, as though they are equals, rather than an ambassador and an ordinary Vulcan medical professional.

“No member of our family was able to obtain an interplanetary travel permit after your departure from Vulcan. In what was later ruled to be a random computer error, I, T’Silla, and both of our daughters, were individually and jointly prohibited from leaving Vulcan. The block on our travel permits remained impossible to circumnavigate for the period of 1.3 years from the day Jim was taken by the Federation welfare authorities.”

Sakal looks at his hands, and his voice falters.

“In the meantime, Jim, you had reached the age of sixteen, and emancipated yourself from the social welfare system. You became untraceable after that point. Which is not to say that we did not try. T’Silla was by far the superior researcher, and given sufficient time, I am sure she would have met with success in locating your whereabouts.” He pauses for a long moment. “Three years after you left us, however, there occurred a fault in the navigational computer of the public transport shuttle which T’Silla took daily from Shi’Kahr to the provincial border. The accident claimed seven lives. Including hers.”

“I grieve with thee.” The words, spoken in Vulcan, are out of Jim’s mouth before he is conscious of speaking.

Sakal meets Jim’s eyes, and there is an intensity there that Jim doesn’t know how to interpret. “I know that to be true,” he says gently.

Jim lowers his eyes, and feels Spock’s hand come to grip his shoulder. Sakal clears his throat.

“After the passing of my bondmate, it became necessary, for my daughters’ sake, to re-train in a career which would keep me closer to the city. It is possible for two people to raise a family in the deep desert, without access to the amenities of a more populated area. It is not possible for one person to do so alone. Since T’Silla’s death, the demands of my training and the needs of my daughters rendered me incapable of continuing the search for you in a meaningful fashion. And yet, I thought of you daily.”

Sakal’s troubled expression grows openly sorrowful, and his manner of speaking becomes careful, almost hesitant.

“Jim, while you were romantically involved with the telepath Gary Mitchell, his abusive and manipulative behavior towards you created neurological surges in the bonding center of your brain’s psi-cortex.”

Jim takes a short, shocked breath. There is something deeply surreal about hearing Sakal say Gary’s name, especially in that tone of voice—the same flat tone Spock uses when he is concealing deep, troubled emotions.

“You do not have the ability to communicate telepathically across light years. I believe, however, that you succeeded in projecting emotions to me, through our weakened bond, even across that great void. The more disturbed your mind was, the more conscious of you I became—as though you were calling out to me for help. I could hear, but not answer.”

Pain splinters Jim’s chest, and his heart breaks all in a moment, like a dropped glass.

He’d been lonelier with Gary than when he was single. Gary isolated him, intentionally, trying to keep him from spending too much time with Bones, or Gaila. He’d even accused Jim of having an affair with Pike, no doubt because he was afraid that Pike would find out about him. And yes, sometimes it did feel like he was screaming, in his head, for someone to see, to notice, to save him when he couldn’t muster the will to save himself. Given what Sarek had told him about Gary manipulating his bonds, Jim supposes that Sakal’s words make sense.

But the idea that Sakal could hear him—that he’d been forced to listen, and do nothing, for years—makes Jim want to hurl himself off a bridge and into the bay. Given the choice, he would have died happily before subjecting Sakal to that kind of helplessness.

Sakal takes a shaky breath and forces himself to continue.

“When…Sarek contacted me,” he says, “I had already been aware that you had recently suffered some devastating injury. I was greatly relieved to learn that you were safe, and well looked after.”

Jim can’t look at him. He can’t look at anyone. His throat is so tight that he couldn’t speak if he wanted to.

This isn’t the first time he’s seen proof that the people who truly love him inevitably get fucked over just by associating with him, but it’s the first time he’s felt this degree of crushing guilt.

When Spock’s hand moves from his shoulder, to grip the back of his neck, Jim remembers what Spock said in the car. And here he is, in a room with three talented telepaths, emoting like a toddler having a meltdown.

He forces himself to take a very deep breath.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Sakal gives one sharp shake of the head. “It is in the past, with no chance of being repeated,” says Sakal.

The words drop into Jim’s stomach like an anchor, but he manages to control his face.

Silence falls for a few seconds—Jim suspects that he’s making at least one or two of the Vulcans present uncomfortable with his quiet but unmistakably emotional displays. It is Spock who speaks next.

“I am curious,” says Spock. “After the computer error was discovered, did you request a copy of the technician’s report?”

Despite everything, Jim almost wants to laugh, because of course that’s something his nerdy computer scientist boyfriend would ask about.

Sakal looks at Sarek again. This time, it seems as if he is waiting for the Ambassador’s permission.

Sarek leans forward, and Jim and Spock both shift to face him.

“James,” says Sarek. “When I spoke with Sakal nine days ago, I found the circumstances which he related to me sufficiently irregular as to warrant deeper inquiry. A simple audit has since discovered that one of the programmers employed eight years ago by the Vulcan Transport Ministry accepted several large payments in exchange for maintaining the travel ban. The payments this person received passed through several intermediaries to reach him, but were ultimately traced to Frank Halley. I believe he is your step-father.”

Jim’s face and hands grow suddenly numb. His mouth falls open, but he doesn’t even try to speak.

Spock, however, sucks in a breath like a hiss. His spine straightens so fast that Sarek gives him a very slight quelling glance.

“I can only suppose that Mr. Halley thought he would have greater success in retaining custody of you if your Vulcan family could not appear in person to testify at the injunction hearing. Yet, while his interference prevented you being reunited with them, he failed of his intended goal.”

Jim hasn’t thought much about Frank since the last time he saw him. Yet somehow, he’s not even slightly surprised by what Sarek has just told him. In fact, it’s almost a relief to know for certain.

The fact is, Jim might have knocked Frank into a wall five years ago, proving once and for all that he was too big and too mean to be scared of some pathetic drunk bastard, anymore. But he never felt like things were really finished, between them. Jim’s always known there was another shoe out there somewhere, just waiting to drop.

“Well, he liked me suffering,” he says, unable to conceal his own bitterness. “So Frank would probably say it was still money well spent.”

The words hang in the air like poison gas; no one breathes. Spock’s grip tightens on his neck, but even he can’t seem to find words.

At length, Sakal lifts his head, and there is more pain in his expression than Jim has ever seen.

“James,” says Sakal, his voice ragged. “I have need to ask for forgiveness.”

Sakal doesn’t ordinarily call him James. None of them had, as T’Silla knew that he preferred Jim, and had referred to him that way when telling her family about him from the Shenzhou.

“We are taught that regret is illogical, but it is impossible not to feel a sense of loss.” Sakal swallows, but does not break eye contact. “My daughters and I were deprived of your presence in our lives for too many years. It is likewise impossible not to grieve for the needless pain you endured. When we took you into our home, we vowed to protect you. It was a promise we were unable to keep, and you have paid the price of my failures.”

“No,” says Jim sharply, almost panicked. “No, don’t say that. I owe you everything, just for that one year. I wouldn’t even be here if—”

His chest is getting tight. He has to remember to breathe, to make the conscious choice to suck each breath down.

Spock murmurs his name, his voice low and pained. Jim hears him, as if from underwater.

Suddenly, Sakal reaches for him. He grabs Jim’s wrist hard, squeezing it like he’s trying to communicate something essential, something words can’t convey. He breathes quietly for a moment. Then he releases Jim, and speaks.

“James,” he says. “Hear me. Our bond is weak, but it still lives. Allow me to join my mind with yours, and I will restore the family connections which should have always been there to comfort you.”

Stunned, Jim can only stare at him.

“What?” He doesn’t quite laugh, but he can’t hide his confusion, his incredulity. “But—but you’re here to have the bonds severed. I mean—aren’t you?”

He hates the treacherous way his voice goes high and cracks on the last word.

“Who told you this?” Sakal’s eyebrows are suddenly thunderous.

“I—” Jim performs a quick mental review of the last half-hour of listening to three Vulcans talk at him. He almost swears when he realizes his error.

“Okay,” he admits. “No one told me. I just…assumed.”

Sakal shakes his head slowly. “Then let me make myself clear. Your mother is dead, and only time can heal the wound of her death. Your father, and your sisters, live, however. And we would know you again, Jim. I wish to become better acquainted with the admirable and accomplished young man you have become. Will you allow this?”

Spock is right there, pressed against Jim’s side. Sarek is not far behind him. They are both watching intently, and Jim knows why.

If Jim permits Sakal to name him as his son, then the same traditions that make Jim family to Sarek will make Sakal family to Sarek and Spock. The future of two Vulcan lines hinges on this decision—on Jim¬—and it’s so fucking ludicrous that it takes genuine effort not to burst into hysterical laughter.

Does he want what Sakal is offering? Yes. It’s humiliating, but the mere idea makes something desperate and needy rise up in him, makes him wish he were a child again, so he could just be selfish and take what he needs.

But it’s been eight years. Eight long, lonely years, most of which he spent drifting, aimless, out of control. He’s done things to survive, to kill the pain, that would make Sakal wince and turn his face away.

As damaged and broken as he had been after Tarsus, he’d gotten worse after he was forced off of Vulcan. And Sakal…Sakal deserves to know that.

“It’s been a while since the last time we melded,” says Jim, forcing himself to hold Sakal’s gaze.

“It has indeed.”

“I’m not the kid you knew anymore.”

“And yet, it was you who claimed to have changed less over the years than I supposed.”

“Yeah, that was a joke, Sakal.” Jim rolls his eyes. “You remember those, right?”

Sakal arches an eyebrow. “Your jokes? As I am Vulcan, they are regrettably impossible to forget.”

“Oh my God, I was fourteen—ugh.” Jim spreads his hands. “What I’m saying is, you don’t know…what kind of person I am anymore. You don’t know what you might be inviting into your family.”

It is a deeply loaded statement to make in present company. It’s probably the last thing he should be saying in front of Spock, let alone Spock’s father, who looks pretty disturbed.

Jim takes a deep breath.

“I’m not saying no,” he tells Sakal, who is still watching him. “I’m saying—you should meld with me first. After that, if you still want to restore our bonds, then…”

He looks at Sakal, a little helplessly, willing him to understand. But Sakal draws himself up, looking suddenly stern.

“Your proposition is flawed in several respects,” he says. “You are not a bowl obtained at the market. I do not need to examine you for cracks before purchase.”

Sakal manages to sound exasperated and look slightly heartbroken at the same time. “That is not what it means to be family,” he says, a little more gently. “As you very well know, sa-fu.”

Sakal isn’t descended from anyone famous. By Vulcan standards, his aptitudes are no more than slightly above average. What sets him apart from every other Vulcan Jim’s ever met is his uncanny emotional intelligence. Jim is getting roasted by the only man who ever tried to raise him right, because Sakal knows that it’s easier for Jim to cope with emotional overload if someone’s pretending to give him a hard time.

He’s manipulating Jim, shamelessly, and it’s working, and Jim hates it and loves it and wants to tear his own hair out.

“I believe the…bowl, in this metaphor, would withstand the inspection in any case,” says Sarek dryly.

Bewildered, Jim looks at him.

“If you require the endorsement of one who has seen inside your mind before you will believe that you deserve to be treated as a member your own family, I offer you mine.” Sarek tilts his head meaningfully. “I found nothing wanting in you, James.”

Jim doesn’t know how to answer that. He doesn’t even know where to begin. And he’s not at all comfortable with the fact that Spock’s dad can make him blush.

He stands up, instantly waving all the Vulcans back down, including Spock, who looks furiously stubborn for a second before relenting. Jim walks over to the stand where the water pitcher sits and refills his glass, thinking.

The bonds have to be restored, or gotten rid of altogether. According to Sarek, his mental health is at stake, and Jim’s already unstable enough to know he can’t risk it.

Those bonds have been part of him for nine years now, but he didn’t even know about them until last week. If he loses them, the inside of his head will never be the same. Since he can’t tell the difference between the bond and…the rest of his mind, he has no idea if he’d be giving up something essential, or if he’d even notice the difference.

The inside of his head has never been a particularly comfortable place. A change in his interior landscape might actually be for the best.

But it’s not just about him. Bonds work two ways, and Sakal seems to want it. He’d clearly been shocked that Jim had assumed otherwise, so Jim knows he’s sincere. Not that Sakal has ever lied to him.

The problem is just—Jim doesn’t understand why Sakal wants it. He can’t wrap his head around the idea that he and T’Silla both hadn’t breathed a guilty sigh of relief once they realized they’d seen the last of him. He’s always been too much for people, especially the people he’s closest to. Everyone always benefits from breathing room, where he’s concerned.

Isn’t it possible that Sakal doesn’t know any better? That Jim has a duty to protect him from what he doesn’t understand? Sarek’s affirmation had been unexpectedly kind, but Sarek didn’t have pre-conceived expectations of Jim based on what he was like at fourteen. Sakal, Jim can’t help thinking, would probably react very differently to what he found in Jim’s memories.

Jim’s not even sure he remembers how to be part of a family. How to be anything but alone. He’s made some progress in that area lately, with Spock, but there’s a reason they’re going slow, that they haven’t come anywhere close to discussing the idea of bonding, yet.

Finally, Jim comes to a decision. He sets the water glass aside and returns to the couch, where Spock is speaking to the others.

“There is no pressing reason for Jim to make this decision now,” he is saying insistently. “Healer, I assume you have made arrangements to remain on planet for a time?”

“I have no business anywhere more pressing than this,” Sakal admits. “I have as yet set no date for my return to Vulcan.”

“Then,” says Spock, “perhaps we might resume this conversation tomorrow, when Jim has had the opportunity to meditate on these matters.”

“No,” says Jim. “That’s not necessary.”

Spock looks down at him, concerned. “Truly, Jim—”

Jim gives Spock a wry smile, then sits next to him, taking comfort from the way Spock immediately presses himself against Jim’s side.

“I don’t want to wait for tomorrow.” He looks at Sakal and Sarek. “But I could use an hour to myself. Do you mind?”

“If that is what you require, I have no objection,” Sakal says somberly. “Your thoughtfulness shows good judgment.”

Despite his words, Jim is sure he sees a flash of pain in Sakal’s eyes.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll, uh, walk around in the garden, or—"

“Unnecessary,” says Sarek. “We will give you the room.”

Jim, Spock, and Sakal stand up when the Ambassador does. Sarek and Sakal glide from the room, robes trailing behind them.

Spock lingers.

Jim’s about to apologize, because he knows it goes against Spock’s every instinct to do as he’s asking. But Spock cuts him off by pulling Jim into his arms. With a low noise that is part groan, part sigh of frustration, Jim rests his forehead on Spock’s shoulder, and Spock, after a second, begins to pet Jim’s hair, the way Sakal had done earlier.

“Jim,” he whispers.

“I’m okay,” Jim says.

“I am beginning to believe that we define that word very differently.”

Jim laughs, which is a relief, probably, to both of them. He lets himself lean heavily against Spock’s chest for a moment, and it strikes him, suddenly: he’s not drifting anymore.

Ever since he left Vulcan he’s felt homeless, even when he had a roof over his head. But not with Spock. Spock makes Jim feel like he has a place in the world, a place that Spock made for him. Even if Sakal gets a glimpse of the inside of his head and flees back to Shi’Kahr at warp, Jim will still be welcome at Spock’s side.

There’s a special kind of security that comes with that knowledge. It lowers the stakes slightly, knowing that what he has with Spock is something he can’t lose—that Spock won’t let him lose.

“Hey, Spock,” Jim whispers, shutting his eyes for a moment. “Tell me what to do?”

It’s a joke, mostly. But Spock goes quiet, like he’s thinking about it.

“What is it that you desire?” Spock says eventually.

“My…what I want isn’t the most important thing.”

“On the contrary. Your desires are all that is relevant.” Spock hesitates. “Do you wish to restore your bonds with Sakal and his daughters?”

Jim can’t answer that honestly, not out loud. “If I did, what if he changes his mind later? Once he gets to know me, he might decide—”

“He will not, Jim.” Spock cuts him off in that remorseless way he does whenever he’s decided that Jim’s too stuck in his own head to see things from a proper perspective. “Sakal already regards himself as your father. Indeed, it would seem that he has never felt otherwise on the subject. My own father has disapproved of many of my choices and actions in the past, but even so, I cannot imagine him abruptly withdrawing all regard or concern for me. I am his son.”

“Yeah,” Jim mutters. “But that’s you.”

“Do you have an objection to restoring your familial bonds that is not based upon the premise that there is something wrong with you?”

Jim presses his reddening face against Spock’s shoulder, and decides to let silence be his answer.

“I know that you care deeply for your family, and I cannot believe they do not return your regard.”

Spock sighs, then takes a step back, running his hands down Jim’s arms. Jim looks up at him.

“You wished me to tell you what do, and therefore I will make a suggestion,” says Spock. “Take this hour to meditate on the proposition that parental love is not meant to be earned, that it is gifted undeservingly to nearly everyone at birth. The fact that you were denied this does not mean that you are incapable of inspiring such selfless devotion. Indeed, I have seen remarkable evidence to the contrary.”

Jim blinks at him, slightly stunned, and Spock leans in to kiss his forehead.

“I will leave you to your thoughts,” he tells Jim. “In one hour, I will send Sakal to you.”

Chapter Text

“Are there truly animals on Earth capable of complex speech?” asked the four-year old Vulcan sitting on the sofa near Jim’s right shoulder.

“There are not,” declared her sister, who was sitting by Jim’s left shoulder. “Nor is there any avian life on Earth of that yellow coloration, save for small, flighted birds, such as canaria. They do not grow so large as the one called Big Bird.”

“They’re puppets,” Jim explained cheerfully, from his seat on the floor in front of the holoscreen. “There’s a Human actor inside Big Bird’s suit.”

“The purpose of this educational programming is to prepare young Human children for school, did you not say, Jim?” says T’Vara. “Do all Human educators wear animal costumes while teaching?”

“Nah, that’s just for TV. Besides, this isn’t what schools on Earth are like. This is actually fun. Muppets make way better teachers than most Human educators.”

“Will you costume yourself like Big Bird when you are teaching us Standard, Jim?” T’Vael looked him, wide-eyed.

Jim laughed freely. “On Vulcan? I’d di….I’d collapse from heat exhaustion if I tried wearing forty pounds of fake feathers in this climate.”

