Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Part I

When I leave, I don't know what I'm hoping to find,

And when I leave, I don't know what I'm leaving behind.

~Rush, Analog Kid

“I don’t think you like the fact that I beat your test.”

Spock stared at the young man, too taken aback to respond for a moment. Beat the test? One did not beat a test; one passed or failed, and failure to accept the test conditions seemed to be an obvious case of failing. It was almost a moot point for that reason. A cadet’s score had little to do with whether they had saved the crew of the Kobayashi Maru or their own ship, only with how they had handled the situation.

Eating an apple in the center seat and performing “finger guns” would not have earned Cadet Kirk a high score in any event. It was a test of character, and the cadet had demonstrated none.

But hacking the Academy computers and demonstrating such disrespect had to be disciplined in some way, or the cadet—to say nothing of others—would take it as encouragement. That had been Spock’s argument and the Academy dean had accepted it.

The debate went on—and it was, somehow, a debate, rather than the trial it should have been. The cadet’s insubordination was somewhat shocking. Spock had to consciously remember not to become angry.

An aide entered, handing a note to Admiral Barnett. The admiral abruptly rose to his feet. “We’ve detected unusual subspace activity within Earth’s Oort cloud, on the fringes of the solar system. I’m giving orders for the home fleet to scramble. Might be nothing, but with the main fleet engaged in the Laurentian System, it’s protocol to arrange a robust defense. All senior cadets, report to Hangar One for ship assignments.”

Spock turned to go, but not before seeing Kirk bounding up to Captain Pike. Of course. Just as the cadet would not accept the parameters of the test, neither would he accept his own academic probation. The young man seemed to believe rules existed for other people.

“Jim, I know you care,” said Pike. “Everyone in this building cares, but I’ve got a job to do and you’re keeping me from it.”

“I’ll walk with you,” said Jim eagerly. 

Pike rolled his eyes in the usual why did I recruit this kid expression. “Fine. Walk fast.”

“I need to know what kind of subspace activity we’re talking about. Chronitons, spatial folding, or what?”

“You think you’re going to solve this on the walk over? We have our best minds on it already.”

“Not if you don’t have mine.” Jim skipped a little to keep up with Pike’s long strides without taking his eyes off Pike’s face. It was no time for humility, not with a credible threat less than a lightyear away.

Pike sighed. “Apparently it looks like a lightning storm in space. Till we send a ship in close, we can’t say more.”

“A lightning storm in space,” repeated Jim. “You know what that sounds like.”

“I’m guessing that’s why the fleet scramble instead of sending out just one ship. If it is the ship that killed your father, we’ll need all the firepower we can get.”

“I’m afraid it won’t be enough,” said Jim. “The firepower that thing had—I read your thesis, you know.”

Pike spread his hands. “I don’t know what else to do. It would take a week for the main fleet to get here.”

“Distress call to Vulcan?”

“Even that’s days. And the High Council gets pretty salty when we cry wolf.”

“Best to at least keep them posted. Say we leave it up to their judgment and then if it turns out to be nothing, they’ve got nobody to blame but themselves if they sent a ship.”

“Advising on anomalies is one thing, kid, nobody at all is going to ask your advice on interplanetary diplomacy,” said Pike. Jim waited. “But fine, I’ll suggest it to Barnett if it’ll make you happy.”

“Thanks.” The massive door of the hangar yawned ahead. It could have been his first real assignment in space, the first that wasn’t a training mission. Getting out there for real, on the ship he’d always dreamed of. Out to the stars. But he’d let the Academy’s idiocy get to him a little too much, and they had to get their pound of flesh before they’d get over it. “Well, good luck.”

Pike stopped and looked at him. Jim tried and probably failed not to make puppy eyes. With an exasperated look heavenward, Pike waved him forward. “I can’t reinstate you. I’ll take you as a passenger. Not as a reward for that asshole stunt, by the way. Just because another set of brains can’t be spared in an emergency.”

“Especially not if they’re mine?” said Jim.

“Don’t push your luck.”

Spock could not restrain himself from raising an eyebrow when he saw Kirk following Captain Pike onto the bridge. “Captain. Only the board can lift an academic suspension.”

James Kirk did not belong on the bridge, Spock felt strongly. What would he do, eat an apple at the enemy? Attempt to reprogram the universe to make it easy for himself?

But Pike only said, “He's still suspended, don't worry, Spock. He's here as a consultant. If it's what I think it might be, we'll need him.”