The door opens and closes, drawing Jim out of his memories.

“I was teaching T’Vael and T’Vara Standard when I left,” he says, eyes trained on the floor, where he is sitting cross-legged in a vague attempt at a meditation posture.

Sakal crosses the room silently and lowers himself to sit on the floor across from Jim.

“They are now the most fluent Standard-speakers at the Vulcan Learning Center, surpassing even the majority of their instructors. They have tested out of all available modules in the language.”

Jim blinks, whistling low. “You managed to get them into the Learning Center?”

“T’Vara and T’Vael show every sign of having inherited T’Silla’s academic aptitudes.” There was a note of subdued pride behind the statement. “Nothing was required of me save to submit their records.”

Jim knows that Spock studied at the Vulcan Learning Center when he was younger—had deserved to study there, because he was a freaking genius. But even if Spock had been less gifted, his place at the Learning Center would still have been guaranteed, simply because he was Sarek’s son. The Learning Center was that kind of school. Vulcans liked to pretend they were above making distinctions based on social class, but the practical reality was quite different.

Which means it is nothing less than remarkable that the daughters of two ordinary Vulcans from the deep desert had been given a the chance the be educated alongside the children of the planet’s elite. Even though it’s been years since Jim last saw T’Vara and T’Vael, he can’t help feeling a pulse of pride (and slightly vindictive satisfaction) that they’d received the recognition they deserved.

“How, uh, how do they like Shi’Kahr?” Jim remembers afternoons in the sun, the girls chasing the small, lizard-like animals that sunned on the rocks. “Even I miss the desert sometimes.”

“They have adjusted admirably to their new environment,” Sakal says. “Children are remarkably resilient.”

Jim hears the layers of implication in Sakal’s statement, but he just nods, and doesn’t take up the challenge.

Sakal steeples his fingers. “Spock, son of Sarek, is widely spoken of in Shi’Kahr.”

As changes of subject go, it’s not exactly subtle, but Jim can understand Sakal’s curiosity. He shrugs.

“Spock’s the heir to the House of Surak,” Jim says. “That practically makes him royalty, by Vulcan standards, doesn’t it?”

Sakal arches an unimpressed eyebrow. “You know very well that Vulcan was never unified under a monarchial system of government.”

“Yeah, but it had a fuck-ton of feudal warlords, and Surak’s family ruled Shi’Kahr and the surrounding provinces until five hundred years after the Reformation. Sounds like royalty to me.”

“Does the social status of Spock’s family matter so much to you?” Sakal tilts his head curiously.

“To me?” Jim snorts. “No, not at all. I bet it matters to other people, though.”

“If Spock were not Sarek’s heir, I suppose it is possible that the people of Vulcan would find him less noteworthy, but he is a subject of general interest for several reasons.”

“I know. And people mostly manage to be assholes about that interest, judging from a few things Spock’s mentioned.” Jim gives a wry smile. “Well, if they’re gossiping about him now, just wait till they find out about me. How much you want to bet I could scandalize Vulcan society so hard they forget to care that Spock’s half-Human?”

“I am confident that you could accomplish most any goal you have set your mind to,” says Sakal in a dry voice, leaning back slightly. “Sarek informed me that you have accepted Spock’s proposal of formal courtship.”

For the first time, it occurs to Jim that Sakal might have…opinions about the fact that Jim is in a serious relationship with a Vulcan. Parental opinions, which isn’t something that Jim’s ever had to worry about before. Is Sakal trying to say he disapproves? Does Jim care if he disapproves?

“We haven’t known each other very long, but yeah. Spock is courting me.” Jim makes a face. “Sorry, he’s great and everything, but that word is still weird.”

“Did Spock explain to you what is entailed in accepting a Vulcan male’s offer of courtship?”

The hint of sharpness in Sakal’s voice erases all doubt in Jim’s mind. This is dad-talk, all right, and Sakal sounds like he might be planning to sit Spock down and ask him his intentions. It’s mortifying and weirdly gratifying at the same time.

“We talked it through,” Jim says casually, trying to set Sakal’s mind at ease. “I know bonding is the endgame. But I’m not rushing into anything, and Spock isn’t pressuring me. I need time. He gets that.”

Sakal seems to relax minutely. “He is admirably dedicated to your well-being.”

“It’s been a crazy couple of weeks.” It’s the same thing Jim said to deflect Pike. But Sakal is Vulcan, and not so easily deflected.

“He has been deeply worried for you,” Sakal says. “You are scarcely accustomed to such devoted caretaking. Perhaps you have found it…overwhelming?”

Jim squirms. His legs are starting to feel numb. “I don’t mind it, usually,” he admits. “It’s kind of nice.”

Sakal nods at this. “I am grateful for his protectiveness towards you,” he says. “And I am pleased you have found one another, not least because it created the means for me to find you.”

Jim clears his throat. “You were really looking for me all that time, huh?”

“Indeed.” Sakal swallows. “The first year of your absence was…an especially trying time for our family. T’Vara and T’Vael refused to accept that your absence might be long term, or even permanent. They inquired daily when you would return to us.”

Jim’s breath catches in his throat. “Do—do they remember me?”

“They do,” says Sakal. “At present, they are at the hotel with a hired caretaker. They were…displeased with me when I informed them that I would be attending this meeting without them.”

Jim stares, stunned. “I didn’t know you brought them to Earth with you.”

“If we are to restore your bonds, it is necessary that they be present.”

The unasked question hangs in the air between them. Sakal looks at him steadily, a study in powerful emotion controlled by extraordinary patience. It’s a look that Jim knows well.

It was Sakal, rather than T’Silla, who had been the more nurturing parent, the one who took genuine pleasure in playing childish games with the girls when they were young, who unashamedly set Vulcan propriety aside when his children—including Jim—were hurting. Though T’Silla was no less devoted to her family, and had put tremendous effort into helping Jim manage his emotions and behaviors, Sakal was the one who watched Jim, who noticed when his coping mechanisms failed, who learned how to distract Jim, or simply be present with him, when the flashbacks came.

“I don’t talk about Tarsus,” Jim finds himself saying, because Sakal is the only person Jim knows who doesn’t flinch at the sound of that name.

“I am unsurprised,” says Sakal, apparently unperturbed by the shift in subject.

“I mean, never. At all. My advisor at the Academy knows I was there, but we don’t discuss it. My best friend doesn’t know. I haven’t even told Spock yet.”

“I presume, then, that Spock is equally ignorant of the full scope of your step-father’s crimes, and of the circumstances that led to your emancipation from Federation foster care.”

Jim sighs. “He knows there’s…stuff. He doesn’t ask, but I’ll have to tell him at some point.”

Sakal gives him a long, considering stare. “I see. You do not wish to burden Spock with a cracked bowl, either. The same insecurities which cause you to hesitate in restoring our bond also motivate you to exclude your intended from your confidence.”

“Jesus, you still don’t hold back, do you?” Jim huffs. “All right, fine, I’m an insecure mess. You want me to admit it, I’m admitting it.” He leans his head against his hand. “You know I could have found you. Easy. If I’d been looking.”

“Yes,” Sakal acknowledges.

“I don’t mean back then. The social workers wouldn’t let me anywhere near an unmonitored console, or I would have contacted you the next day, the next week, as soon as I got the chance. But once I got to Starfleet, I didn’t have an excuse. I just…”

“You did not believe that, after so many years, we would still wish to hear from you.”

The quiet disappointment is absent from Sakal’s voice this time, but Jim hears it anyway. Or maybe that’s their bond—what’s left of it.

After Spock left him alone in Sarek’s office, Jim had managed to meditate long enough to lower the shield that Sarek had built to guard the vulnerable, damaged bits of his brain. As a result, Jim is now conscious of his bonds in a way he’s never been before: the thin filaments connecting him to the girls, the more resilient cord that binds him to Sakal, and the jagged scar where his connection to T’Silla had been severed, five years ago, at the moment she entered brain-death.

Jim thinks back to where he was five years ago, but the only thing he can remember about being eighteen is punching Frank in the face. At the time, he hadn’t even questioned why he’d thought it was worth his while to go all the way back to Riverside just to have it out with him that way. Could the psychic recoil of having a bond severed by death make a person lash out the way Jim had lashed out against Frank? Had Jim sought him out because Frank was the one person on Earth who arguably deserved as much punishment as Jim could dole out, and there had been nowhere else for Jim’s grief and rage to go?

When he lowered the shield, Jim was prepared for anything: from the searing agony he’d felt when Gary grabbed his head in that alley, his dark eyes feverish with triumph, to the gentle, non-intrusive sensation of a mere presence, such as Jim feels when Spock touches his temples to get rid of his headaches, or to bring him back from the edge of a panic attack.

The reality falls somewhere in between. It’s almost like a bruise at the back of his mind, but when he presses against it instinctively, like he always does with bruises, the pain he feels is the pain of loneliness, abandonment, the same deep ache that had made Jim break bathroom mirrors when he was a kid, because he couldn’t stand looking himself, he was just as much a waste of space as Frank had always said, and it was no wonder nobody wanted him.

The more Jim dwelt on it, the more disgusted he was with himself. How the fuck had he missed this? How could he have ever confused ordinary grief with the desolation emanating from this starved placed in his mind?

“I want you to know, I never thought you guys were…too cold-hearted to give a damn about me, or anything like that,” Jim tries to explain faintly. “I just…”

“Jim.” Sakal covers Jim’s hand briefly with his own. “You do not need to explain any further. I understand.”

Jim takes a ragged breath, because he can’t afford to let himself believe that. What Sakal understands is that Jim has self-worth issues. And he does. But that’s not the whole story.

“I’ve done things you wouldn’t be proud of,” Jim says bluntly. “I stole things. Money, vehicles. Fucked people I hated, people who hurt me. Apart from G-Gary, and Spock, I’ve never been in a relationship. I’ve started fights for no reason. Nearly got myself killed more times than I can remember. Sometimes on accident, sometimes not. I got sent to jail. I hurt myself, I hurt other people. If Pike hadn’t found me when he did—”

“My specialty, as a healer, is xeno-pediatrics,” Sakal interrupts him suddenly.

The apparent non-sequitur alone is enough to shut Jim up.

“As such, and as someone with familial knowledge of your history, I can easily account for the experiences you describe by comparing them to the standard medical model. You are thriving to an above-average, verging on superior degree, compared to most Humans your age who survived comparable levels of trauma in their formative years.”

Jim blinks. “What was the size of the statistical sample in the study you’re referencing?”

“Jim.”

“It was a genocide, Sakal. My only peers are the other eight kids who survived. You know how they’re doing? Fine, almost all of them. Way better than me. Kevin’s graduating from the Academy prep school in a couple of years. Tom’s getting his Ph.D., and he’s a year younger than me.”

“Jim.”

“I wondered why, for a long time,” Jim persists. “Why I couldn’t just…cope, like they did. But it’s actually not that mysterious. Tarsus isn’t really my problem. I was fucked in the head way before I even set foot on the shuttle. Between Frank, and…the thing is, that’s probably why I survived, you know? Because I was used to fending for myself. Because I knew better than to trust what anyone was telling us, because people lie, they always lie—"

Sakal grips his arm bruisingly hard. It doesn’t hurt much, and Sakal probably doesn’t realize he’s hurting Jim at all, but it does the trick.

Jim blinks rapidly a few times. Then he takes a deep breath, and nods. Sakal releases him slowly, reluctance in his wary expression.

He is quiet for a moment before speaking.

“You have, unintentionally, made my point for me,” Sakal says. “You were given but one year of stability and safety in our home on Vulcan. One year—compared to the eighteen years or more of care, guidance, protection, and nurturing which young Humans and young Vulcans alike require in order to mature in a healthy and appropriate manner. The other survivors of Tarsus all came from stable, loving homes, and even those that lost family on the colony had family eagerly awaiting their return to Earth. Only you were unclaimed—until T’Silla met you on the Shenzhou.”

Jim’s not sure what Sakal’s point is, so he waits for him to finish gathering his thoughts.

“It is not at all surprising that, after being taken from us, and being placed in an environment where you were again subjected to daily abuse, you determined that you would be better off alone. And considering that you were but sixteen years old, with few resources and no support system, it is likewise unsurprising that you were forced to make choices which alienated you from societal norms.”

Sakal straightens. “What is far more surprising is that, by sheer force of will, you elected to take a different path when it was offered to you. One that has brought you here, now: a Starfleet cadet who has the recognition and respect of the Vulcan Ambassador to Earth; who has risen to the top of his academic class with expectations of an early commission; who has secured loyal friends, as well as the devotion of a most praiseworthy young Vulcan.” Sakal fixes him with a steely eye. “That you have accomplished so much, Jim, bespeaks a resiliency in you which any logical being is compelled to admire.”

“That’s…” Jim shakes his head slowly. “Most of that, I can’t take any credit for, okay. Sarek only gives a damn because of Spock, and—"

“Jim. Do be silent.” Sakal manages to convey displeasure without moving a muscle. “I will not hear any more words of self-blame regarding the choices you made during a time when you thought yourself alone and abandoned. Those choices, whatever they may have been, enabled you to survive. And for that, I am…most grateful.”

Soft, late-morning sun is pouring through the eastern windows of Sarek’s study. Sakal’s white robes appear to glow in its light. For the first time, Jim can see the lines on Sakal’s face that prove the passing of the years, and something twists in his chest.

“You really want to be bonded with me?” Jim says softly.

Slowly, Sakal nods. “Though I did not realize that spontaneous bonding had occurred between us until the effects of your absence began making themselves felt, I have fought, over the years, to maintain our connection, weak though it was. It has always been my hope that one day we would meet again, face to face, just as we are now. I have greatly desired the opportunity to strengthen our bond, as is meet between father and son.”

Jim’s eyes squeeze shut involuntarily.

“Is it your wish to remain bonded to us?”

It’s only been a couple of hours since this bombshell landed in his bed and the aftershocks blasted him here to the Embassy. But it feels like it’s been longer—much longer. Jim feels like his defenses have been under siege for years. He can feel how weak they are, the places where the walls have crumbled away entirely. Spock wouldn’t think much of his mental discipline if he could see Jim now.

Sakal is reaching for him through those chinks; Jim can feel it. He wants, more than he can remember wanting anything in recent memory, to reach back for him.

And yet.

“Is there anything I could say that would make you change your mind?” he says, ignoring Sakal’s question for the moment.

Sakal tilts his head, appearing to take his question seriously.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “There is nothing. Jim, am I to understand that you desire the bond for yourself, and that your only objection is founded on the belief that the bond will, in some way, prove damaging, or distasteful, to me?”

Jim wonders, suddenly, what Sakal’s been doing over the past hour, because it kind of sounds like he might have been talking to Spock.

“Not just you, but the girls,” he finds himself blurting out. “You and me, we’ve melded before, we melded after Tarsus. I know you can deal with me being a mess. But the girls are, what, thirteen now?” Jim blinks, dismayed by the sudden realization that the inquisitive four year-olds he remembers are actual teenagers now—the same age Jim was when he was sent to Tarsus, in fact. “Things are hard enough when you’re that age, and what if I—I don’t want to mess them up, you know?”

“If…” Sakal clears his throat. “If T’Silla should somehow, through miraculous means, be restored to us, our emotional response at being reunited with her would no doubt be highly compromising. There would be joy, certainly, great joy. But it would be mingled with the remembered anguish of her passing. Yet there is no question that we would claim her again, given the chance. Do you understand what I am saying to you, James?”

Jim clenches his fists, because his hands are trembling, and he doesn’t want to be weak, not now. But Sakal’s sharp eyes miss nothing.

He watches Jim for a long moment, and there’s something in his thoughtful gaze which reminds Jim, strangely enough, of Captain Pike.

“You did not answer my query,” says Sakal, at length. “Is it your wish to remain bonded to myself and to your sisters?”

Jim has never felt more trapped in his life. Not by fate or circumstances or anything but his own stupid, infuriating damage.

The word yes wants to come out of his mouth, but his mouth is like a tomb sealed with a boulder that he’s trying to roll away with his tongue.

It’s the frustration, more than anything else, that makes the tears start. Jim presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and hunches over, rocking slightly, aware at the very back of his mind that this is what he did every time he woke up with nightmares after Tarsus. And every time, Sakal—

—Sakal had done what he is doing now. Staying close, but not too close. Lifting his hand to Jim’s meld points; stepping just across the threshold of his mind, like the familiar, welcome visitor he’d eventually become.

It isn’t a full meld, but it’s sufficient to give Sakal the general impression of Jim’s thoughts. He rears back when the link breaks, staring at Jim. His hand falls from Jim’s face, to his shoulder. Instead of pushing Jim away, which he half expects, Sakal squeezes.

And then he yanks Jim towards him, wrapping his arms like bands of iron around Jim’s torso. Trapped in his gentle, implacable grip, Jim’s body relaxes against his will.

Instead of abating, the tears spring up fresh, like Sakal has kicked open a floodgate. But they come silently, seeping from his eyes like blood from a shallow wound. Sakal’s robe absorbs them.

“Sa-mekh,” Jim whispers, his voice strangled. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Peace. Peace, sa-fu, it shall be well.”

And then the fingers of both Sakal’s hands find Jim’s meld points. “My mind to your mind,” he says.

The opening line of the ritual invocation is an offer that Jim can accept without having to say that one word that stubbornly refuses to cross his lips.

Jim clutches Sakal’s arms for stability and finds him as steady as the ground beneath them. He takes a deep breath. “Your thoughts to my thoughts,” he whispers back.

And then there is darkness.

At the end of the darkness, there is a dim light, like the door to a distant room opening.

*

Jim is asleep when Spock comes to collect him later.

Spock’s heart stills in his side when Sakal opens the door of Sarek’s office to him, and he sees Jim stretched out on the floor, his limbs neatly arranged and his face as pale as a corpse’s. A small pillow has been placed under his neck.

“He had a similar reaction to our meld.” Sarek’s words, spoken close to Spock’s ear, drag him from the morass of his morbid thoughts. “I suspect it is the consequence of his empathic abilities. He is particularly susceptible to emotional transference.”

It has been three hours since Sakal and Jim sequestered themselves here. “How long has he been asleep?” Spock asks Sakal.

“One hour. I judged it wise to remain with him until I was certain he was suffering nothing worse than fatigue.”

“Then it is done?”

Sakal nods. “The bonds are healthy. I was also able to assist Jim with his shields. We were unaware of his psi-status until after he was taken from us, or we would have taught him the disciplines long ago.”

Tension ebbs from Spock’s body. Sakal’s arrival had taken them by surprise, so there had been no opportunity for Spock to discuss the matter with Jim—to explain that he was in favor of restoring the bonds, and why. He can only be grateful that Sakal had managed to ‘get through to’ Jim, so to speak.

Now that Jim is in possession of three healthy family bonds, he will have a wellspring of strength and stability to draw from when he is feeling vulnerable. Spock predicts that Jim will benefit enormously from this. Moreover, he cannot help but hope that this positive experience with Vulcan bonds will make the prospect of one day bonding with him less daunting and alien to Jim than it might otherwise have been.

All in all, Spock owes Sakal a debt of gratitude. But it is difficult to feel at ease with this knowledge. For reasons that are difficult to articulate, Spock finds it unsettling to be in the healer’s presence.

“I will take Jim home now, if you have no medical objection,” Spock says.

He has been forced to sit idly by, for hours, while his intended suffered a profound degree of emotional agitation. Now, for his own mental well-being, Spock requires time alone with Jim. Time to touch his skin, to wrap his body around Jim’s like a protective cocoon, to bask in the peace of mind that comes only from knowing that Jim is perfectly, unassailably, safe.

“I have no objection,” says Sakal. “He may wake briefly, but do not be alarmed if he sleeps until morning.”

Spock gives the healer a short nod. Then he glances minutely at his father. Sarek’s face is unexpressive, but Spock feels the weight of expectation through their own familial bond.

Sarek is correct, of course. Sakal is owed all the courtesy due to the father of his intended bondmate. As a diplomat’s son, Spock understands the importance of observing such niceties.

He takes a moment to survey the Vulcan before him—one of the few beings in all the universe who had protected Jim, cared for him, when he was at his most vulnerable.

There is an air of amused patience to Sakal when he looks back at Spock, and Spock finds himself wondering if the discomfort he feels under the healer’s perusal bears any resemblance to the trepidation Jim has expressed at the thought of being left alone with either Sarek or Amanda.

“Jim and I often dine together at my apartment in the evenings,” Spock says smoothly. “I believe I can speak for him in saying that we would be honored if you would join us. Tomorrow, perhaps, at 19:00.”

Sakal’s eyebrows arch slightly. “I accept your invitation with gratitude.”

Spock hesitates, then adds, “Your daughters are, of course, welcome also.”

Truthfully, Spock is far from certain he will make an adequate host to two thirteen year-old Vulcan girls, but he suspects it will give Jim pleasure to see them.

Sakal’s mouth remains motionless, but his eyes are smiling. “My daughters will be most gratified. They are nearly as eager to meet you as they are to see Jim.”

“Indeed?” Spock cannot conceal his surprise.

“Their curiosity is only logical.” Sakal’s eyes appear to be twinkling. “You are their brother’s intended. I believe they…have questions.”

Spock can think of nothing to say to this, so he excuses himself from Sakal’s presence politely. His father’s aide brings a hover chair for Jim’s use, but it is Spock who deposits Jim in the chair and transfers him to the vehicle waiting outside.

On the way back to the apartment, Spock surprises himself by texting Leonard McCoy and explaining the events of the morning in brief. Leonard, predictably, replies that he’s coming straight over.

Spock’s territorial impulses will be satisfied once Jim is safely bestowed in his home again. Leonard’s presence will not disturb that fragile peace, as Spock has come to accept Leonard as his ally in the struggle to preserve Jim’s well-being.

The doctor may wish to examine Jim, sleeping or no, and Spock has no objection to his doing so. But that is not why he has contacted him. Sakal, as a trained Vulcan healer, would have detected any threat to Jim’s health, mental or physical. Rather, Spock has invited Leonard to his apartment in order to…talk with him.

This makes Leonard only the second Human Spock he has invited to his dwelling for social purposes. The first, of course, was Captain Pike, but it has been several years since Pike last entered Spock’s home.

When the car reaches its destination, Spock scoops Jim’s limp form into his arms and hurriedly makes his way indoors. Jim is a good size, for a Human, but as Spock lifts him without strain, he remembers Sakal’s remark earlier, regarding Jim’s nutritional requirements.

The Starfleet cadet uniform is generously cut, and Humans of all sizes are negligibly dense to one possessed of Vulcan strength. Spock is not certain he would be able to detect it if Jim were indeed underweight. Perhaps that is another matter he might bring up with Leonard.

Spock has only just finished arranging the bedclothes around Jim when the chime rings at his door. He gives Jim a final, parting brush of the fingers against his cheek before turning to answer it.

Though Humans are said to look especially peaceful when they sleep, as their conscious minds empty of the turbulent emotions that animate them in waking life, Jim’s repose has never looked especially peaceful to Spock. When he woke this morning, he found that Jim had gravitated away from him in the bed, occupying the smallest possible space at the very edge of the mattress. He was curled like a comma, his face tucked in towards his chest, one arm thrown over his head. It was unmistakably a protective posture, and Spock had ached to see it.

For the present, he has arranged Jim on his back, but Spock will not be surprised if he finds Jim huddled in on himself again when next he returns to check on him.

The chime sounds a second time, and Spock forces himself to walk away, shutting the door to the bedroom carefully behind him.

“Afternoon, Commander.” Leonard is waiting, his expression tentative, when Spock greets him. “Thanks for keeping me in the loop. Jim’s lousy at it.”

“At ease, Doctor, and please come in.” Spock steps aside, giving Leonard room to slip past him, into the foyer. “I am sure Jim would have updated you, but we were scarcely given adequate notice ourselves before we were expected at the Embassy this morning.”

“Right.” Leonard shrugs out of his jacket, allowing Spock to store it in the coat closet. “So. Jim’s foster father really showed up, huh?”

Leonard has an air of reserved judgment about him, as if he is equally prepared to be calm and supportive, or angry and protective, depending on the circumstances.

“In fact, that qualifier is no longer accurate.” Spock speaks quietly, leading Leonard toward the kitchen table and indicating that he should take a seat, “Though Sakal is not Jim’s biological father, the bond between them is the legal equivalent of an adoption, in Human custom. It would be more correct simply to refer to Sakal as Jim’s father.”

“Huh.” Spock cannot tell whether Leonard’s indeterminate noise indicates approval or its opposite. “You know, this being Starfleet, people around here are likely to take it funny if George Kirk’s kid starts calling a guy with pointy eyebrows ‘Dad’.”

“In my admittedly limited observation,” says Spock, “Jim and Sakal tend to address one another by name. Or, occasionally, by Vulcan family titles.”

“Oh, what is it. Sa-mekh? That’s ‘father’, right? Or ‘male parent’, anyway.”

Spock arches an eyebrow. “’Father’ is correct.”

“So, no one knew about these bonds until Gary went rooting around in that part of Jim’s brain.” Leonard’s tone is thoughtful. “But now that we do know about them, Jim’s suddenly Vulcan by adoption? Simple as that?”

Spock hesitates, then nods.

Leonard folds his arms across his chest. “Well, pardon me for mentioning it, but my understanding is that a whole lot of Vulcans got their feathers ruffled a few decades ago, just because your father got married to a pretty Human lady. You’re saying things have changed so much that folks are suddenly going to be okay with one of their people adopting a not-even-half-Vulcan son?”

Spock will find it easier to discuss this subject if he can keep his back to Leonard, so he begins making tea. An entire pot of tea, because it is logical to serve larger quantities when serving two or more people, and also because preparing an entire pot will take longer than preparing two cups.

“Our bonds are the foundation of our society, Doctor. The lack of outward emotional expression which Humans find so remarkably alien about Vulcans is due to the fact that such pointed displays are superfluous in a species that is capable of communicating emotion through touch. But, since it is customary that only bondmates, family members, and…exceptionally close friends make physical contact with one another, the bonds we maintain with those closest to us are the bedrock of our mental and emotional well-being.”

Spock measures the tea with the small disposable spoon included in the packaging for that purpose, and adds, “On Vulcan, objections to my parents’ marriage quieted considerably once it became known that they had successfully bonded in the Vulcan fashion. Humans were previously believed to be incapable of sharing their minds with a Vulcan spouse in this way.”

“So, the Vulcan on the street may not be thrilled that Jim’s Human, but because he has these bonds, they’ll at least pretend to accept him? Is that the gist of it?”

Spock shrugs. In truth, he has not devoted considerable thought to how Jim’s unique situation will be received on Vulcan. After all, Jim is no stranger to the workings of their society. He will undoubtedly have his own ideas of what kind of reaction to expect, should it become relevant.

“Vulcan custom particularly honors the kind of bond that Jim shares with Sakal and his daughters.” Spock is not certain why he is dispensing information to the doctor so freely, until he realizes he is nervous. He does not think he could be accused of babbling, but it is possible that this is as close to babbling as Vulcans come. “It is rare, possibly unprecedented. Spontaneous familial bonds normally only form in infancy. On occasion, a slightly older child who is adopted into a new family may form a bond with one person with whom they are especially close. Jim, however, bonded with all four of his family members when he was fourteen. I…am beginning to suspect that my father underestimated Jim’s empathic potential.”

“Better leave that be for now, Spock,” says Leonard, looking uncomfortable. “Jim’s had enough upsets recently without having to process the fact that his brain’s configured differently than he realized. Give him some time to settle.”

“That…is logical,” Spock is compelled to admit, as the water reaches a boil. He fills the tea pot, sets the timer, then busies himself pulling down tea cups.

“From a medical perspective, the main thing I’m getting from all this is that there’s no precedent for Jim’s situation. That means there’s no way for me or any other Human doctor to tell if this bonding stuff starts messing with his head the wrong way.” Leonard arches an eyebrows, studying Spock for a moment. “Pardon me if I’m being indelicate, but how well does your mother tolerate telepathic contact with your father? Does she suffer any side effects? Headaches, maybe?”

Spock blinks, torn between an instinctive impulse to guard his parents’ privacy, and the more rational understanding that Leonard’s medical concerns are legitimate.

“Not to my knowledge,” he admits. “But she would not necessarily speak of such things to me.”

“Would I be overstepping if I asked her about it?”

Spock contemplates what he knows of his mother. “As we are on Earth, and you are both Human, I think it would be acceptable, since it pertains to Jim’s health.”

“Well,” says Leonard, “I’ll be seeing her on Wednesday, apparently. I’m sure we can sneak into a deserted hallway for a minute.” He gives Spock a small smile. “Just do me a favor, and don’t let your dad get the wrong idea about my intentions.”

“If I were you,” says Spock, carrying the tea things to the table, “I would be more concerned with Gaila’s understanding of your intentions.”

“Oh, Gaila’s fine. She already thinks your mama’s her new best friend.”

Spock turned his head to conceal his own smile. Amanda had been late to yesterday’s function after all, because she had spent over an hour with Leonard and Gaila, and would not let them leave until they both promised to attend her dinner party Wednesday.

Gaila has already solicited Spock’s opinion on appropriate attire for the event, texting him three different photos of herself wearing dresses that—suffice it to say, Spock had deleted the pictures promptly, and informed Gaila that he was, regrettably, no authority on fashion, and that his mother’s perspective would undoubtedly be more useful to her. He made certain to include Amanda’s contact information in his reply, and much to his relief, he has received no further requests for sartorial advice.

“So,” Leonard says, as Spock fills their cups, and takes his own seat at the head of the table. “Sakal, Jim’s—father. He’s a healer, you said?”

Spock nods.

“And he says Jim is fine, just sleeping off the emotional transference?”

Spock nods again.

“All right. Now I’m curious. Why’d you ask me over? Doesn’t sound like Jim needs any doctoring. Or are you under the weather?”

“I am in peak physical health, Doctor, thank you.” Leonard’s hand is reaching out, as if to feel his forehead, and Spock bats its away casually. “I requested your presence because I—have information I wish to impart to you.”

Dodging Leonard’s gaze, Spock picks up his PADD, and transfers an contact ident card to Leonard’s PADD. Leonard opens it when it chirps, and frowns.

“Rhaella of Vulcan, attorney-at-law,” he reads aloud. “What is this, Spock?”

“She is the attorney my father recommended when I sought his advice on the subject,” Spock says, taking an unnecessarily large gulp of his tea. “My research indicates that she is a galactically recognized expert in family law and child custody settlements.”

Color drains from Leonard’s face at an alarming rate. “And what’s that got to do with me?” he says, a hint of menace in his voice.

“Shortly after I first met Jim, he mentioned that you are…entangled in an unfair custody arrangement with your ex-wife, and that, as a result, you are rarely permitted to see your daughter.” Spock is careful to keep his voice soft, lacking in judgment or challenge. “Jim expressed his negative feelings on the subject with some force. And truthfully, I…shared his sentiments. It is not just that you should be separated from your own child.”

Leonard simply continues to stare at him, his eyebrows arching to his hairline.

Spock takes a deep breath. “Jim is of the opinion that the reason you have not sued for a more equitable custody arrangement is because you have neither the time nor the resources to dedicate to a lawsuit while you are serving as a Starfleet cadet. Rhaella is willing to accept your case on a pro bono basis, in honor of your Starfleet service, and will only require your participation when strictly necessary. She is prepared to begin as soon as you sign the paperwork to retain her services.”

“I—” Leonard’s eyes remain glued to his PADD as Spock transfers the file containing the necessary forms. Spock has already filled in the details; Leonard only needs to sign them. “Spock,” he whispers, shaking his head. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You need say nothing at all, Doctor.” Spock hesitates, wondering if it would be appropriate to elucidate the thought process which had led him to this course of action. “You will, perhaps, think me naïve, but only very recently have I come to gain a…visceral, as opposed to an academic understanding, of the privileges entailed upon my social position, and the difference these privileges have made in my life.”

Spock traces the rim of his cup with the tip of his finger, a gesture even he can recognize as uniquely Human, since Vulcans do not fidget. He folds his hands in his lap. “It is intolerable to think how much of Jim’s past suffering might have been averted, had it not been for mere want of money. Even now, it is only due to my father’s assistance that Sakal and Jim have been reunited. I might have done more, but such an intervention did not even cross my mind. I am…perhaps, more a theoretical than a practical being.”

Leonard, demonstrating that remarkable Human capacity for intuiting the existence of emotions which have not been outwardly expressed, gives him a sympathetic look. “Don’t blame yourself,” he says. “The past is the past. I can’t rightly begin to express how much I appreciate this,” he gestures toward his PADD, “but I can tell you, it’s no good tearing yourself up inside just because you weren’t around to fix Jim’s life eight years ago. Believe me, I understand the temptation. But it doesn’t help Jim, and it definitely won’t help you.”

Spock exhales shakily, and nods his head. “You have cared for and protected Jim as long as you have known him, and he regards you as family. I…I believe he would be most gratified if your daughter were to visit you here, in San Francisco. He has expressed some eagerness to ‘continue setting the worst possible example’ for her, in his own words.”

Leonard laughs and covers his face with his hands, shaking his head. “Jim broke up with Gary right before the spring break last year. There was no way in hell I was leaving him alone after that, with his arm in a sling, and Gary still prowling around campus. So I dragged him to Georgia with me.” He shakes his head. “By the end of the weekend, I was relying on Jo to keep Jim in line.”

“If she managed to do so, then she must be a uniquely resourceful child.”

Leonard smiles, still looking down at his PADD. “That she is.”

*

Jim is still asleep when Leonard departs shortly thereafter. He doesn’t stir, even when Leonard slips into Spock’s bedroom first and runs his tricorder next to Jim’s ear. When Leonard is satisfied that all is indeed well, he asks Spock to contact him, or at least make note of the exact time, when Jim wakes up in the morning. Then, lifting his PADD with a last, meaningful look, he excuses himself.

Spock washes the tea service and puts it away, sets the security codes on the doors, and dims the lights in the outer rooms. He closets himself in the bathroom for his nightly ablutions, and enters his bedroom already attired in his sleeping robe.

Spock pauses in the doorway to look at Jim. Just as he had predicted, Jim is curled up with his back to the wall and his face hidden under his arm. The streetlight beaming through the windows highlights Jim’s hair in an extraordinary shade of copper.

When Spock woke this morning, Jim had been an orphan. Now, he is again a son and a brother, a valued member of a Vulcan clan in his own right. Perhaps it was irrational, but Spock had hoped it would make a difference—that the security of his bonds would influence Jim to feel safe and relaxed, even in his sleep.

Since it would appear that this is not to be the case, Spock will simply have to do as he did last night, and as he hopes to do for many nights to come: gather Jim into his arms, and project to his subconscious, through their shared points of contact, that he is safe, that no harm can possibly come to him here, like this. Sleeping or waking, Spock wishes nothing more than to be his armor, his fortress, his harbor, and he wills this knowledge into the emotional core of Jim’s being.

When Jim’s PADD, sitting atop a water glass on the bedside table, chirps a few minutes later, Spock reaches for it, simply to make certain there is no emergency.

The notification at the top of the list of missed messages indicates that Jim has a video message waiting for him from one Winona Kirk.

There is no emergency flag to indicate that the message heralds urgent news—either a death, or a time-sensitive matter of great importance. And it is sent from an address outside Starfleet, so Jim need not regard it as a communication from a superior officer, though Winona Kirk is ranked a Lieutenant Commander.

Considering these factors, the message can, Spock decides, wait until morning. It is possible that he is overstepping himself by making such a unilateral call over a matter that is arguably none of his business. Indeed, his heart pounds in his side, as he imagines the possibility of Jim becoming angry with him.

But in the end, he cannot help himself. Instinct tells Spock that this falls under the category of things he is allowed to protect Jim from. For one night, at least. In the morning, when his intended is rested and less vulnerable, he can do as he wishes with his mother’s message.

For the present, Spock will guard his sleep, and in the morning, he will wake at Jim’s side, ready to face the day together.

Chapter Text

“Earth standard attire is somewhat deficient in aesthetically pleasing qualities,” T’Vael announces as she emerges from the portion of the hotel suite she shares with her sister. “Though it was gracious of T’sai Amanda to provide clothing for us, I do not wish to greet Jim dressed in this manner.”