Spock looked at Kirk, expecting a look of triumph that he had won his point and received no consequences for his behavior. Instead, Kirk seemed oblivious of the whole conversation, staring anxiously out the viewscreen.

“If he's moving inbound, we'd better be careful not to overshoot,” he said softly to Pike. One hand was on the back of the captain's chair, since he had no seat of his own.

“Captain, what do you think it might be?” asked Spock.

Pike grimaced. “I might be getting ahead of myself. Seeing what I expect to, just because it's on my mind.”

Spock waited, not looking away.

“The anomaly is similar to the one that accompanied the ship that destroyed the Kelvin,” Pike said at last. “I know, what are the odds that it would show up right when we were talking about it.”

“No higher than the odds that it would show up at any given moment,” Spock pointed out. “I cannot calculate the precise odds of the ship appearing since it has only happened once before, but it is safe to say our discussion of it could not make it less likely to appear.”

Pike half-smiled. “Can't argue with your logic. So you agree we should get there with shields up and weapons ready?”

“I would have recommended so in any case, especially given the listening post that first sent the alarm has gone dark. There is no downside to being excessively prepared.”

“Embarrassing ourselves in front of the Farragut?”

“Embarrassment is an emotion with which I am unfamiliar.”

Pike grinned. “Must be nice.” But he gave the orders to raise shields and proceed at maximum impulse.

They never made it to the coordinates of the lightning storm. They stumbled onto an active battle just inside Mars’s orbit, the home fleet’s other ships torn by a single massive, spiky ship. The ship was still moving sunward, toward Earth, batting off attacks from the home fleet like they were flies.

“That's it,” said Jim, frozen for a moment in awe. He'd seen the Kelvin’s tapes, up to the moment the last shuttle had left. He'd know that ship anywhere.

“Or a ship of the same class,” Pike pointed out.

“You really think the Romulans could build two ships like that?”

“I wouldn't have thought they could build one,” Pike muttered.

But then they were closing on the enemy, and everything was the chaos of evasive maneuvers and strafing runs. It reminded him of the Maru—the first, panicked attempt, when he'd thought it was just a matter of doing everything right.

The strange whirling torpedoes slammed into the ships of the home fleet. The Farragut hung at a skewed angle, dead in the water. A piece of the Hood’s saucer section had come off. A firework burst of life pods scattered from the Antares before it bloomed in a silent explosion.

This was real life. Those were real people. Gaila was on the Farragut.

“We are drastically outmatched, Captain,” said Spock.

“I'm aware,” Pike snapped. “Recommendations, anyone!”

“Do what my dad did while the autopilot still works,” said Jim.

“We need to do more than buy time. The Earth can't escape. The ship’s still moving. It’ll be in Earth orbit in five minutes if we can’t stop them.”

Jim wondered what the Romulans even wanted here. A total takeover? Even a ship that size wouldn't have enough ground troops for it. Maybe they were just here to smash up Earth's defenses before an occupying fleet got here. But why now, when they'd had this ship 25 years ago? Nothing had shifted recently in the balance of power, not that Jim knew of.

“Drop the black box and the subspace beacon,” Pike ordered.

Jim swallowed. So that was it, then. Twenty-five years from now, some cadet would pore over these tapes, trying to figure out what went wrong. That would be his only legacy. Just like his father, after all.

They were already inside the Moon’s orbit, though. So maybe there wouldn't still be cadets. Some historian trying to understand how the Romulan occupation had happened so fast.

Around him, consoles burst and the ship shuddered with impact. “We've lost phasers!”

“Hull breach on deck six!”

“Torpedo tubes are jammed!”

“They're trying to disable us,” said Jim, half to himself. “Why, when they shot to kill with the others?”

“They’ve lowered some kind of pulse device into Earth’s atmosphere,” said Spock. “Its signal is interfering with communications and transport abilities.”

“We’re being hailed!”

It was him, the Romulan from the Kelvin. Not similar, the exact same. No one had ever seen Romulans before that attack, and no one had seen them since. They never made visual contact. Another way this ship was different.

“I do not speak for the Empire,” the Romulan was saying. “I stand apart, as does your Vulcan crewmember, isn’t that right, Spock?”

“I do not believe that you and I are acquainted.”

“No, we're not. Not yet.” Nero sneered, enjoying his moment. “Spock, there's something I would like you to see. I’m doing it just for you. Your transporter has been disabled. I want you to man a shuttle and come aboard the Narada.”