“I, however, find no fault with the clothing T’sai Amanda has provided,” says T’Vara. She emerges from the interior chamber after her sister, looking first at T’Vael, then down at herself. “The fabrics have a pleasingly soft texture, and I believe they are better suited than our Vulcan attire to insulate us against the colder climate in this planetary region.”

Sakal glances over his daughters’ appearances, and does his best not to smile.

The birth of twins is an uncommon event amongst Vulcans, though less uncommon in T’Silla’s bloodline than in the general population of their species. However, amongst Humans, twin births occur frequently enough that they are not considered especially remarkable. As such, Amanda Grayson may well be familiar with the complex psychological and emotional dynamics that tend to develop between such sibling pairs.

Evidence for this lies in the fact that she had correctly intuited that T’Vael and T’Vara prefer, whenever possible, to attire themselves in a manner that enhances their differences, rather than their similarities—despite, or as Sakal suspects, because of the fact that they are, technically, genetically identical beings.

The eldest, T’Vael, does not cut her hair, preferring the practical elegance of traditional braided hairstyles which, in former times, were forbidden to all but maidens of the oldest and purest bloodlines. Though T’Vara , the younger by 32.3 minutes, is the only person who can arrange T’Vael’s hair to T’Vael’s liking, she herself prefers the short, sexless, uniform haircut increasingly favored by Vulcans of all ages and social classes. Her mother had worn her hair thus, as does Sakal himself.

Only the haste with which they were obliged to prepare themselves for an interplanetary journey had prevented T’Vael from packing the formal robes, hair ornaments, earrings, and other traditional accessories her grandmother had bestowed upon her when she completed her kahs-wan at the age of ten. There had not been enough time to arrange the stiff garments properly in her luggage without risking damage, though T’Vael had expended an illogical degree of effort in attempting to surmount this obstacle.

When they could no longer delay their departure for the shuttleport, T’Vael had remarked, with a trace of childish petulance, that Ambassador Sarek and his bondmate would no doubt be surprised by their casual appearance. Sakal is aware, however, that it is Jim’s opinion which truly concerns her.

Sakal makes a brief show of examining both of his daughters with a critical eye. T’Vara’s expression is bright and expectant, and she indeed appears to be at ease in the denim trousers, white blouse, and dark blue sweater which the Ambassador’s wife had sent to their lodgings, along with a variety of other items that would be useful on Earth, such as PADDs loaded with maps and Terran educational applications. T’Vara has tucked her PADD, and other items, into a sturdy grey cross-body satchel, which Amanda had also provided.

T’Vael, by contrast, is very nearly fidgeting in her own denim trousers, which are dyed a lighter shade of blue and cut along different lines than her sister’s. She plucks at the sleeves of her light grey blouse, adorned with ruffled fabric at the sleeves and neck, which is partially covered by a pale pink cardigan.

Her hair, as always, is impeccably arranged, if not precisely suited to the style of her Earth-casual daywear.

“You both appear respectable, which is all that is required,” Sakal informs them. “Nor do I believe that Jim will take any special notice of your clothing, whatever you wear. However, T’Vael, there is sufficient time, if you wish to alter your attire before we depart. I do not anticipate that you will meet with the Ambassador or his wife until tomorrow, and therefore no offense will be given—today—if you prefer not to wear the clothes they have given you.”

T’Vael immediately stalks back into the bedchamber. T’Vara, no doubt aware that she will shortly be called upon to attend her sister, follows, with a resigned air.

Alone again in the suite’s small sitting room, Sakal at last permits himself a brief smile. After all the obstacles their family has surmounted in order to make their way here, to Earth, to the city where Jim resides, it is not difficult to be patient with T’Vael’s understandable, if not entirely logical desire to make a favorable impression on the brother she has not seen since she was four.

Many things which once were taxing to Sakal’s mental resources are easier, now that his connection with Jim is fixed and rooted as a proper familial bond ought to be. It has been less than 24 hours since their meeting, yet the difference is already perceptible.

Even the old, familiar pain of his severed bond with T’Silla does not sear his soul with quite the same fire as before.

For a time, after T’Silla’s death, every thought of Jim had filled Sakal with crippling emotions of failure and inadequacy. He could not help but feel as though he had betrayed his bondmate by abandoning the search for their Human son—the only son they would ever have, now.

Speculation is inherently unsound, yet, were T’Silla here, Sakal believes she would be satisfied. The years of separation, though regrettable, have transformed Jim into a fully mature adult who shows every sign of fulfilling the staggering potential T’Silla had sensed in him from the moment of their first meeting on the Shenzhou.

No parent could wish more for their child.

Granted, the suffering Jim has endured, both before his arrival on Vulcan, and after his forced departure, cannot be considered desirable in any sense. Yet all beings must inevitably weather a degree of suffering, as part of the maturation process, and not even the most attentive parent can protect their child forever.

Sometimes, a parent can only hope that their children will survive for long enough to find their own path in the universe, their own kind of contentment.

This, Jim appears to have managed, despite formidable odds.

Vulcans are prone to reminding themselves, and each other, that regrets are illogical. Yet there are circumstances in which regret is unavoidable, and when regret is a function of empathy, casting it out is not desirable.

There is much to regret where Sakal’s dealings with Jim are concerned. His failure to suspect Jim’s capacity for forming spontaneous bonds is chief among them. Had it been known, the full weight of Federation law and Vulcan tradition would have enveloped their family to prevent any kind of enforced separation. Even the most traditional and xenophobic members of the High Council would not have permitted a child who had bonded with their Vulcan caretakers to be removed from the planet against their will.

As Sakal had been the principal caregiver for their children even before T’Silla’s death, it was Sakal who ought to have noticed Jim’s bonds. He is a strong telepath—it is his only outstanding ability—and this should have enabled him to perceive that there was more to Jim’s profound attachment to their family than mere Human sentimentality.

But it was not until after Jim’s departure that the telepathic effects of separation began to be felt. All of them, T’Silla, their daughters, Sakal himself, had suffered, and their entire household was thrown into a long period of disorder.

It had fallen to Sakal to shield his daughters’ minds from the worst effects, while T’Silla endured crippling headaches, and his own controls nearly disintegrated under the multiplied strain.

While T’Silla lived, Sakal had placed his best hopes for finding Jim in her research abilities and her network of galactic contacts. But he also began to be curious whether it might be possible to reach Jim directly, telepathically, himself.

Many hundreds of hours of meditation later, Sakal had come to the conclusion that his telepathy would require additional training from a master of the discipline if he was to have any chance of succeeding. He and T’Silla began to discuss relocating their family to Shi’Kahr, so that Sakal could pursue training as a mind healer; then she died, and Sakal, unable to think logically enough to make new plans, abided by the one he and T’Silla had devised together.

All the while, Sakal had clung to that thin thread of awareness that connected him with Jim. He’d felt it as a single gossamer filament, stretched and suspended across a great void.

Once his healer’s training began in earnest, Sakal learned, through trial and error, how to strengthen the bond, turn the filament into a hard wire, then a thin but resilient cord, without dangerously depleting his own mental resources in the process.

The work of keeping his bond with Jim alive and open for so many years had been no easy feat. Sakal still is not certain whether it had been his own persistence, Jim’s unexpected empathic sensitivity, or the combined effects of both, which had made it possible.

He is likewise aware that all his efforts might still have been wasted, had it not been for the intervention of Sarek, son of Skon. Sakal is not yet fully acquainted with the story of how Jim became the intended bondmate of the Ambassador’s son. Yet Sarek was probably the only other Vulcan in the universe to whom the concept of a Human family member was not anathema, and who would not dismiss the loss of such as trivial.

Yet if Sarek were one of the few Vulcans who would have been inclined to help Sakal, he was one of even fewer who had the capability. The Ambassador’s resources had made possible in an hour what Sakal had devoted half his life and energy to for the past eight years.

And yet: the matter would never have come to Sarek’s attention, had Jim not become involved with Spock. Had Jim not suffered the kae’at k’la’sa, making it needful for Spock to commit Jim to the care of a skilled telepath.

Such a random confluence of circumstances, desirable and otherwise, had been necessary in order to bring about Sakal’s reunion with Jim that the odds were beyond Sakal’s ability to compute.

Yet, it had happened anyway.

Sakal has many thoughts regarding Vulcan logic, both its benefits and its limitations, but in the face of such extraordinary and fortuitous coincidences, there is nothing to say, save kaiidth.

*

Sakal is not entirely confident that Jim will be grateful to see him this morning, for several reasons. To begin with, their invitation was for dinner at 19:00, but he, T’Vael, and T’Vara will arrive at Spock’s apartment, where Sakal is aware that Jim has spent the night, just in time for midday meal.

They are further trespassing on the terms of their invitation by bringing their own food, though it was Spock who had offered to feed them. T’Vael, who has lately become deeply interested in upholding the Vulcan Way (the parts she approved of, at least) had insisted that they must provide Jim with the traditional welcoming meal they would have prepared for him had he returned to Vulcan to visit his former home, with his intended bondmate in tow.

Sakal had elected to find T’Vael’s argument logical. He is well aware that Spock, in a slightly less obvious way, is just as eager as his daughter to see the traditions observed, and prove something by their observation. But what did an unbonded male in his third decade know about cooking? The girls these days are scarcely less finicky in their appetites than they had been as illogical toddlers. Sakal doubts they would be able to tolerate Spock’s thoughtfully synthesized offerings.

He has another reason as well for choosing to call upon Spock at an unexpected and potentially inconvenient hour. Sakal is well aware that Spock intends to labor over his preparations for dinner this evening, in order to make a positive impression upon Jim’s family.

Sakal, however, wishes to “catch a glimpse” of Spock when he is…not quite so well prepared. As a Starfleet officer, Commander Spock should be familiar with the concept of surprise inspections.

“I am now prepared, father.”

Sakal permits himself a very small sigh of relief as T’Vael pauses before him, framing herself in the doorway.

He had not been certain what, precisely, T’Vael would think appropriate for the occasion of reuniting with her brother. He could only hope that logic would prevail, and she would not present herself in clinging desert silks that would swiftly become saturated in the perpetual rainy mist shrouding the city.

But T’Vael has done nothing more than trade the denim trousers and buttoned blouse for an ankle length black gown, tied with a purple and silk brocade sash, worn underneath a black wool robe with wide, subtly embroidered sleeves. It was high necked and long-sleeved, appropriate to the weather, and complemented her towering braids and long silver earrings. She wore boots, with heels that elevated her height by two centimeters.

It did not exceed what was appropriate to the occasion, but it had the effect of making T’Vael appear considerably more adult than her present age of 12.6 years. The illusion stirs emotions in Sakal that he will have to meditate upon later.

“I intend to ask Jim whether he is prepared to have his bonds with both of you restored today,” Sakal informed them. “This is why I asked to take special care in your meditations last night. Did you do as I asked?”

“Yes, father,” they said simultaneously, and for a moment, not even the differences in their ornamentation could disguise the synchronicity of their thinking.

“Very well. The Ambassador has provided us with the use of a chauffeured vehicle, which is waiting for us near the front doors of the hotel. We should depart, so as to cease impeding the flow of traffic.”

*

Two hours later, trailed by the Embassy driver who had pre-empted their attempts to carry their own groceries, Sakal knocks on Spock’s door. T’Vael and T’Vara stand to his left and his right, backs straight and heads high.

It is 11:00, an hour at which even Jim, recovering from the effects of their meld, should have risen. (And if he has not, that is something Sakal needs to know, for the sake of his health.) He therefore knocks persistently, until he hears a low groan in the distance, and then the faint thud of footsteps coming their way.

“Bones, I swear to God,” Jim is saying as he opens the door. And then, he stops.

His hair, which has grown a bit long on top, flops into his face, having recently been washed clean of styling products. His eyes are bleary, there is a red line pressed into the side of his face. He is shirtless and barefoot, wearingly only jeans, which show signs of having been tugged on hastily.

Jim blinks at Sakal for a long moment. “Weirdly, I am…not even surprised that you’re here.”

“We share a bond,” Sakal reminds him. “And I believe you came to know my habits quite well eight years ago. I have changed little, in essentials. Your sisters, however...”

Jim’s eyes grow round as he adjusts his gaze downward. His head whips from T’Vara to T’Vael. His smile slowly grows wide enough to assure Sakal of the quality of the dental care Jim has received at Starfleet.

“Hang on.” Jim’s eyes narrow. “I can do this. You…you’re T’Vael, and you’re T’Vara.”

“Affirmative,” say T’Vael and T’Vara, and Jim emits a tightly controlled screech, staring down at them with brightening eyes.

“Guys,” he says breathlessly. “Sorry, girls. Okay, I’m Human, and I’ve been living on Earth for the last eight years, so, forgive me, but I have to do this.”

With a speed and agility that does credit to his physical training, Jim sweeps T’Vael under his right arm and T’Vara under his left.

Sakal, anticipating what is to come, steps swiftly aside as Jim hefts both girls and begins spinning them in the hallway outside Spock’s door. Both girls are startled into delighted-sounding screeches.

“Ffffffaaahh,” says Jim, quite incomprehensibly, as he sets T’Vael and T’Vara on their feet again, dropping to one knee so as to be nearer their eye level.

He scrubs his hands over his face and grins, shaking his head. “I can’t believe this. You’re—you’re so big! Seriously, you’re just like, slightly short adults. Oh my God—have you started telling people they’re illogical yet? Are you old enough to do that, or do you have to pass some kind of Vulcan test first?”

“That,” says Spock, who had just now appeared in the doorway, “would be pointless, Jim.”

Jim looks over, and immediately bursts into laughter. The expression of glowing wonder has not left his face.

Sakal knows his daughters well enough to guess that, were it not for the quelling, unknown element of Spock’s presence, they, too, would be smiling. Neither Sakal nor their mother had ever forbidden the girls from smiling, though they instinctively understood the potential repercussions of doing so in front of strangers.

“I missed you two more than I can express in words,” Jim tells them, his tone and expression grown abruptly seriously. “I thought about you all the time. I just…wanted to make sure you knew that.”

Neither of them seems to know how to respond, until T’Vael lifts her head and looks Jim in the eyes.

“We are now entirely fluent in Federation Standard,” she announces abruptly. “So is Father, as you have observed; he requested that we teach him, as our grasp on the language is superior to that of the majority of Vulcan instructors. The Terran lecturer who visited our year group at the Learning Center told our teachers that T’Vara and I speak with a truly native accent. When they questioned us, we informed them that our earliest lessons had taken place under the supervision of a native Terran speaker.”

Jim’s eyes grow slightly brighter. “I knew you two were going to kick ass,” he says, his voice rasping slightly. Then he clears his throat and nods at the doorway. “Hey, this is Spock, son of Sarek. He lives here, and I…stay here with him, when we both have the time.”

“Because you are courting,” says T’Vara, nodding helpfully. “When do you anticipate that you will bond? Will you return to Vulcan for the ceremony?”

“I, ah….” Jim ducks his head, his cough not quite disguising a laugh. “Spock, this is T’Vara, and this is T’Vael. My sisters.”

Spock raises the ta’a to the trio huddled in the hallway, and both girls return it. “Daughters of Sakal, I am honored to greet you as kin. I ask that you call me Spock. If you will all enter, I have prepared tea.”

Sakal does not miss the look that Jim darts in Spock’s direction. Compared to most Vulcans, and especially other Vulcan healers, Sakal is practically an expert in Human emotionalism.

In his son’s gaze, he recognizes both gratitude, and the beginnings of something that might be adoration. It is, Sakal can admit, an encouraging sign.

Jim ushers the girls into the apartment first, where he suddenly realizes that he isn’t wearing a shirt. He panics, running into the bedroom and slamming the door shut behind him.

The driver, still patiently holding their bags of vegetables and spices and bread, enters the apartment long enough to deposit his burdens before returning to his vehicle.

When Sakal crosses the threshold, walking past Spock’s gaze, he makes brief eye contact.

Sakal’s telepathy is strong. Spock, son of Sarek, is whispered to be the strongest telepath of his generation. But Sakal would not attempt to read him in that manner even if he believed he would be successful. There is no need.

Spock, son of Amanda, is half-Human. Sakal finds him nearly as transparently expressive as Jim. And right now, he is nervous.

It is, Sakal decides, another point in his favor.

“You are gracious to welcome us at such an hour,” Sakal offers. “It was T’Vael’s wish to prepare a traditional meal for Jim and yourself. As we have no cooking facilities in the hotel, I thought perhaps you would not be sorry to let another do the cooking here, for the change. Though at one time, Jim was a satisfactory cook, I do not know if his schedule permits him to maintain the skill.”

Spock inches back, and Sakal takes this to mean that he should cease lingering in the doorway.

“In fact,” Spock says, “the…events of the last week and a half have afforded little opportunity for either Jim or I to demonstrate our skills in the kitchen. We have been relying on my replicator, as the student dormitories are not equipped with them, and Jim was, for some time, too unwell to eat in the Academy’s dining facilities.” Spock locks the door behind them. “Though your…offer is unexpected, Jim will undoubtedly appreciate the chance to enjoy a meal that has not been synthesized.”

“You bet I will,” says Jim, emerging from the bedroom wearing a different pair of jeans, and a clean black t-shirt, with the Starfleet decal on the breast.

He veers into the sitting room, where T’Vael and T’Vara are seated decorously on the sofa. Wedging himself between them, he explains in a low voice how to connect their PADDs to the Starfleet server under his account—a perhaps over-generous gesture of trust, Sakal thinks wryly—then presses his lips to both their foreheads and promises to return soon.

“So, wow, you’re really cooking?” Jim says, rubbing his hands together theatrically as he approaches the kitchen. “I have definitely dreamed of this since I left Vulcan. The first time Spock gave me food, it made me so homesick I almost cried into my plomeek.”

“You did express some enthusiasm for the dish, as I recall,” says Spock, as he begins assisting Sakal in unpacking the groceries.

Sakal sets aside the items he has acquired for assembling a light lunch, as it is nearer to midday than to dinner, and they will not need to begin preparations for the evening meal for another three hours.

“But hey, weren’t we going to cook for you?” says Jim, washing his hands at the sink. “I thought that was the deal.”

“I took the liberty of altering ‘the deal’,” says Sakal. “As you say, I have not had the opportunity to cook for you in many years. And T’Vael was insistent that the welcoming traditions be upheld. Dinner will wait, however. Perhaps you would care to assist me in making sandwiches to accompany our tea? I believe I have acquired all of the ingredients which figured in your preferred recipe.”

“Kreyla,” says Jim instantly, listing the ingredients on his fingers—one of Humanity’s more oddly charming mannerisms, in Sakal’s opinion. “Greens of some kind, but not spinach; radishes or Vulcan fire-root; a soft cheese; and a sweet fruit preserve,” Jim recites instantly.

“My memory remains intact, it seems,” says Sakal, pushing the bag towards Jim.

Spock steps up beside Jim silently and assists as he sets the ingredients out and begins an efficient assembly-line approach to the construction of the sandwiches.

Sakal is suddenly visited by a strong flash of memory: Jim making an identical set of sandwiches, but with a harried hunch to his narrow teenage shoulders, because T’Silla and Sakal are both due to leave for work soon, and he will not allow them to leave without a packed meal. What if their transport broke down? he would say, when they attempted to explain that this was not necessary. What if they became stranded?

The thought of any of them going hungry had terrified Jim as a boy, so T’Silla and Sakal had chosen to weigh this over their fears that Jim was still continuing to seek means of “earning his keep”.

In the present, Jim pauses, then puts down his knife and touches Sakal’s sleeve. “Hey,” he says. “You know I’m okay now, right?”

Spock’s head comes up. The line between his brows speaks of concern and mild confusion.

Spock is fully cognizant of the function of bonds, so it is not the understanding between Jim and Sakal that has confused him, but rather, Sakal’s evident emotional response to the simple task of preparing a meal.

“When he was a boy, Jim never allowed T’Silla or I to leave the house without first preparing sandwiches for us, or flasks of broth and tea,” Sakal explains to this young Vulcan, whose needs have undoubtedly been attended to by a fleet of invisible domestic staff all his life. “When T’Silla was due to travel long distances, as her work often required, Jim would fill an entire basket for her.”

“Going hungry sucks,” Jim shrugs, his voice so casual that no one could mistake it for genuine ease.

“Persuading you to consume an entire meal in a sitting was an ongoing endeavor during your time with us. And yet, all that while, you continued preparing meals for others.”

“It took a while for my appetite to adjust. Also, you know, my palette. No offense, but the food you grow on Vulcan tends to either be kind of tasteless, or—too much taste. Like, way more taste than necessary. But I made it work, eventually.”

“Jim developed a theory that there was nothing inherently unpalatable about tradition Vulcan fare,” Sakal informs Spock. “He merely blames us as a race for failing to grasp the logical merits of attaining skills in advanced cookery.”

“I should’ve put up a stand, sold my sandwiches at the mechanic’s outpost at the edge of the Bowl,” says Jim, finishing off the row of sandwiches with top slices of bread. “I could have started a trend and revolutionized Vulcan cuisine.”

There is a soft smile on Spock’s face as he looks at Jim. Sakal, however, has been watching him closely throughout the conversation.

He does not need to touch the young Vulcan’s mind to know that he is wondering why, at the age of fourteen, Jim’s digestion had been so impaired that it could not accommodate normal portions of food.

*

They eat their sandwiches in the living room, around the large glass “coffee table”, and since Jim is the only Human in the room, the meal is silent. Searching for stimulation, as always, Jim pulls out his PADD, tapping at the screen.

At length, Spock glances over, sees Jim with the PADD, and freezes.

Curious.

Another three minutes pass, during which Spock remains tense. Then Jim says, “Huh.”

He looks from Spock to Sakal. “I’ve got a voice message from, uh…yeah, wow. From Winona. My, uh, my mom.”

“Are you not accustomed to being contacted by your Human mother?” says T’Vael, a hint of implied judgment in her voice.

“I, ah.” Jim glances over at T’Vael. “To be honest, I haven’t seen her or talked to her or heard from her at all. Not since I was about your age.”

Sakal inhales, deeply, slowly. Of course, it had been possible to infer that Winona Kirk’s neglect of her son had continued after his return to Earth, but there is something shocking in the confirmation, nonetheless. And not only to him. The girls look as though they have just been given troubling news about the health of their sehlat, Vorka. Spock looks very nearly ill.

Only Jim has retained any semblance of composure.

“I should, um.” Jim looks from side to side, then places his uneaten sandwich on a napkin. “I should probably listen this, it must be important. Spock, I’ll use your office, if you don’t mind? I’ll be right back.”

Spock, seated next to Sakal on the sofa, makes to stand and follow him.

Sakal leans forward minutely, catches Spock’s eye, and shakes his head.

Spock’s nostrils flare in a manner that is utterly Human, and, due to his extreme youth, far more amusing than it is threatening, though Sakal doubts Spock is aware of this.

“Whatever sort of message Winona Kirk has left for him, Jim is likely to be upset after listening to it, if only because it will be the first time he has heard her voice since he was a child,” Sakal explains patiently.

“I am well aware of that,” says Spock, his tone haughty. “It is my duty to be available to him when he is—under threat of emotional disturbance.”

“In what way are you presently unavailable?” Sakal counters. “You are scarcely two meters away from Jim. He is in a room to which you possess the passcode.”

Spock bristles, but there is nothing for him to say.

Sakal touches briefly upon the memory of a night, years ago, when Jim, after waking as usual from a nightmare, had attempted to hide from him under the bed. Sakal had been required to sit quietly upon the floor for hours before Jim finally realized that Sakal was not going to drag him out of his hiding place by force.

“Expressive though they are, Humans are like Vulcans when it comes to their most primal emotions, in that, the more uncontrollable the inevitable emotional display, the more privacy is desired. A wish that any Vulcan can surely respect.”

Spock glances at T’Vael and T’Vara, then lowers his voice. “Jim has been left alone to suffer for too much of his life. It is not my wish that he know that loneliness any longer.”

His tone is too controlled for the words to imply insult, but it requires all Sakal’s discipline not to take it as one.

“I remind you, again, that Jim is not alone,” Sakal says. “We are here. Allow him the opportunity to choose to come to us.”

Spock stares at him with hot, dark, Human eyes, then nods slowly, reluctantly. “I thank you for your wisdom, Healer.”

Their mutual resolution holds for another five minutes, and then Sakal feels an urgent thrum of distress pulsing in Jim’s mind.

Spock’s eyes widen in the exact same moment. In silent accord, they stand and walk quickly to Spock’s study, where Jim has shut and locked the door.

He does not respond to their requests for entrance, so Spock inputs his code. They find Jim leaning over Spock’s desk, supporting his weight on his hands. His PADD has been cast to the floor negligently, or was perhaps dropped there in shock by nerveless fingers.

He doesn’t look up when Sakal shuts the door behind them.

“Did you know they were going after him?” Jim says, as soon as there is no chance of his voice carrying down the hall to where the girls wait.

The question seems to be directed equally at them both, and Sakal and Spock exchange looks of mutual bafflement.

“I do not know who ‘they’ or ‘him’ signify in your question,” Sakal ventures.

“Frank.” Jim sounds ill, as though the soft tissues of his throat are inflamed. “He’s been arrested. For the—the custody thing, the bribes. There were Starfleet officers involved, turns out. I didn’t catch all the details—she was pretty incoherent, screaming a lot.”

“She,” says Spock, comprehending and disbelieving all at once. “You mean to say that this was the content of the message left you by your mother? She makes contact with you for the first time in thirteen years, and it is to raise her voice because her husband has been arrested for his crimes against you?”

“Yeah, people don’t change all that much over the years, it turns out.” Jim releases a long sigh, then looks up, examining Spock, then Sakal. “Did you know? Either of you? Because that’s a situation where I really could have used a heads up.”

Sakal says nothing, but thinks of the stiffness of Spock’s posture when Jim first saw the message notification from his mother.

“I did not know,” says Spock, hesitatingly. “However…I suspect that if we were to ask my father the same question, we would receive a different answer.”

Sakal nods. “Logically, it could have been no one but the Ambassador. I myself was unaware of the full scope of your step-father’s role in events until only a few hours before you yourself were told. Spock knew even less than I. And neither of us possess the authority to order the arrest of Federation civilians.”

“That point is debatable, as Frank Halley committed related crimes on multiple Federation planets, placing him under the jurisdiction of Federation law enforcement agencies, including Starfleet.” He hesitates. “I did not pursue such a course of action, only because I supposed it to be contrary to your wishes, Jim.”

Jim begins to straighten at last. His face, when he lifts his head, is shockingly white, save for two spots of feverish pink painted high on his cheekbones. “You supposed correctly,” he says. “Thanks.”

Spock continues to look uncertain. It is clear he does not understand the reason for the continuing intensity of Jim’s reaction.

Sakal, who does understand, wonders if it would be wiser to keep silent, or to facilitate Spock’s grasp of what is potentially at stake.

“The charges you named,” Sakal says to Jim, choosing his words carefully. “From what I gather, they all derive from incidents dating no earlier than eight years ago.”

“Yeah,” Jim rasps. “So far.”

Sakal is startled, and does not trouble to hide it.

Jim looks at him. He keeps his eyes trained on Sakal, though Spock is standing there, listening to everything he says.

“That’s the other thing Winona wanted to tell me. First, that I suck for ratting Frank out, and second, to let me know I’d better not complicate matters by bringing up, quote, those stories you told people when you were a goddamn baby, end quote.” Jim’s head lolls back against the wall suddenly, as though he’s lost the strength to hold it up. “I don’t know if someone asked her questions about back then, or if she’s just paranoid. Could be both.”

Sakal darts a glance at Spock, but he has donned a mask of absolute neutrality, as though he does not realize that such a display of iron control as good as announces the intensity of the emotion it is meant to conceal.

“If Federation law enforcement is investigating Frank Halley’s actions, it is logical for them to inquire into the circumstances which led to your being sent to live on a distant experimental colony where you had no family and no connections.”

Sakal can feel it, the instant Spock makes the connection—food deprivation, experimental colony, the Shenzhou—because Spock’s shields falter for a moment, and Sakal and Jim feel the molten rage slipping through the cracks in his defenses.

Almost as soon as the moment occurs, it passes again, and Spock’s shields are restored to their former strengthen.

The young Vulcan opens his ashen lips as if to apologize, then turns his head aside, eyes trained on carpet.

“Anyway…” Jim shuts his eyes tightly and rubs his forehead; he is developing a tension headache.

“My mother has a saying which I believe is well known among Humans—‘sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof’.” Spock sounds subdued, yet oddly determined. “Do not trouble yourself about the investigation at this time.”

He crosses, with hesitant steps, to where Jim still stands leaning against the wall. His hand circles Jim’s wrist loosely; Jim’s shoulders fall as though all the tension has drained out of him.

“My chief concern is your present emotional state,” Spock says, and now it is Sakal’s turn to be ignored, as Spock hovers over Jim in a way that almost hides him from view. “I—confess that I am shocked by your mother’s callous indifference to your wellbeing. I cannot imagine the feelings her words and actions must elicit in you, but if you are distressed, I would offer you comfort.”

Jim is silent. Then he raises his head and glances at Sakal, before looking back at Spock.

“I think I’m okay, actually,” Jim says. “I…I’ve got a family. If my mother doesn’t want to be part of it, that’s her loss.”

Chapter Text

**transcript of chat log: user KIRK, JAMES TIBERIUS, CADET, ID = JTK2233**

T’Vael-of-Vulcan: Good morning, Jim. As you can see, I have used your credentials and the device given to me by T’sai Amanda to create a sub-identity under your Starfleet account for my personal use. I judged this to be the most efficient means of maintaining contact with you for the duration of our stay on Earth.

JTK2233: uh wow, yeah, you sure…did that.
JTK2233: which is fine, just please try not to get me into any trouble

T’Vael of Vulcan: Please define the parameters of “trouble” as it relates to my use of your Starfleet account.

JTK2233: okay uh
JTK2233: don’t access my school files, especially the uncompleted projects, or someone might think I’m using your superior Vulcan brain to do my work for me
JTK2233: don’t read my chat logs with other people!
JTK2233: try to avoid Starfleet social media. if you can’t, don’t necessarily believe anything you read about me there.
JTK2233: and don’t contact any of my professors even if you think their lesson plans are sub-par. just kind of stay out of my academic subfolders altogether.
JTK2233: those are my parameters. do they need any clarification?

T’Vael-of-Vulcan: Yes, I have a query related to the third stated parameter.

JTK2233: great let me guess you’ve already been on hot.cadet-net.sf and now you have questions

T’Vael-of-Vulcan: Affirmative.

JTK2233: OH MY GOD
JTK2233: YOU ARE TWELVE

T’Vael-of-Vulcan: My clarification relates to a message thread in which your name appears more than 4000 times.
T’Vael-of-Vulcan: Are you indeed the author of a novel entitled K’diwa, which takes as its subject matter the courtship between a praiseworthy male Vulcan scientist who defends a brave and aesthetically pleasing female Human poet from the deadly pursuit of the slavery cartel she heroically defied as a lone adolescent?

T’Vael-of-Vulcan: Jim, 5 minutes have passed since my previous message. Are you still receiving?

JTK2233: T’Vael
JTK2233: I want you to promise me something
JTK2233: I want you to swear by the tips of your adorable pointed ears, got it

T’Vael-of-Vulcan: If, by “got it”, you are inquiring whether I understand you to be evoking a shared memory from my early childhood in order to emotionally manipulate me into making this promise, then yes, Jim, I get it.

JTK2233: PROMISE ME you won’t read K’diwa

T’Vael-of-Vulcan: Will you tell me the reason you do not wish me to read it?

JTK2233: …
JTK2233: [is typing]

JTK2233 Because it was published against my will and without my consent, which makes its widespread distribution a violation of my privacy.
JTK2233: also, it’s only a first draft, and I want to make some changes
JTK2233: especially if you’re going to read it I don’t need my kid sister pointing out my comma splices

T’Vael-of-Vulcan: T’Vara has been reading it for the past forty-seven minutes and she has not yet complained of any deficiency in your grasp of punctuation.

JTK2233: …
JTK2233: T’Vael will you please give the padd to your sister

T’Vael-of-Vulcan: That will not be necessary.

**new member added to group chat**

T’Vara-of-Vulcan: Good morning, Jim.

JTK2233: …
JTK2233: …
JTK2233: [is typing]

T’Vara-of-Vulcan: Is your device malfunctioning? I am receiving no text.

JTK2233: T’Vara
JTK2233: just
JTK2233: if you have any questions about what you’re reading, just
JTK2233: do me a favor and search a reputable archive, don’t rely on trashy spaceport novels
JTK2233: okay?

T’Vara-of-Vulcan: I believe I understand, Jim.

JTK2233: fantastic
JTK2233: that’s fine then
JTK2233: completely fine

Chapter Text

Jim makes the executive decision that he doesn't want to discuss the voicemail in detail that evening. Instead, they return to the living room, where Jim pretends to be normal until he and Sakal can start dinner preparations.

Luckily, playing sous chef under T'Vael as she prepares her obsessively researched traditional dinner requires all of Jim's attention. This means that he has no choice but to abandon Spock to T’Vara and her color-coded spreadsheets of questions about Spock’s childhood, education, career, and interests.

Then again, Spock might be grateful for the distraction.

“I believe Spock has deduced that you are a Tarsus survivor,” Sakal says evenly, as they tackle a small mountain of radishes.

Jim’s shoulders hunch up around his ears by instinct. He glances around for a distraction.

“Hey,” he tells T'Vael. “Billowy sleeves plus hot stoves equal fire hazards. You can hang up your cloak in my room if you want.”

T’Vael glances down at herself, then gives a short little nod and marches out of the kitchen. When the door shuts behind her, Jim glances back at Sakal.

"I'd say you're right, based on the psychic mushroom cloud of rage we got a whiff of back there in the study." He chops the head off a radish. "Also, I could see his face.”

“Perhaps I might have been more circumspect in my allusions.”

Jim snorts. “You were dropping hints.”

Sakal tilts his head. It's not quite a nod. “I know that you do not care to discuss that period of your life.”

“But you thought Spock had a right to know.”

“No. It is you who deserves for your partner to be equipped with all information pertinent to your safety and well-being.”

In Jim’s head, there’s a hum, a sub-aural vibration. His family bond is resonating with their conversation. The effect is annoyingly soothing. Like a purr.

But Jim doesn't want really to be soothed right now. He wants to be slightly pissed off. He thinks he's entitled.

“Spock is my boyfriend, not my therapist,” he says. “I think maybe I need to start reminding people of that.”

“He is Vulcan, and you are his intended. Your courtship will founder if he is not aware of your needs.”

“Oh, trust me, Spock is aware that I’m a special needs adoption.” Jim rakes the chopped radishes off the cutting board and into a bowl of cold water. “I had a panic attack in his garden the morning after I met him. He gets it.”

Sakal arches his eyebrows. Jim doesn’t bother pointing out that there’s a smear of some kind of white paste on his chin.

“Forgive me, sa-fu,” he says, turning back to his own vegetable pile. “It is not my wish to interfere. I only want to see you well cared for.”

Knowing that Sakal is pulling a long face on purpose doesn’t help with the guilt. Are parents always like this? He'll have to ask someone.

"I just have this crazy theory that I should be taking care of myself," Jim says.

"Accepting the help you require when it is freely offered is a function of self-care, as you well know." Sakal hesitates. "But you have always been resilient. Perhaps you are not the one who most needs to be looked after in this case."

Spock isn't broadcasting anymore, and his voice, coming from the living room, sounds calm and even. But Jim suspects that Sakal might have a point.

“You’ve got—” Jim taps his own chin, and Sakal dabs at his face with the napkin.

In Jim’s head, the bond rumbles like a smug cat. You’re family and you love each other, so suck it, it seems to be saying.

Dinner is almost completely edible. T’Vael’s foray into traditional Vulcan cuisine is deemed a success by everyone present. By the time a car with diplomatic tags arrives to remind Jim of all the many and peculiar ways the Vulcan Embassy has insinuated itself into his life recently (and also to take Sakal and the twins back to their hotel), he's nearly catatonic with exhaustion.