Spock’s face was blank, confused. He turned to Pike. “Sir—”

“I’m not in the habit of giving up my crew members,” said Pike.

“Look at the rest of your armada,” said Nero. “You have no choice. Send Spock or I destroy the Enterprise. If I know you at all, Spock, you won’t say no.”

The viewscreen blanked, and Spock turned to the captain. “Permission to leave the bridge.”

“Denied,” snapped Pike. “I’m not having you—”

“Sir, it is obvious that one man—”

“It’s not a matter of one man!” The force in Pike’s voice stunned Spock into silence. “Here’s one rule they don’t teach you in command training, but which has always served me well. If you’re facing an implacable enemy and they want one thing . . . don’t give it to them! Right now we have absolutely nothing we can do to this ship except refuse to comply. I have no idea what he wants you for, but I’m not playing.” He got to his feet. “Follow me. Who has hand-to-hand combat training?”

“I do, sir,” said Sulu.

“You come too, then. And Jim, we may as well give you something to do.” The four of them piled into the lift, heading down to the shuttle bay.

“I do not understand your intent,” said Spock.

“It’s this simple. Nero’s given us exactly one opening to get off this ship and not get killed. He’ll be expecting a shuttle. We’ll send one. Kirk, Sulu, you’ll be space jumping from the shuttle onto the pulse device. Grab Olson, too, he’s our best. Nero will be watching the shuttle; he’s unlikely to detect individual life forms at that range. Land on the platform, disable it, then the Enterprise will be able to beam you back up. I have no idea what the hell that thing is, but it’s pointed at the Earth and it has to be our number one priority to shut it down.”

“But sir,” said Jim, “who’s piloting the shuttle?”

“Here’s your deck,” said Pike. “Out. Meet me in the shuttle bay in five.”

The lift continued downward. “Captain,” said Spock, already guessing the answer, “who is piloting the shuttle?”

“Can’t be you,” said Pike. “Whatever he wants from you, we can’t give you up.”

“Will he not become suspicious if the shuttle does not arrive promptly?”

“Oh, it will arrive.”

“Captain, you cannot—”

“Rule of command they won’t tell you at the Academy, number two. You never order a man into danger you can’t face yourself.”

“To hazard our captain —”

“I’m no more special than anyone else,” said Pike. “Commanding this ship is useless if we can’t take down that device. Don’t worry, by the time I arrive, the drop team will be well out of sight. I’ll come out firing, I promise you that.”

They were in the bay now, and Spock did not know how to maintain his logic in the face of such rapid disaster. Pike had been his mentor for his entire career. He was the only one who had ever made Spock feel as though he naturally belonged.

“Don’t cry for me yet, Spock—”

“I am not crying.”

“—this isn’t a suicide mission. Once the platform is down, you’ll have a chance to come and get me. Your primary goal, of course, is to protect Earth. To stall him as much as you have to until the main fleet arrives, or aid from Vulcan. If all else fails, fall back to the Laurentian system and join the main fleet.”

“I do not know if I am capable of commanding the ship through this complex of a situation,” Spock pleaded. It was a transparent argument, and Pike had to see right through it. “Your expertise cannot be sacrificed.”

“Ah, but I’m leaving you the one person I know who’s best at flying by the seat of his pants. Jim Kirk.”

“The cheater.”

“I trust him, Spock, I’m asking you to do the same. Use him for whatever you can. We’re going to need unconventional solutions today.” He lifted his head, seeing the three spacesuited officers coming into the bay at a run. With a last rueful smile, he squeezed Spock’s shoulders. “Wish me luck.”

“I do not believe in luck.”

“Then make your own.” Pike swung himself into the shuttle, and Spock made his way back to the bridge, carefully collecting himself and restoring his logic. The mission was all. His feelings could wait.

Chapter Text

“Minutes, sir,” said Chekov. “Minutes.”

Jim, panting on the transporter pad in the remains of his parachute harness, couldn't process it at all. What do you save from a burning building when it holds ten billion people and your entire race’s history? Should a team beam down for the Bayeaux Tapestry? The Dalai Lama? The Pope?

Then he looked up and spotted Bones hurrying in to check on him. “Bones,” he said urgently, “would Joanna be at school right now?”

His friend’s eyes widened. “Jim, you can't. We don't know how long you'll have.”

“I have to try.”

“It's desertion!”

Jim winked. “I'm on academic suspension.”

Bones programmed in the coordinates for Joanna’s preschool, muttering as he worked. “I can't get you closer than the playground. She's on the first floor. Miss Savannah's room, third on the right from the front door.”

Sulu had dragged himself off the padd, shaken but unhurt. “You gonna stop me?” Jim asked.

“I owe you,” said Sulu.

“I should stop you,” said Chekov, still at the controls.

“You won't though.”

The kid licked his lips. “No.”

The transporter room vanished in a cloud of sparkles.

The ground was shaking hard when Jim rematerialized into the hot damp of a Georgia spring. It was immediately obvious he wouldn't need to go into the building. Kids were standing in neat lines on the blacktop. A lot of them were crying.

“Miss Alice is calling all your moms and dads right now,” a teacher was saying. “It's all gonna be okay. An earthquake always stops eventually.” But from her pale face and the way her hands were shaking, she didn't believe a word she was saying.

Jim spotted Joanna easily, recognizing her little brown pigtails and big brown eyes. Thank god for all those spring breaks he'd spent in Georgia. He whipped out his comm as he rushed over. “Lock onto any life signs near me,” he shouted, hoping Chekov was still at the transporter controls. 

“Mister Jim!” Joanna broke from the line and ran to him. “Are you here to pick me up?”

He scooped her up onto his hip. “Yep, I'm gonna bring you to your dad.”

“Zere are over a hundred life signs near you!” Chekov’s voice. “Zey won't all fit on the pad!”

“They're little. Do ‘em in batches. Or better yet, point to point to the cargo bay.”

“I can go last,” said the teacher quickly.

“Absolutely not,” said Jim. The ground was shaking harder, and a massive tearing rumble was getting closer by the second. “They'll need you with them. Chekov, now! And after us, any life sign you can find. Till the very end, you hear me?”

The last words echoed in the hollow cargo bay. They'd made it. Jim, a dozen teachers, a hundred kids. Chekov had done it. “Against the wall!” he snapped. “More might be coming.”

On the viewscreen, the swirling blue marble caved in on itself and collapsed. For a moment no one on the bridge moved. 

Spock did not feel the death screams of ten billion humans, as they were not telepaths, but the thought of it was staggering—unimaginable. He threw the whole emotion behind firm barriers and focused his mind on the task at hand. Which was more compassionate, to grieve for this calamity or to try to prevent another?

There was a choking sob from somewhere. “We do not have time to mourn,” said Spock. “Whatever techniques you have to compartmentalize, it is vital to use them now.”

The crying ensign leaped out of his seat. “Easy for you to say when it isn't your planet!”

“On the contrary, Ensign,” Spock said tightly, “I believe it is because it is my planet that it was targeted. And for this reason we must proceed directly to Vulcan. I believe it is the next target.”

“You won't give us even a minute—”

Spock scanned the room. Most of the officers present had tears pouring down their faces. The rest looked numb. 

“If you believe you cannot do your duty, you may be excused. Go to your quarters and weep if that is all you can contribute. Who here is not from Earth?”

Only Sulu answered. “I’m from Yorktown, sir.”

“Lieutenant Uhura. I need the names of everyone on this ship whose home is not—was not Earth.”

Nyota dashed tears out of her eyes and began compiling a list. It would not be long. With the Academy located on Earth, it had always provided the largest number of recruits. And Spock was intimately familiar with the reasons a non-human would not feel at home there.

He would simply have to hope his emotionally compromised crew could hold on a little bit longer.

The cargo bay was filled with people. Jim wasn't sure how many. In addition to Joanna’s school, there were several other school groups along with random collections of people off the street. Chekov had done exactly what he'd said. He'd grabbed everyone he could, to the very last second.

Jim took a shaky breath. He'd made the right choice. Earth's treasures were her people, always. And he knew he'd done his absolute best, used every second he'd had. He had nothing he could blame himself for.

He still did, though. If they'd gotten to the drill faster. If they had known how important the red matter was and beamed it out instead of him and Sulu. If they’d rammed the ship into the device as soon as it had appeared.

Bones came into the cargo bay at a run. “Jim—did you—did she—” There were tears streaming down his cheeks.

Jim nodded over to Joanna, who was already on her feet and running to her dad. He held her fiercely, crying into her hair.

“Thank you,” he choked out. “Jim, I owe you everything.”

“I'll remember that next drinks night.” He slapped Bones bracingly on the shoulder. “Keep it together, I need you to check this crowd for injuries. We just gotta get through today. Till we're somewhere we can afford to break down.”