Spock, who has been unnaturally silent and withdrawn since they ate, also admits to fatigue.

They adjourn to bed together by silent mutual consent. Neither of them mentions the possibility of Jim’s returning to his dorm that night. Jim takes a moment to wonder at how normal it feels already: the two of them taking turns in the bathroom, getting under the covers together, setting their alarms. It feels natural, like they’ve been following the same tandem routine for years.

Not counting the nights Jim had crashed on Spock’s sofa or guest bed, it’s actually been two days. Since they met each other, only a few weeks. And yet.

Spock doesn’t try to make him talk once they're in bed. If he holds Jim a little more tightly than usual, Jim is not complaining.

Jim doesn’t talk about Tarsus, ever. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Spock with important stuff, it’s just one of those indelible facts. His middle name is Tiberius. He likes animals and engines, history and languages and computers. Space radiation trashed his immune system as a baby. And there’s an 18-month gap in his personal history that’s off-limits to almost everyone.

But that’s not unreasonable, right? Everybody’s got things they don’t talk about.

The real problem—the one Jim is actively trying not to think about—is that he’s afraid Sakal's right. About Spock being the one who might need some help processing the unwelcome knowledge he’s just been exposed to.

It’s a big enough worry that when Spock leaves in the morning, Jim feigns being more asleep than he actually is. Once he’s sure Spock is clear of the building, he rolls out of bed and catches a shuttle back to campus.

He just needs to be at home for awhile. He needs to think.

"Jim, if you're seeing this, it means you finally decided to grace our dorm with your presence, but you timed it so I wouldn't be around. Quelle surprise, you sneaky varmint.

"I cooked this morning, so there's food in the fridge. If you get a headache, try the heat pack. I left it on your bed. Oh, and Spock's mama sent some sort of finery over for us to wear to that dinner of hers tonight. Yours is hanging in your closet.

"Don't you and Spock be getting up to anything when I get back there."

Bones-the-holograph leans forward, reaching for the screen, and the image winks out.

Jim heads directly to the kitchen.

There's a covered dish in the fridge containing a triple serving of macaroni and cheese, plus a smaller dish full of roasted vegetables. Jim mixes all the vegetables into half of the mac and cheese, and leaves the plate to heat up while he unpacks his bag.

His bed looks the same. He dumps his stuff onto the end of the mattress, then flops face down on top of it with a sigh that comes from deep in his gut. This is the first time Jim’s been alone in at least a damn fortnight. Since Gary, now that he thinks about it. And somehow, he's got nothing to do. When he was bedridden, all he did was study. He's ahead in every subject.

Actually, now might be a good time to edit his porn novel.

Jim fishes his PADD from his bag and flops back on his pillows. The chat window is still open from this morning. Who knew the twins would grow up to be such precocious little shits? Lucky for him they’ll only be on-planet until the end of the month.

(Oh god, they’re only going to be on-planet till the end of the month.)

Rationally, he knows he’s not going to lose them again (at this point, he probably couldn’t lose them if he tried). But he wishes…

Jim’s not sure what he wishes.

He expels his despair in a gusty sigh, then wipes the resulting condensation off the screen of his PADD and switches from the chat window to the original file of his novel. No time like the time you find out your kids sisters are reading your smut novel to start revising, he thinks.

He’s thinking of calling this version K’diwa: Now With the Italics Fixed and Way Less Porn—except then, no one would download it.

From the kitchen, the timer sounds to tell him his food is ready. He decides to eat at his desk.

*

It’s after 3 am, and Jim is glaring through the windshield of a boosted T-bird, headlights burning down the highway at 90 mph (the car’s so old it doesn’t have a gauge for kilometers, and if Jim doesn’t get it back to the garage before Monday morning, Maurice is going to kneecap him.)

Jim hasn’t slept for at least 72 hours. His eyes are burning. The inside of his mouth is foul with old beer and the tar from at least thirty cigarettes, and he probably doesn’t smell any better. He doesn’t really remember the last time he got to a laundromat.

Balancing this is the fact that, in his mind at least, he feels steady, grounded in a way he hasn’t for years. Since they dragged him back to Earth, pretty much.

Sometimes Jim thinks that if the kid he used to be could see the way he’d turned out, he’d be so disgusted he wouldn’t even bother showing up for adulthood.

Because he didn’t get to be this old by letting nature take its course. No one survives a genocide by accident. He’d lived because he wanted to, because “more life” was the demand he made of an indifferent cosmos. Was the prize he’d wrung from it. He’d been a survivor since the day he was born, a fighter at 12, at 14, at 16.

But now he’s 18. Eighteen, and it doesn’t bother him that he has nothing, because who cares about stuff, but it humiliates him that he doesn't do anything these days except get fucked up as often as possible. He's James T. Kirk, the kid who was always just a little smarterstrongerfastertougher than anyone else, the guy who fought all his life just to arrive at the front door to adulthood with no drive, no mission. Just a quiet, miserable desire for oblivion any six ways he could get it.

Always before now he’d had a clear objective. Stand up to Frank and people like Frank. Prove himself on a new world. Survive and help others survive, when that new world turned from a paradise into a killing pit. Make sure the Vulcans didn’t regret taking him in. Age out of the system, so no one could jerk the strings of his conditional emancipation if they don’t think he’s being a good boy.

Congratulations to him: he made it. He’s free now. Completely free, and completely lacking in purpose.

How do people do this on their own?

Jim looks up when his PADD chimes an incoming call, startled out of his work reverie. Neck, shoulders, and back are stiff in a way that says he's been hunching over a desk for much too long without a stretch break. He swipes at the screen and blinks when he sees Spock's ident card. That's when he checks the time. It's been five hours, and Spock's classes are over for the day.

"Hey, I'm at my dorm, I left a note, nothing's wrong," Jim blurts out as soon as Spock appears.

Spock blinks and tilts his head slightly. "I had not assumed that anything was wrong."

"Oh. Good. How, uh, how was your day?"

"Satisfactory. I am calling to inform you that our presence is no longer required at the Vulcan Embassy this evening. The dinner is being postponed until next week."

"Oh, thank God," says Jim without thinking. "I mean—sorry, obviously it's an honor to be asked."

"It is." The corner of Spock's mouth twitches. "However, it is an honor I petitioned to be released from when I spoke with my mother this afternoon. She was not entirely willing to accommodate me, but she was willing to grant a temporary reprieve."

"I'm surprised she went that far, I thought a formal diplomatic dinner would be hard to reschedule."

"I have found that the distinction between a formal diplomatic event and a private family dinner is whatever my mother decides that it is. There exists the possibility that she set the dress code for the evening out of the simple desire to see us all wearing our finest attire. She has confessed to taking pleasure in similar spectacles at formal gatherings in the past."

Jim snorts. "Well, a night in sounds like a good time to me. How about you?"

Spock doesn't say anything for a moment. "I am, of course, loathe to be parted from you for any reason."

"Are you about to use a conjunction?"

"But," he continues, with a tiny smile, "I am afraid that, over the past week, I was not as diligent as you in keeping pace with my accumulating workload. Regretfully, I have yet to learn how to devote my complete attention to anything that is not you when we are in the same room."

Jim grins broadly. "My blushes, Watson."

Spock inclines his head. "Please inform Leonard that my mother apologizes for, in her words, getting him worked up for no reason."

"Yeah, Bones will be glad for that reprieve too. I might make him watch a movie with me."

"An excellent idea. Until Leonard returns, I hope you will rest."

"Spock, I've got 'rest' coming out of my eyeballs. It's been a week, I'm more than equal to working quietly at my desk for a few hours."

Spock grimaces, conceding. "What have you been working on?"

"Oh." Jim blinks down at his PADD. "Would you believe me if I said I was knee-deep in revisions on K'diwa?"

Spock's gasp is almost, but not quite, inaudible. Jim bites down on the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing.

"What prompted you to take up this work?" He seems perfectly composed, apart from the glint in his eyes.

Jim sketches out the morning's chat session with the twins. "Since I can't disown my ugly baby anymore, I might as well teach it to use spellcheck before it becomes a bad influence on my sisters. Not to mention the commas. Plus, Ophelia was in dire need of some backstory…"

Jim had accidentally daydreamed half the morning away, lost in old memories, reaching for the experiences that made him similar to Ophelia. He hadn't had to reach very deep, it turned out. Bones maybe had a point when he accused Jim of projecting on his protagonist.

"Fascinating," Spock breathes. "May I offer my services in the areas of proofreading and editorial commentary?"

"Give me a chance to make some more words, first."

"Hmm." The soft lines crinkle around Spock's eyes. "If I must."

It’s dawn when he passes the sign outside Riverside, and the sky that hangs over the low, square buildings at the junction off the interstate is streaked in the pink-blue-gold palette that has symbolized new beginnings since whenever humans first began mythologizing their trajectories on this rock.

Six years gone, and the town looks exactly the same, but also just different enough to remind him that he doesn’t belong here anymore. If he ever did.

If Riverside wasn’t his home on some deep subconbscious level that he doesn’t have any control over, seeing it again like this probably wouldn’t fuck him up so bad. I was born on the shuttle, he reminds himself, like it means something, like that’s the magic trick that’s going to save him from living and dying in the middle of Bumfuck, Iowa.

He pulls into a diner—one of the new buildings—and cuts the engine, listens to the ping of cooling metal as he contemplates a sign promising coffee and fresh, hot donuts. It’s been six years and food still fucks him up way too easily, if he lets it. Today he’s pretty sure he’d lose anything he managed to choke down.

Anyway it’s always a bad idea to eat before a fight.

When Jim looks up again, it's because someone else is calling his PADD. Someone who kept calling after he sent the first two attempts to voicemail.

Finally, he checks the caller ID. He accepts the call in a panic. “T’sai Amanda," he says, voice cracking.

“I was calling to check on you, but if you can sass me like that I suppose you must be recovering.”

Jim's stomach sinks.

“I was teasing. Please breathe. I just wanted to apologize about cancelling tonight's dinner with so little warning. Does next week suit you?"

"Yes ma'am, I'm generally free on Wednesday evenings, so that won't be a problem."

“It will really be a family get-together—us, a few people from the Academy Spock asked me to invite, and a few Vulcans from the Shi’kahr Institute who happen to be staying at the Embassy. If you should choose to wear a civilian suit instead of a replicated uniform for one evening, I believe the uniform code will survive the insult.”

“Acknowledged, ma’am.”

"That wasn't my only reason for calling, though. Spock tells me you received a message from your mother last night."

Jim blinks three times in a row before he can muster a verbal response. "Yes, I did."

"I can't imagine that it was a pleasant listening experience."

For just a second, Jim lets himself be distracted by how similar Amanda's sentence construction is to Spock's. "No ma'am, I can't say that it was."

"I'm afraid I may be partly responsible for her deciding to contact you." Amanda's small, pretty face is slightly pinched with worry. "I insisted that Sarek notify the Federation authorities on Earth about your step-father's activities eight years ago. Sarek's more immediate concern was with the Vulcans who sabotaged the immigration databases, but I convinced him to make a little time for other matters too."

"I, uh…"

"I just didn't want you to be suspicious of Sarek. Or Spock, for that matter. It does seem as if every member of my family is determined to interfere in your affairs, but I suppose it is because we see you as one our own."

Jim manages to clear his throat and muster a reply. "Nosiness is the Vulcan love language, huh?"

To Jim's relief, she laughs. "Not just Vulcans. Though I suppose they might have rubbed off on me, after all these years." She sobers a little. "I hope you don't mind too much. The thing about Sarek...I'm not sure he fully understood all that he saw when he melded with you. A traditional Vulcan wouldn't be equipped to understand."

Jim is still. The skin up and down his arms prickles. He's calm. Maybe a little too calm, but he'll take it.

"Anyway, you needn't worry about your mother's threats. She doesn't have a valid legal case. If she pursues any kind of charge, your Starfleet-appointed lawyer will destroy her in seconds. I'll make sure you get the best."

"You're too kind, ma'am," says Jim.

"Not always," says Amanda, and gives him a warm, leave-taking smile. "Enjoy the unexpected free time tonight, dear. There used to be a saying on earth, back during the addiction pandemics: 'canceling plans is like drugs'."

I can definitely see how it could get addictive. "I'll try to make good use of the time, ma'am."

"Take care now." Her smiling image winks off the screen, and Jim slumps again the hard back of his desk chair, awash in memories like the torrent of a whitewater rapid.

The farm has fallen down a lot since Jim left. Frank knew how to make Jim and Sam do the chores, but he never learned how to do them himself. He would have sold it years ago, but technically, the farm is only Winona's for her lifetime. It goes to Jim when she dies, and there's nothing anyone can do about that.

No Trespassers, warns the sign on the broken front gate as Jim drives the truck right on past.

Despite what his social worker assumed, Jim did read all the emails he got from the lawyer who looked after his dad's estate. Frank had tried to sell the farm, and when that failed, he tried to sell pieces of the farm.

A little judicious cracking, and Jim had found some overhead shots of the farm taken by a weather drone. Eight years of almost total neglect was the story they told.

Frank still lives in the house. Jim is willing to bet that's the one place on the property where the roof doesn't leak.

He bursts through the door without a knock or word of warning. "Get up," Jim demands. "I have something I want to say to you."

Frank doesn't say anything. Frank is asleep in a recliner. Frank is snoring. The door got kicked in, and he hadn't missed a beat.

Upstairs, Jim bets the house still looks familiar. Maybe there's a pile of boxes pushed up against a wall somewhere with all his stuff in it from when he was a kid. Maybe the glow-in-the-dark stars he pressed to the ceiling against a sky of blue paint are in there.

The stories he could tell those stars now.

But Jim doesn't make it upstairs. His feet are glued to the floor downstairs, where he's surrounded by clutter, trash, empty food containers, empty bottles.

And Frank, who already looks like he lost some kind of fight.

"Well, as I live and breathe," says a dramatic voice from the doorway. "Jim Kirk, after all this time. You haven't aged a day."

Jim grins at his PADD and doesn't look up. "You should get your eyes checked, it's been at least three."

The closet door opens and shuts, objects rattle, shoes hit the floor, and then Bones is behind him, grasping Jim's shoulder warmly.

"I'm gonna have to kill you for roping me into this Embassy dinner," says his best friend in a pleasant. "But I'm willing to hear suggestions regarding the method of execution."

"There's only one good way to die, Bones. Pet my hair until I fall asleep, then smother me with a pillow." Jim looks up at him. "Lady Amanda called. Dinner's been pushed back to next week."

Bones lets out a long sigh and pats him approvingly. "Your sentence is commuted. You eat yet?"

"I did. It was good. I'll get you back for the groceries." Bones scoffs. "How's Gaila?"

"Right as rain. She's working on some kind of big deal, cross-disciplinary project with Nyota. Something about the use of Klingon opera in performance as an offensive negotiating tactic."

This actually makes Jim look up from his PADD. "You're kidding."

"I wish. I had to sneak in a pair of earplugs last time I visited during one of their planning sessions. As I understand it, they're proposing that you can avoid bloodshed in an armed standoff with the Klingons as long as you've got a Starfleet officer on board who really knows their Klingon opera. They're replacing single combat with some kind of singing contest."

Jim blinks. "You're telling me I was out of commission for one week, and Gaila and Uhura invented opera dueling?"

"Regular rolling stones, those two. Now stop making me talk about other people's homework."

"Sorry. How's your homework?"

"Don't ask about my homework either."

It's good to settle into his work against the ambience of Bones moving around the room, making ordinary noises. He liked spending time at Spock's place, but rooming with Bones was the first real taste of home Jim had ever known on Earth. It's just good to be back.

An hour or so passes in relative quiet, as Bones heats up his own food and settles in at his desk with his work.

"Spock coming over tonight?" he asks, seemingly at random, just as Jim is putting the finishing touches on K'diwa's new opening chapter.

"Uh, no. Not that I know of."

"Seriously?" Bones peers at him. "Y'all two aren't fighting already?"

"No, of course not."

The suspicious glint in Bones's eyes doesn't go away.

"I would tell you what Spock's doing instead of hanging out with me, but I'm pretty sure it involves grading papers, and you explicitly requested that I stop making you talk about other people's homework."

"All right, smart ass, excuse me for being concerned."

Jim starts to reassure him, and instead finds himself saying, "Some stuff came up over dinner the other night." Bones arches an eyebrow. "Some stuff from before I joined Starfleet."

"Because of Sakal?" Bones' whole attitude is abruptly different--restrained, but quivering with curiosity.

"Not exactly." Jim's already uncomfortable, but he's the one who brought it up. "My mom got in touch."

Slowly, Bones lowers his PADD and turns in his chair to face Jim. "Well, what the hell did she want?"

As succinctly as possible, Jim explains about Frank's legal trouble. He doesn't try to explain how much of it Spock's parents are to blame for. "It's not just the bribery charges. If it goes to court and the media gets wind of it, people are going to ask questions about how George Kirk's kid ended up on Vulcan in the first place."

"And that's not something you talk about," says Bones. The simple acceptance in his voice makes Jim want to hug him.

"I've talked to Pike about it," he says. "And Sakal. And...I think Spock figured it out last night. I think maybe that's why he's not coming around tonight."

A thundercloud starts to brew on Bones's forehead.

"Not like that." Jim makes a decision, and closes his PADD down, looking across the room at his friend. "Spock found out that I'm a Tarsus IV survivor."

"Oh." Small and shocked, the sound Bones makes is less like a word and more like the noise you make when someone punches you in the stomach.

Nobody says anything for a minute. But then Bones folds his arms over his chest and leans back in his chair, the way he does when he's got his doctor hat on.

"That's a hell of a thing to get outed for," he says finally. "What did he say?"

Jim shakes his head.

"That mean you don't want to talk about it, or…"

"He's not talking about it. Neither of us is."

Bones frowns. "You're not obligated to talk just because you survived that nightmare. And it sounds like Spock doesn't even want you to, so what's really the problem here?"

Jim stands up and walks over to the window. After a few seconds he lets out a small, exasperated laugh.

"I don't want to hold his hand for this!" His face burns as he says it, but at least he gets the words out. "I wasn't ready for people to know, but--I also feel like I should do it anyway. Get over myself, be supportive. Let him ask questions if he wants, I don't know."

Bones makes a humming noise. "Sounds like you think you owe him something."

Jim shrugs. He doesn't want to say it, but then he doesn't need to, judging from the way Bones's mouth twists.

He says it anyway.

"I don't talk about this because it's not like anything else. I was 12 when I went off-planet the first time. You don't get over stuff that happens to you at that age. It becomes part of who you are. Spock is smart enough to do that math." Jim tries not to sound bitter and fails miserably. "He's the son of a planetary ambassador, he can't have a guy in his family who won't let people throw away food."

"Jim." Bones sounds patient, which he's means he's about to lose his shit. "You know that if anybody else said talked that much horseshit about you in my hearing, I'd pop 'em in the mouth."

His face burns. Bones is right, he's wallowing. But he's wallowing for a reason.

"I'm afraid he'll ask me to confide in him. But if he doesn't ask, I'll be afraid of what that means. Luckily, I should spontaneously combust from sheer humiliation any second now, because this is unacceptably high school, even by my standards."

"In other words: you think you're damaged, and think maybe Spock agrees."

Jim glares. "Maybe I just like my privacy."

"No reason it can't be both." Bones stands up suddenly, shutting down his devices. "C'mon. Get your jacket, the shiny one. I'm taking you on a medically prescribed outing to the Black Hole, where Gaila's gonna sing us Orion folk songs, and you're going to drink exactly three beers."

A weight tumbles off Jim's shoulders. "I only need two."

"You'll drink three. Hey, Nyota's supposed to be there too. Maybe you'll even get a sneak preview of Starfleet's new secret weapon: xenoclassical fusion music."

The only thing he remembers about being eighteen is punching Frank in the face.

Which means that Jim remembers nothing about being eighteen. Because that's not what actually happened.

What happens is that he just stands there for a minute, looking down at Frank. Smelling him. He looks at the stained and faded walls that haven't seen a coat of paint since Jim was born. He thinks about his mother, coming home to this after three years in space.

It's not fucking fair, Jim thinks, as he turns and walks back out the front door. The guy who made his life hell has no right to be this old and weak and pathetic, now that Jim is finally old enough to fight back.

Chapter Text

End of year exams are right around the corner, and every person in Jim's orbit has frazzled nerves. Bones treats cadets for exhaustion and overwork every day when he isn't busy exhausting and overworking himself. Gaila won't speak to anybody unless it's in one of the languages she's going to be tested in. And rumor has it that Uhura disappeared days ago into a library sub-basement with a stack of PADDs, survival gear, and MREs, but no one's brave enough to go check.

Even Spock, who has no exams to take, is harder to get in touch with than usual, having more than doubled his office hours in order to accommodate his illogical, panicking students. Jim's proud of him. He hasn't made anyone cry in weeks, according to Bones.

Spock and Jim have only had one meal together since exams started, and only then because T'sai Amanda went out of her way to acquire both food and her son before depositing both on Jim's doorstep—all on a Saturday night, when Bones just happened to be pulling an all-nighter with his study group, creating a rare pocket of privacy.

Spock had a faraway, faintly troubled look on his face as they tucked into dinner.

"Are you thinking about when your mom brought you food during exams when you were a kid?" Jim asked Spock around a mouthful of noodles.

Spock blinked at the array of hot food and nutritious snacks in Jim's dorm kitchenette like he was reevaluating his childhood. "Such parental solicitousness is not encouraged among Vulcans," he says. "Students are expected to efficiently manage their own sleep and sustenance needs in balance with their studies. I suppose my mother may have found this custom frustrating."

"So what were you thinking about? You made a face."

The implication raised Spock's eyebrow. "I was calculating the probability that my mother collaborated with Leonard to arrange our evening together and finding it to be—high."

Serves Jim right for asking.

A week of medical leave may or may not have fixed Jim's head (Bones has his opinion, but when Jim asks him about it he mostly just grumbles) but all that enforced bed rest left him in pretty good shape for finals, he thinks. At least he's doing better than the third-year down the hall from him who was filmed screaming at a group of noisy cadets in Klingon, and chasing them out of her dorm with an improvised bat'leth made from a curtain rod.

Jim is headed out of the Cochrane building after History of the Federation, which is his last class of the day and almost his last class of the semester. The halls are swarming with a blur of indistinguishable red uniforms, peppered here and there with black. Outside the sun is shining, he's got the entire afternoon free, and Bones is waiting in the courtyard to meet him for lunch. Jim's got a little spring in his step.

He should have known it couldn't last.

"Admiral Barnett wants to see you right away," says an adjutant in a grey uniform, stepping neatly out of the red swarm to block Jim's path mere feet away from the building exit.

Barnett's office is on the other side of campus, but the lieutenant, helpfully, has a car waiting. Jim slings Bones a note on his comm and leans back in his seat, trying not to chew the inside of his mouth.

"I don't make a habit of getting involved in the personal lives or family affairs of Academy cadets," Barnett declares as soon as Jim steps into his office, hat under his arm. He doesn't even have time to salute, which might be intentional. "Cadets from 'Fleet families, especially. Gets messy as hell. But in this case…" Barnett meets his eyes and shrugs heavily. "She called in a favor."

A cold feeling starts in Jim's stomach. "'She', sir?"

"Your mother wants a word, Cadet. Next time, save us both the hassle and answer your voicemails." Barnet rises from his desk and pulls the chair back, indicating that Jim should take his seat.

Not knowing what else to do, Jim takes it. If he vomits all over the admiral's desk, maybe Barnett will think twice about acting as Winona Kirk's go-between in the future.

"My assistant will put you through when you're ready," Barnett tells him. For a second he looks like he's thinking about patting Jim on the shoulder, but thinks better of it and shuts the office door behind him.

For a minute, Jim just sits there, watching the globe spin in the middle of the Federation logo screen saver. He thinks about messaging Bones again, or Spock. Anyone.

He taps the screen, and Admiral Barnett's assistant appears for just a moment. Then the screen goes so dark that his eyes have to adjust before he can make out the Human figure sitting on the edge of a bed in a dimly lit starship berth.

"Jim," says his mother.

Jim stares.

"Can you hear me?" she says.

The collar of his cadet reds feels like it's strangling him. Jim's shoulders go back in a semblance of attention. "Yes ma'am, I hear you loud and clear."

Her lips become a thin line."Jesus, Jimmy, I didn't call to pull rank."

No one's called him Jimmy since he was a child. His stomach twists. "Why did you call?" he says.

Winona stares at him silently for so long that Jim starts to wonder if the transmission froze. "Frank confessed," she says finally.

"To what?"

"To everything. In exchange for more lenient sentencing." Her mouth is a thin, unhappy line.

Jim just stares some more.

He was twelve last time he saw her. She'd been wearing her off duty blacks then, too, like she mostly did during her brief stints in Riverside. Like she was ready to sprint back to life in the service at a moment's notice.

She looks strangely young, but too thin, mouth set into grim lines. Jim bets this call is cutting into her rack time.

"He lied to me," Winona continues. "All this time, I believed him." She pinches the bridge of her nose. "I don't know if you're old enough to get this yet, but when you were a kid, I was chief engineer on the Amistad on a five year mission in deep space. I didn't have time to sleep, let alone keep tabs on what was happening back home. I had to trust Frank. I couldn't hold the ship together and worry about whether I'd left my kids with the wrong person." She slumps. "Frank and I grew up together. I swore I knew him."

Jim feels for her, just as he always has. But this time, when he feels the familiar dull ache of don't be sad, Mom, anger blooms alongside it.

"Cool story," he says. "Hey, did I tell you the one where your pal Frank was trying to feel me up, and ended up tearing the arm off my Seven Sisters reunion tour t-shirt?"

Winona sighs.

"Trick question," says Jim. "You knew. I told you everything, and you decided I was lying."

"You were a goddamn baby, and you lied all the time, you know you did—"

"About breaking Grandpa Jim's clock, not about—"

"You hated Frank—"

"He was a creep, Commander, no shit I hated him."

"And don't tell me you didn't exaggerate—" She touches her forehead. Her shoulders fall, like she suddenly remembered that victim blaming went out with the 21st century. "Sorry. I didn't—it's not an excuse."

Jim studies the framed medals on the far wall of Admiral Barnett's office and times his breathing. He's not letting himself have a panic attack in front of her, and he's not cutting the call first.

Winona looks down. Everything about her, from the glint of light in her gold and silver hair, to the stubborn, miserable hunch of her shoulders, is familiar to Jim from his own reflection in the mirror.

"I'm sorry about the message I left last week," she says, in a quiet voice. "That was a hell of a way to say hi after a decade."

In the privacy of his own head, Jim concurs.

"Barnett says you're top of your class. Figures. Your dad was that way. Like a stack of books on legs."

Jim swallows, throat tight.

"If you ever need anything," she says, then stops. "Look, I know I'm not much of a mother. I know that. I don't expect forgiveness. But we're both Fleet now. There isn't a corner of the known galaxy where I can't call in a favor or lean on somebody. When you've got a ship of your own—" Jim tries hard not to react, but the gleam in her eye sees and recognizes the hunger in his. "A day will come when you might need a miracle. When that happens, remember you can call me. Shitty parent or not, I'm in your corner."

She swallows. "That's all I wanted to say. Kirk out."

The transmission cuts to black. Jim doesn't move. Eventually, Admiral Barnett's monitor goes dark, and the screensaver starts running again.

Jim sits there for a long time, watching the world spin.

*

Days go by. Routine sweeps Jim along, enabling him to survive on a kind of autopilot. Jim thinks about his exam-prep schedule, and resolutely thinks of nothing else. Not about his mom, or Frank, or the upcoming embassy dinner and the fact that linguists from the Vulcan Science Academy have arrived in San Francisco and are eager to meet the author of K'diwa, according to T'sai Amanda's latest message. He's not thinking about that awkward personal conversation he's due to have with Spock soon. He's keeping his head down, getting through exams, and when all that's over... Well, then he'll do whatever he needs to do to get his head right.

It's a decent strategy until it fails, catastrophically. Three days in a row Jim wakes up hours before his alarm with a racing pulse, pillow damp with cold sweat.

He's having dreams again. About Tarsus.

The history books, the classified Starfleet briefs, not to mention the endless po-faced documentaries, they all use the same sanitized images to illustrate the horrors of Tarsus. There's the official portrait of Kodos that had been displayed in all of the colony's administrative buildings; then the press photos of the crew of the Shenzhou standing outside the landing shuttle in Prosperity Square; three skeletal children being fussed over by a dozen medics in a sterile white tent; a row of deserted houses in the main suburb, doors left standing open in the frantic rush to flee the mass arrests.

The most famous image of all reveals the inside of a warehouse containing Kodos's golden hoard: over 5000 crates of nonperishable food items, the walls lined with temperature controlled cases full of meat and dairy. Because the crop failure had been real, but the crisis had been the invention of a eugenicist who hadn't needed an excuse so much as a pretext to commit mass murder. The entire point of the Tarsus colony was to fulfil Kodos's lifelong dream of having an isolated population under his control to cull according to his theories of genetic purity. People who weren't there get confused about this sometimes. Jim's been in a bar fight or two with grad students having a few drinks and boring their friends with their theories about how people like Kodos are just misunderstood.

But Jim's not having nightmares about Kodos, or the shuttle, or the arrests. He isn't one of the kids pictured in the hospital tent either, despite what Pike thinks. (They've never discussed it, but he'd left that photo out of his presentation the year he gave the Tarsus lecture to Jim's cadet class.) Jim wasn't there to see it when Starfleet arrived. His whole group got captured miles away from the main settlement a few days before the Shenzhou made landfall.

Jim's group was five kids, down from eight at the start. Weak and sick after six months of stealing and foraging and starving, they'd been lucky to evade the patrols for as long as they had. By the time Starfleet discovered the barracks and the crematorium, Jim and Kevin and Tom and the others had been imprisoned without food or water for over 36 hours. The ensign who phasered open the lock on their door had turned away to vomit quietly when he thought they weren't looking. Captain Georgiou kept Federation media outlets away from the barracks after that. There are no pictures of Jim in the official histories of Tarsus.

Jim used to dream about all those months of hiding, being hunted, scrabbling in the dirt for roots or to dig graves for the ones that lay down at night and didn't get up again. He doesn't even resent it anymore; everyone has anxiety dreams, right?

But lately, Jim dreams about being 12, pressing his nose to the window of the shuttle during takeoff, craning his neck as they begin their ascent so he can spot the edge of the McDowell Boundary, maybe pick the orbital station out from a distance. He dreams about being 12 and thrilling with hope, because that shuttle is taking him to meet the freighter that will take him to Tarsus: a strange new world where Frank will never set foot or draw a single breath of air.

The reality of his escape, and the abundance of his new freedom fizzes in Jim's blood. He looks out at the stars where he was born, and thinks, Everything on Earth went wrong for me because this is where I belong.

And then he wakes up with tears burning in his eyes, choking on his sadness and loss, even as shame churns in his gut. He was happy on Tarsus until he wasn't; that is the truth he's never told anyone. He wearily identifies the dreams as the emotional backlash of having to think and talk so much about Frank lately, and beyond that tries not to overanalyze them. The early wake ups are a chance to do more studying. Luckily, Bones is too distracted by end-of-semester chaos to notice that Jim is sometimes upright and fumbling with his PADD at 0500 or earlier.

On the day of his last exam, Jim gets taken aside by Sulu, his TA in xenobotany, and handed his results in private.

"One hundred and twelve percent. Well done, Cadet." Sulu holds the serious expression of Official Approval for a beat, then smirks. "But uh, maybe you should get some sleep before you try to like, operate heavy machinery."

Jim looks down at the PADD with his graded essay and swallows the dread in his heart. At first he doesn't see the problem, but then he reads the first two words of what is otherwise an impressive piece of academic writing. Dear sweetheart swims in his vision for a moment.

"Well Sulu, this is a shame." Jim tucks the PADD under his arm. "I was looking forward to serving with you one day, but now, obviously, I'm going to have to kill you."

Sulu hikes an unimpressed eyebrow. "The shape you're in right now, Kirk, that's not even a threat."

By the time Jim stumbles out of the lecture hall, he's reached the stage of sleep deprivation where he doesn't feel tired so much as high. His skin feels like it's humming. He's still running on autopilot, but with his last exam complete, autopilot just dumps him outdoors on a bench in a patch of sunshine and abandons him.

The bench is fine, Jim decides. His liberty, for all practical purposes, begins now. San Francisco's his oyster. He can sit on a bench if he wants to.

He ends up dozing off with his arms wrapped awkwardly around his torso, chin resting on his sternum, held upright by stiff muscles that have been locked into position without rest for days.

Eventually, a hand comes to rest on his shoulder.

Jim opens his eyes to find Spock kneeling next to him, peering at his face with concern in his warm dark eyes.

"Hi, Spock." Jim smiles, sits up, and rolls his neck. "On your way to class?"

"My duties are concluded for the day. I am going home." Spock finds Jim's hand and tugs until Jim is on his feet, his free arm dangling awkwardly at his side. "And I am taking you with me."

*

Spock carries the fresh cup of tea into the bedroom and places it with care on the small table next to his bed, before arranging himself upright on the mattress with his legs extended before him and his back against the headboard. As the mattress compresses under his weight, Jim, tucked under the covers on the left side of the bed, shifts in his sleep and turns onto his side, as if seeking Spock's warmth.

Spock does not customarily consume beverages in sleeping areas. However, he is accustomed to having tea as he grades papers, and he prefers to remain with Jim while he works. The bedside table, he concludes, was no doubt invented to solve this very dilemma.

They had taken the campus shuttle to the stop nearest Spock's apartment and walked the rest of the way. Jim had been borderline incoherent during the journey, mumbling monosyllabic replies to Spock's inquiries. Alarming behavior, but Spock has witnessed the effects of academic overexertion in humans before. Once they reached the apartment, Jim went directly to the bedroom and collapsed across the covers fully clothed with his feet planted on the floor. Spock had interfered only to arrange Jim more comfortably and cover him with a blanket.

Seeing so little of Jim this past week had troubled Spock. The separation could not be helped, but Spock had felt Jim's absence keenly. And his concern that Jim would push the limits of his recovery had not been unwarranted, it would seem.

Even so, sleep is likely to be Jim's most serious and pressing need, and this is being tended to. There is no cause for anxiety. They are together, and they will be well.

Now is the time for Spock to consider what lies ahead, and clarify his thoughts.

Sarek has requested that he return to Vulcan for a period over the summer academic break. As Spock has not returned to Vulcan since he was a cadet, this would be no hardship, but Sarek's invitation had included Jim. Most pointedly.

In what he suspects a human would identify as a subconscious effort to avoid thinking about why Sarek wants Jim to come to Vulcan, Spock grades forty-seven exams from his ethics course (including, with some relief, Leonard McCoy's at 96%). He finishes his tea. Twice, Jim wakes long enough to change sleeping positions; the second time, Spock rests his free hand on Jim's arm until he subsides and grows still again.

A recent communication from his mother indicates that a delegation of linguists from the Vulcan Science Academy arrived in San Francisco last week, specifically to research the document known amongst Vulcans by the inflectionless title of Dunap.

Presenting themselves at the embassy, these linguists had been surprised to discover that the human author of Dunap was not only known to the Vulcan staff, but was rumored to be the intended bondmate of the ambassador's own son. The dinner which Spock and Jim and most of the rest of their acquaintances are to attend at the embassy in three days' time had been arranged by Spock's mother in part to effect an introduction between Jim and the VSA delegation. They will almost certainly offer Jim a contract for limited publication of his work. To further research, of course.

Before that happens, it is imperative that Spock have the opportunity to present his case to Jim. Among the delegation will be several highly respected scholars. There exists the small chance that one of them might win Jim's favor, unless Spock secures a commitment from him first.

Suddenly, Jim's PADD chimes. Spock moves swiftly into the front room and retrieves Jim's bag from the chair nearest the door, unwilling to allow a notification from—Spock checks—Kandy Klingons 2! to disturb Jim's repose.

The screen lights up when Spock touches it; Jim has not locked the device. A fact which would most likely be of no interest to Spock at all, if the name of the file open in the background were not k'diwa.

I must not, Spock thinks, even as he taps to unblur the text.