Bones straightened, scrubbing at his face. “You're right, you're right. I know you're right. God, I don't even have a right to freak out, compared to—”

“Don't think about it,” Jim said sharply.

The intercom came on, Spock asking emotionally stable volunteers to add their names to a list, to be assigned to essential stations.

“That's me,” said Jim.

“You sure you're all right?”

“Course,” Jim said, keeping his tone light. “Mom's in the Laurentian system last I checked. Sam's on Deneva. Nero got Dad early. The only family member I just lost is Frank.”

He hurried to the bridge, trying not to qualify that statement, to count up his friends, people he'd known, people who might or might not have been home at the time. He'd find out in time.

“Cadet-on-academic-suspension Jim Kirk, reporting for duty,” he said, coming to attention. “How can I help?”

Spock looked at him narrowly. “I have been informed you beamed down to the surface without orders. You also gave orders to Ensign Chekov that were not your place to give.”

Jim folded his arms. He hadn't thought even the Vulcan could be that heartless. Rules over everything else, it seemed. “You want me to send the cargo bay full of kids back?” 

Spock looked surprised. “No. I intended to commend your initiative. But your attitude still leaves much to be desired.”

“You’re not starving for choice.”

“I am not. Take Tactical.”

Spock racked his mind for ideas. There was no Command to report to, no allies with the slightest chance of getting there on time. The Narada was traveling at a speed they could not match.

What had Pike said? Besides come and get me, they were doing their best at that. Besides if all else fails, it hadn’t failed yet.

He’d said to trust Jim Kirk. To use him. That he was a master of unpredictable situations.

That was presumably why he had chosen Kirk to shut down the drill. It had been a success. And, on his own initiative, Kirk had rescued what appeared to be the maximum number of survivors the Enterprise could beam up in the time available.

How had this morning’s disgraced cheater been hiding so much potential?

Simple. He had not been hiding it. He had been displaying it.

This was a man who did not believe in a constrained scenario. He overcame constraints. The Kobayashi Maru was a formative test; it was intended to teach the lesson of courage in the face of death.

Jim Kirk had used it for the exact same purpose. To teach the Academy—to teach him, perhaps—not to accept defeat.

“Kirk,” he said abruptly, having reached the terminus of his reasoning. “Your analysis of the situation, please.”

“They’re obviously on course to Vulcan,” said Jim. “Based on what Nero said, it seems like he has a vendetta against you personally, however little sense that makes.”

“I have a theory,” said Spock quietly. “The advanced technology of the ship, far beyond what we know of Romulans, coupled with the gravitational singularity that formed when . . . that was created by his black hole device, suggests the possibility of time travel. A singularity such as that could very well have transported him through time.”

He waited for Kirk to scoff, but instead the young man’s blue eyes widened. “Of course! He’s not picking on you, he has a beef with future you. Since you’re from two planets, he has to destroy both to get even, as he understands it. We can’t catch up at our present speed, so our priorities should be first to warn Vulcan, and second to try to coax more speed out of the warp drive.”

Spock nodded. This matched his own analysis almost exactly. “I am taking both actions. Vulcan has been warned and is scrambling its defensive fleet as well as evacuating as much as possible of the planet to its sister world, T’Khut, which is the only even marginally habitable planet in the system.”

“The moon,” said Jim abruptly.

“Cadet?”

“Earth’s moon’s still there, right? It wasn’t pulled into the singularity?”

“It appeared unharmed when we passed it.”

“We should give them a call. See if there’s any expertise there we can use.”

The idea seemed sound, so Spock nodded to Nyota, who made the connection.

It was answered by a wild-eyed man with straw-colored hair. In the background was a massive commotion. “Enterprise, eh?” he said in a strong Scottish accent. “So one ship did get away clean.”

“So to speak,” said Spock. “We are in pursuit of the Romulan terrorist known as Nero. We could use any assistance you might provide.”

“Good,” said the man shortly. “Hope you get him. We’re a little overwhelmed at the exact minute, Enterprise. When the call to evacuate Earth came out, we started beaming out everyone we could.”

“Luna is not in beaming range of Earth.”

“It wasn’t, but now it is. That is, with the right set of numbers, it can be, if you catch my meaning.”

“I do not.”

“I upgraded the transporters. Little side project of my own, never really worked before, but I thought, they’re dead in five minutes if I don’t so I don’t think they’ll be complaining that the thing’s untested. We cleared out every open space in the domes and beamed out every life sign we could. Still getting final numbers, but I believe we’ve got over a million.”