Spock's actions are logical and harmless. He merely wishes to know if Jim is continuing his revisions to the text. And to estimate, if he can, how long it will be until the new edition is distributed for publication. He is not intentionally violating Jim's privacy by, for instance, prying into his personal messages. K'diwa is a novel, a work of art, and Jim has become reconciled to sharing it with the public.

The title, Spock notes, is written in Vulcan script, which is not installed as a default font on Starfleet issue PADDs.

There is a bookmark that will take him to the place of Jim's most recent edit. Spock swallows and taps it.

"Well I don't know how it works where you're from—"

"—I am from Vulcan," he said, aware that he was betraying consternation but somehow unable to control himself.

"—but Human scholarship is founded on intuitive pattern recognition. We can't amass raw data in the sheer quantities Vulcans do, we don't live long enough. We collect and process a lot of information subconsciously, and then the conclusion presents itself to our conscious mind. The methodology is hidden, but—"

"Excuse us," says Stoval to a porter who warily eyes the gesticulating Ophelia as he navigates around them in the narrow corridor.

"—that doesn't make the technique unsound. Not inherently, at least, I mean there are idiots in every species and some of them go into academia and research fields, but you can't…"

Abruptly, Ophelia halted. The dauntless river of prattle ceased, leaving a rough, unfinished silence in its wake. The corridor ahead of them is empty, but her eyes widen as though she has seen something alarming.

"Did you intend to finish your sentence?" Stoval says politely.

She tilts her head as if straining to hear a distant noise. There are none, to his senses, but perhaps he does not know what to listen for.

"Did anything about that porter seem weird to you?" says Ophelia.

"What are you reading?" says Jim's voice from the doorway.

Only a lifetime of finely honed Vulcan reflexes prevents Spock from throwing the PADD across the room.

"I did not hear you get up," he says, setting the PADD aside with controlled mannerisms that conceal his guilt flawlessly.

"I'm sneaky like that."

Spock stands and takes Jim by the shoulders, looking into his face. Jim endures the scrutiny with a small smile and an air of indulgent patience. He has dark circles under his eyes, but the worrying disorientation he displayed in the courtyard is gone.

They had exchanged multiple messages daily, but only to exchange brief greetings and status updates and text glyphs intended to convey affection. Prior to spotting Jim in the courtyard, Spock had not see him in person for almost a week. Spock does not think that either of them suffered harm, but Jim's appearance has changed in several distinct ways, and Spock finds himself cataloguing the differences while Jim stands there agreeably, struggling to restrain a smile.

Only Spock's implicit reliance upon the small network of devoted friends that surround Jim had enabled him to tolerate the necessary period of separation without succumbing to lapses in judgment. Any danger to his well-being that Leonard did not diagnose, he trusted Gaila would intuit, or Nyota would observe. Nor was Jim in the hands of cadets only. The familial bond he shares with Sakal is a safeguard, as well as a source of stability in itself. Any serious difficulty Jim encountered, Sakal would be aware of. If he lacked the resources to help, he would apply to Sarek or Amanda, who would provide all that was needful.

Over and over, Spock consoled himself with these logical assurances. But the longing for physical proximity, for visual and tactile confirmation of Jim's well-being, had not abated or diminished.

"You are in need of a haircut," Spock murmurs, brushing his fingertips along Jim's nape. Jim shudders. "You are in danger of exceeding regulations. You have also lost two kilograms in body mass."

"Rough week," Jim admits, leaning into Spock. "No time for haircuts."

"Haircuts may be postponed without danger to your health, but the same cannot be said for the consumption of meals."

Jim starts at this, his reaction more pronounced than Spock had anticipated. "I ate," he protests, an intensity and heat behind the word that does not seem, to Spock, wholly justified.

"Will you eat with me now?" he ventures.

"Yeah, okay."

Spock steers Jim into the kitchen and convinces him to sit at the table, instead of darting around the small kitchen "helping", a process which mostly hampers Spock's ability to work but provides ample opportunity to brush Jim's arm or hip in passing.

"May I inquire whether you have yet made arrangements for your housing during the summer intersession?" says Spock, as he begins washing and preparing fruit for them to share.

"No. Bones and I sublet a place last summer from a guy we knew who was shipping out on the Hood. Actually, I should talk to him about this, the dorms are closing soon."

"I have already made arrangements to secure an apartment for Leonard." Spock arranges banana slices, pieces of melon, grapefruit quarters, and cucumber spears on a board and carries it to the table, without acknowledging the stunned look he is receiving from Jim.

"You what?"

Spock looks over his shoulder, arching an interrogative eyebrow. "Given that he is employed by Starfleet in his capacity as a doctor, it is illogical that he was not given permanent accommodation when first he arrived on campus."

"He signed on last minute, and then he met me. But—wait, so does Bones know you're doing this?"

"His custody agreement with his ex-wife has been altered greatly in Leonard's favor, and he now requires a home in San Francisco where he may receive his daughter for lengthy visits. Since I am indirectly responsible for the sudden change in Leonard's circumstances, it seemed fitting that I also assist in this matter. With examinations to prepare for, he could not have devoted adequate time to the problem. For myself, however, it was a simple matter of taking a moment to speak personally with the quartermaster's office. Once I explained the situation to her adjutant, she was swift to take action."

"I bet she was. I notice you didn't answer my question, though."

"I did not think it wise to disturb Leonard until—"

"Until exams were over, right. That's ok, I'm sure Bones will be extremely chill and normal about this."

"You are using a tone of sarcasm."

"Not at all, Commander."

Spock lifts an eyebrow, but does not look at Jim because he is programming the tea kettle. The tea he is serving will not release abundant flavinoids unless the the water is heated to a precise temperature.

"Leonard is emotional and illogical, but he is highly intelligent." The water begins to heat. "He can have no reasonable objection to my actions or to my involvement."

Jim nods. "When you tell him about this, you should definitely use those exact words."

"I will, if you advise it."

Spock removes the kettle from the heating element and fills the teapot, then carries the pot to the table before returning to the kitchen for cups. When the tea has steeped for precisely three minutes, he will pour.

In the mean time he folds his hands and steels his resolution.

"I did not intend that Leonard should be the focus of our conversation."

"Oh?"

"The apartment Leonard has been assigned is two floors above this one and it is functionally identical to my own. If you wish to share quarters with Leonard, as you have been accustomed to doing, there is room for you there. However, my own apartment also has a second bedroom, and if you move in with me, Leonard will have the luxury of setting aside a room for his daughter's exclusive use."

"I…" Jim looks at him as if he is waiting for further information. "Are you asking me to be your roommate, Spock?"

"As you are my intended, there are many reasons why I wish for you to live under my roof." He meets Jim's eyes for a searing moment. "I hope that our cohabitation will differ in...several ways from your life with Leonard in the cadet dormitories."

Jim's light blue eyes grow suddenly dark. "I see." He leans back in his chair. "In that case, I would love to live here with you, Spock. That's all I'm agreeing to, though, right? Living together doesn't automatically make us married in Vulcan tradition, or something."

"You have lived among Vulcans, Jim. What do you think?"

Jim smiles. "Yeah, I was kidding. I know how Vulcans marry."

Spock tilts his head. Jim puts a hand on the table.

"There was a Vulcan boy in the village who liked me. You don't need to flare your nostrils, Spock, it was a long time ago."

Spock straightens, unwilling to admit that the movement had been involuntary. "What was his name?"

"I don't remember," Jim lies.

Spock narrows his eyes.

"His family approached Sakal about bonding the two of us. Sakal told me what it would mean both in the short term and...in the future."

Jim raises his eyebrows repeatedly; the verb, Spock thinks, is waggle.

"It is a thing we do not speak of to outworlders," he say stiffly. "But I suppose you hardly qualify as such. I take it that you refused this Vulcan youth who liked you."

"I didn't like the way he looked at me." Jim averts his eyes. "He wasn't a bad guy. But it was only three months after Tarsus. I never wanted anyone to look at me that way again."

Spock lifts his tea cup hastily, to cover his mouth. The porcelain clinks hard against the glass tabletop.

"You knew I was a Tarsus survivor," Jim says, in a peculiar flat voice that creates horripilation along the flesh of his arms. "Right?"

The quality of the silence that follows this statement is peculiar, as though the room were filled with observers, all holding their breath.

"I had been aware," says Spock. "I did not believe you would wish to speak of it."

"Sakal give it away?"

Jim's brittle tone makes Spock sit up straighter. "Negative. On the morning of the day that Gary Mitchell assaulted you, you described to me your first meeting with T'Silla aboard the Shenzhou. I was already aware of the role that the Shenzhou played in the relief of Tarsus, as I have covered materials related to the famine and genocide of the popular in my ethics classes. You described yourself as being a resident of the ship's sickbay, physically and mentally traumatized in the aftermath of an event too complicated to discuss casually over chess. The connection between these facts seemed plain enough."

Jim's eyes dart right. He frowns. "My memories of that morning are patchy. I remember being in the park with you and having a good time, but...there are holes."

Spock had declared his intentions to Jim that morning over that chess game. He had revealed to Jim the effect that reading K'diwa had upon his thoughts and emotions. All things considered it is not surprising that Jim carries lingering effects from the assault perpetrated upon his mind. To Spock, however, the morning of their chess game is a nearly perfect memory, and it grieves him that Jim no longer shares it.

Jim's hands are out of sight, under the table. Spock settles for pressing his foot alongside Jim's foot, too hungry for physical contact to care if the gesture is awkward.

Tension seems to leave Jim all at once. His shoulders slump, and when he looks at Spock his red-rimmed eyes are warm. Spock senses, without quite knowing how, that he has narrowly averted a crisis.

"I know moving in together doesn't make us married," says Jim. "But when our fathers find out, they are definitely going to start asking when we plan to bond."

"You are more right than you know. Sarek has already indicated his belief that I am 'dragging my feet'."

"Really?"

"It was a truly alarming conversation. I did not believe I would ever see him reduced to using Human idioms."

"T'Vael is already researching the history of Vulcan bridal attire. All I'm saying is that if anyone shows up in a silver minidress, it should be you. You've got the legs for it."

When they have consumed as much fruit and tea as they desire, they decide mutually to move to the sofa. "Let me just check my messages," says Jim, reaching for his bag.

Spock nearly succumbs to a nervous gesture, such as throat clearing. "You will find your PADD on the table."

"Oh, was it going off while I was asleep?"

"I removed your PADD from your bag in order to silence it, yes. However, I must confess that I also read a portion of your most recent draft of K'diwa."

Jim stares at him, open-mouthed.

"You are displeased with my actions."

"Uh, no, not really. It's not a big deal."

"The facial expression you are exhibiting would suggest otherwise," says Spock carefully.

"I just…" Jim rakes his fingers through the overly long hair on the top of his head, a gesture Spock instantly wishes to copy. "I just wanted to make it better before you read any more of it. The draft Gary leaked wasn't even proofread. You care about this story, and I guess I wanted to show you what I could do when I was actually trying."

"I am sorry, Jim." Ashamed, Spock looks down. "I read only 215 words. I promise to read no more until I have your permission."

Jim's mouth twists. "Which part did you read?"

"The relevant passage is still visible on your PADD."

Uncertain what to make of the change in Jim's mood, Spock watches as he retrieves the device and taps the screen. "You just read this one bit? This part is okay, actually. I just added it because it's more dramatic if Stovak and Ophelia are together the first time she sees Horff."

"I agree," says Spock, cautious.

"Want to read the rest of that chapter? It's just a few more paragraphs, but at least you won't be stopping on a cliffhanger."

Spock frowns. "If you are certain, then the answer is yes. I am always eager to read your work."

Blushing faintly, Jim passes the PADD to Spock, whose eyes dart immediately back to his place.

"Did something about that porter seem weird to you?" says Ophelia.

Stoval had scarcely glanced at the porter. "I could not say."

"He was in kind of a big hurry. And when he looked at me, I thought for a second…"

All at once, the light went out of Ophelia's face. The effect was startling: her spine straightened; her chin lifted. Had they been in a public area, Stoval would have examined the environment for signs of conflict, since Ophelia seemed to be bracing herself for a physical altercation. As it was, they were standing in a deserted corridor, having walked some distance away from the lecture hall where the other conference attendees were gathered.

"The banquet hall is located on the other side of the orbital station," Stoval reminded her, when she started walking again.

"Yeah, you should hurry, you don't want to be late."

"I do not understand."

Ophelia spun around to face him, but she did not stop. Rather, she walked backwards, a bewildering spectacle that stopped Stovak in his tracks.

"Look, Stoval," she said. "You were right all along. I should have conceded your superior logic from the beginning."

This statement made very little sense. He suspected that she was attempting to, in the Human idiom, "get rid of" him.

"But thanks for the spirited debate, it made the conference way less boring!" she called. "Enjoy the banquet!"

Stoval could think of no reply to this before Ophelia rounded a corner and disappeared from sight.

A few moments later, the screaming started.

Spock swallows and lowers the PADD, mastering the impulse to continue scrolling past the chapter division. "I fail to see how the end of the chapter was any less of a 'cliffhanger'."

"Oops." Jim collapses back onto the sofa with a decided smirk on his face.

"I trust, in any case, that Stovak's next actions will be in keeping with his established characterization as a logical Vulcan."

"Enlighten me: what would a logical Vulcan do next?"

Spock is aware that Jim is amusing himself at his expense, but the question is reasonable, and Spock rises to the challenge.

"Given his regard for Ophelia, his awareness of her vulnerabilities, and her own foolishly noble attempt to shield him from the same danger she herself is rushing into, Stovak has no choice but to follow after her in order to ensure that she meets with no harm."

"What makes you think he has any regard for her? They just met, this scene happens in chapter 2."

"And yet, Stoval's regard for Ophelia is apparent from their first exchange of dialogue."

"The first exchange, really." Jim sits up, amused skepticism giving way to curiosity. "The one where he's like, 'Greetings, I corrected the astronavigational math in your poem about a collapsing supernova,' and she yells at him for not understanding metaphors?"

Spock lifts his chin. "If Stoval's interest in Ophelia's work was merely professional in nature, he would not have sought her out in person. A comm would have sufficed for sharing his analysis. Likewise, her response, though overly emotional, was not dismissive. She showed herself unimpressed by his offerings, yet still willing to be engaged. It is therefore logical that he will continue his attempts to positively influence her opinion of him."

Jim studies Spock through narrow eyes. "So you're saying—as a reader—that from your perspective, Stoval is obviously hot for Ophelia before he meets her? How does that even work?"

"Given the similarities between yourself and your protagonist, it is logical to assume that Stoval experienced the same sense of connection with Ophelia's poetry that I felt with your novel."

Jim looks at him with a surprise and intensity that Spock does not understand at first. Spock has already explained all of this to him. But of course; this must be among the memories Jim lost.

He crosses the room to the sofa and sits, angled to see Jim's face. Their knees touch. The shadow cast by the lamp shade veils Jim's expression.

This time, Spock does not quell the impulse to reach for Jim, nor does Jim resist. The warm, solid feeling of Jim's hand in his grounds him.

"I have told you this before, but I will tell you again, as many times as necessary.

"The book you have written is as a vessel which houses a piece of your katra, your eternal self. To read K'diwa was therefore to feel that I knew you. Immersed in the story, I felt that I was sharing an intangible space with someone I recognized. Someone possessing a dynamic mind, a questing spirit, and a gentle, but wounded heart. I felt also...known, in return. It was as if you had looked into my mind across time and space in order to reflect my innermost thoughts back to me from the pages of your book."

"Spock," Jim mutters, and Spock is fascinated to realize that he is blushing. It is not the first time he has blushed in Spock's presence, but Jim did not blush when Spock uttered these sentiments during their chess game. Perhaps then he had still been too uncertain of Spock, their acquaintance too new.

"I swiftly conceived the strong desire to search you out in person. To speak with you. To...make certain that you were not in any need. Your story had given me such comfort that it seemed as if you must know the source of my every wound. For that very reason, I sensed that you yourself had known little of comfort or kindness in your life."

"H-how do you figure?" Jim's voice hitches.

"Imagination is sharpest when hunger is keenest. It often happens that those who have known suffering develop depths of compassion that would terrify others. To have imagined in such accurate and precise detail the suffering of each character—Stovak in his sterile loneliness, Ophelia in her yearning for love and safety, Arria in her terror that she and her family will again be taken captive—and to gift each of them, not with perfect happiness, but with—"

"Comfort." Jim's voice is hoarse.

"Yes."

"I wrote about people who were suffering so I could make the suffering stop."

"Yes." Spock releases a long sigh of relief, content that he has made himself understood. "That is it precisely."

Jim turns his face aside and rubs his eyes. Spock lifts Jim's hands in both of his and presses his lips to the warm flushed skin.

The emotions bleeding through their connection are none that Spock has names for. It is as if his words have exposed a wound that needed only to be seen in order to be healed; the pain is sweet, and it binds Jim to him more closely instead of driving him back into the darkness alone.

"You see now why it was essential that I find you," Spock says softly. "To know that such a person existed in the world, and not wish to know them, to cherish them...it would have been impossible."

Jim's face crumples. He tries to pull his hand free to cover himself, but Spock will not let him. Instead, he draws Jim down into his arms, presses Jim's face into his shoulder, and holds him as tightly as he dares.

When Jim is no longer trembling, Spock murmurs in his ear. "Jim, there is something I wish to ask of you."

"Yes?" says Jim, in a thin voice.

"I believe that the Vulcan Science Academy wishes to formally publish K'diwa. I have no objections if you wish to accept such a contract, but I request that you permit me, and no other, to translate K'diwa into Vulcan."

I have overstepped, Spock thinks, when Jim again begins to shake in his arms. Perhaps Jim wished to translate his own work and now believes that I think poorly of his language skills.

Air passes violently through Jim's nasal passages. "You are laughing," says Spock.

"Am I?"

"I see no cause for humor. Your grasp of Vulcan is admirable, but there are nuances which a native speaker—I believe that noise is referred to as a snort. It does not flatter you."

"Spock." Jim looks up at him, pink and smiling with damp, dark eyes. "Why would I let anyone else be my translator, when you're the only one who really understands me?"

There is nothing Spock can say to this. He keeps his silence, and puts his lips, and Jim's, to better use.