“I will recommend you for a commendation if circumstances allow, Mister—”

“Scott, sir, Montgomery Scott.”

Kirk had gotten up from his seat and into viewscreen range. “Scott? The insane inventor who lost Admiral Archer’s prize beagle?”

“Why d’ye think I’m posted here instead of somewhere with air? It’s a punishment, is what it is.”

Spock attempted to give Kirk a quelling look, which failed since Kirk wouldn’t look at him.

“What kind of range can you do?”

“Haven’t found a limit yet. Though with energy constraints, a couple of light years probably.”

“Could you beam onto the Enterprise?”

“The Enterprise is at warp,” Spock objected.

“I could do, if you give me your vector,” said Scott. “You need me for something?”

“I’ve read your thesis,” said Kirk. “Work of an absolute madman. We need to catch up with that ship. Transporter, engines, doesn’t matter. But we’ve got to stop him.”

“Give me half an hour,” said Scott. “Can I bring a friend? There’s this old Vulcan been helping me.”

“Do you intend, at any point, to wait for orders, Mr. Kirk?” Spock got in at last.

“Far be it from me to step on your toes, Commander,” said Jim. “May I please attempt to save your homeworld, sir?”

The absurdity was so extreme that Spock experienced the sudden temptation to laugh. In order to resist it, he frowned instead. “Carry on, Mr. Kirk, Mr. Scott.”

Jim wasn’t surprised to find Scotty’s new transportation method wasn’t exactly pinpoint accurate. The Vulcan appeared in engineering alone, and Scotty showed up inside a water pipe. Thankfully they were able to get him out before he ran into anything uncomfortable. Still dripping wet, he got straight to work.

The Vulcan was a stranger phenomenon. Jim hadn’t met many Vulcans in his life, and the one he’d dealt with most recently appeared to have a redwood tree up his ass, but this one only smiled gently and said, “I grieve with thee, Jim.”

He was old, older than a human would have lived, with deep lines carved on his face, making it look even longer and more narrow. But somehow his dark eyes were strangely familiar. Jim furrowed his eyebrows. “Have we met?”

“Not in this universe. May I have your thoughts? Or rather, may I give you mine? There is much to explain.”

Jim nodded hesitantly. He'd never engaged in telepathy before, but hell, he was hardly going to turn down any information he could get that might help.

Thin, arthritic fingers touched his face. There was a yawning void, the smell of spice, and suddenly Jim was falling. Then he was caught, pulled through the Vulcan’s mind, a headlong rush through his memories.

Spock. This old man was Spock. He must have forgiven Jim for the cheating thing sometime in the last hundred years. Or else in his universe, Jim had made a better first impression, because all he could feel from this Spock was a powerful affection.

The backstory was complicated, but at least it answered the question of why Spock, specifically, had been targeted. As soon as this Spock had emerged from the anomaly, Nero had picked him up and marooned him on the moon to watch the fate of the first of his home planets. The old man, however, had been resourceful and made his way to the nearest dome, where he located Scotty and set up their evacuation plan.

There was a great deal more the elderly Vulcan was holding back. Beyond the flashes of knowledge being deliberately transmitted was the vast landscape of the old man’s mind, washed in a deep sorrow that was deliberately held at bay. Even so, when the Vulcan’s hand left Jim’s face, he found he was crying, a thing that hadn’t happened in years.

Furiously, he scrubbed at his face with his sleeve. He didn’t have time for this—preferably would never have time, so he didn’t have to feel it at all.

“What do we do now?” Jim rasped, turning away to hide his face.

The old man made an abortive movement, as if to touch him again, and then drew his hand back. “I believe what you are currently doing is all that can be done. I have assisted Mr. Scott with what knowledge from the future could be useful, and I will continue to do so. You and Spock have both deduced correctly that Nero’s next target will be Vulcan. I believe Mr. Scott and I can get you within transporter range in time. The rest will be up to you.”

“One question,” said Jim, as Spock turned to go. “Why did he target Earth first? You—the you I know—seems so Vulcan. No one who knew him would think to hurt him by going for Earth.”

“The time of my greatest notoriety was in Starfleet, and later on Earth,” said Spock. “It was also . . . the happiest period of my life.” His voice was even, but his eyes were sad. So he had lost his planet. Nero had been punishing this Spock, a Spock who was of Earth.

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I, Jim.”

Chapter Text

With the help of the elder Spock and Scotty, the engineering crew were quickly able to increase the engines’ efficiency to gain on the Narada. The next step was to improve the transporters to the point that they would be able to beam on board, but even then they had a full day before they had any hope of catching up.

Jim reported to the bridge with his eyes burning, his hands shaking, and grease all over himself. 

“We are already utilizing the increased engine capacity,” said Spock. “You did not need to report in person.”

“Actually, I came to make a suggestion. The current bridge crew has been on duty for about fourteen hours at this point. This is as quiet as it’s going to get for a while, so I thought it might be a good time for some of us to go to sleep. Do Vulcans sleep?”

“I can last several days at full productivity without it.”

“Well, those of us who are humans have had a really rough day.”

Spock stepped closer and lowered his voice. “I am concerned that if I dismiss the crew on duty, they will give in to emotion and I will not be able to get them back.”

Jim took a deep breath. It was a valid concern. “Well, they can’t work for thirty-six hours straight, so I don’t think you’ve got a choice.”

When he finally staggered to the nearest bunk—just one of the stacked bunks in a lower-deck hallway—it was easy to faceplant on top of the covers and pass out.

But an hour later he woke up startled and shaking for no reason, and after that he couldn't sleep. He kept thinking of things that were gone. Mt. Fuji. Notre Dame. Blue whales. Every Stradivarius. Redwood forests. Crater Lake. New Orleans nightlife. The Eiffel Tower. The cliffs of Dover. The pyramids.

He'd never seen any of it. He'd always thought he could go and see it later.

Against his will, it got more personal. His dorm room, with his favorite leather jacket in it and all his old journals. That house in the middle of the cornfield that he'd always hated, but it had his old starship models and his father's old tricorder and his baby pictures in it. The bar he'd met Pike in. The bleachers he'd had his first kiss under. Hell, even juvie. He was fucking missing juvie. Yesterday that building existed, full of messed up kids who still believed they'd eventually make something of themselves, and now it was gone and nobody had come down to save them.

Guilt rested heavy on his back as he buried his face in the pillow. Here he was mourning the buildings when there were people to cry about. The friends he'd met in jail, the bartender who'd given him his first job, that underclassman he used to tutor, Gary Mitchell, who kept setting him up with people to distract him. Almost certainly all dead. Gaila might be dead on the Farragut. Pike was probably dead on the Narada.

On reflex, he pulled out his padd to check his feeds. It was what he’d always done when he couldn’t sleep. Only after he had it out did he realize it would probably have the last words of everyone he knew. Do you feel shaking? What’s that in the sky?

It was worse than that, though. Just Earth servers out of range. They weren’t, not if you didn’t mind a slow subspace connection. They were gone. Everyone's last words, the conversations they were in the middle of, the pictures they'd taken. Whole online records of people's lives, gone in an instant.

Blearily, he got out of bed and let his feet guide him to the observation deck. He'd never been to the Enterprise before yesterday, but he had pored over the specs for hours. He knew his way around.

Closest thing he had to a home now. Getting into space, on this ship, had been the dream of a lifetime and yet now he wanted to go home so badly it hurt. Anywhere on Earth, anywhere at all. Wake him up and tell him it wasn't true. Drop him in the middle of the Amazon jungle and he'd be home, closer to home than he ever would be again.

Jim paused in the doorway. A dark silhouette in front of the window cut off the stars, and he turned to go. He didn't want to be alone, but he'd seen the shape of a pointed ear and he really couldn't bear to deal with Spock right now. Not this Spock, anyway. He needed someone who understood.

“Mr. Kirk.”

Dammit. Reluctantly, he stepped forward. “Sir.”

“I believed you needed rest.”

“Couldn't sleep.” Jim came to the window and leaned against it. Outside, gravitational lensing caused by the warp bubble made it look like the stars were whooshing past like raindrops streaking off a windshield.

“I grieve with thee,” said Spock softly.

“Do you, though?” asked Jim. “If our speculation is right, Nero came here because he thought it was your home planet. But you don't seem like you see it that way.”

Spock might have gotten offended, but he didn't seem to be. “It is true that I did not grow up here,” he admitted. “It is unlikely I have the level of attachment to it that most humans have. But today I lost two of my three remaining grandparents, two aunts, one uncle, and four cousins.” 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Jim mumbled guiltily.

“However I will not deny my main home is Vulcan. It is statistically likely that we will not be able to stop Nero and it will be next.”

“Of all the shitty things to use statistics for.”

Spock tilted his head curiously. “You think I should not calculate our odds of success?”

“Nope. What could you possibly do with that information? We're still gonna try, even for a ghost of a chance. It's not over till it's over.”

“You seem unable to entertain the possibility of failure. Even after ‘the worst’ has happened, you refuse to consider it.”

“Still mad about the Maru?”

There was a pause. “No. I believe I understand your point now. You were attempting to teach your own instructors about changing the parameters of a no-win scenario.”

Jim broke out in an incredulous laugh. “Teach you? Where did you get that idea?”

“Your pointed disdain for the scenario. Your insistence on a hearing rather than apologizing. It was an act of protest.”

“Nope, I was just pissed. I hate losing. I can't accept it. I won't accept it. Felt like you were saying you couldn't be a captain unless you did. Well, I'm the kind that doesn't. Even when everything is lost, you grab what you can. You have to.”

“A lesson learned from your father?”

“No.” Jim looked out at the stars, watched them slip by. “I learned it . . . somewhere else.”

“You have been remarkably functional in the present circumstances. You must be possessed of considerable emotional stability.”

Jim shook his head. “Nah. I wouldn’t call it that. I’m just—good at pushing through, I guess. I’ve had to be.”

He rose to go, but Spock stopped him with a hand on his arm. Jim stared at it. He’d thought Vulcans didn’t touch. Spock must be an exception, both older and younger.

“I am telepathically connected to every other Vulcan,” said Spock, dropping his hand. “Humans are innumerate in their grief. To you, your loss is incalculable. Vulcans can calculate ours; each additional death causes immediate additional pain. I cannot predict the effect of billions of deaths, but it is very likely that, if it does happen, it will incapacitate me. You will need to take command.”

“Me?” protested Jim. “You’ve got dozens of more qualified people.”

“You are the one Captain Pike told me to trust.”

A lump sat heavily in Jim’s throat. Pike was probably dead. But there he had to twist the knife from beyond the grave. Pike trusted him. All that time he’d assumed the man was mostly humoring him, playing along with his ego.

“Well, it’s all hypothetical,” he managed, making his voice sound careless and turning his face away so it couldn’t give him the lie. “It won’t happen.”

“We must be prepared—”

“It. Won’t. Happen. You won’t let it. We won’t let it.”

“Your raw determination is no substitute for fact.”

“It has to be,” said Jim fiercely. “You think you can handle the facts? Do you think anyone on this ship can handle the facts, right now?”

“I will not allow the facts to prevent me from beaming aboard the Narada, if that is what you mean.”

“Take me with you,” blurted Jim.

“I meant to leave the ship in your hands when I went.”

“You need someone with you who doesn’t understand the meaning of a no-win scenario. Pretty sure that’s me.”

Spock looked at him steadily. For the first time, Jim could see the trace of the old man in him. That quiet gaze with so much thought whirring away behind it.

“You make a compelling argument,” said Spock, and turned back toward the window. Jim left. Maybe sickbay would be handing out sedatives. He hoped so.

“We’re in range with the new boosted transporter,” said Mr. Scott’s voice from engineering. “Now mind you this isn’t risk free, but I did it and I’m still breathing.”

“If the transport fails,” said Spock, “you will have to send a second team. We cannot afford to wait until the Narada drops out of warp. They will likely raise shields immediately to confront Vulcan’s defenses.”

He locked eyes with Kirk, who gave a tiny nod and moved to follow. As they left the bridge, Nyota’s eyes were wide with worry. All he could do was brush her fingers as he went by. She had lost enough. He hoped she would not have to lose him as well.

Despite his objections, it was certainly easier to confront this situation with Kirk than alone. Pike’s trust must be catching, or the young man was beginning to prove himself, because Spock found he could not think of a companion he would have preferred. Kirk would not break down under pressure, and he would adapt to circumstances as they happened. Perhaps, if he found the opportunity, he would find a way to cheat.

That was acceptable.

In the transporter room, there was no time to compose himself further, but the lingering tension in his body was not overwhelming. Only readiness. Beside him, Kirk’s mouth was a determined line.

“Energize.”

It was chaos from the moment they arrived, materializing in a populated area. Spock and Kirk operated smoothly as a team, laying down cover fire, leaping to one another’s defense. It was exhilarating as a lirpa duel, making his senses sharp and his breath quick.

They found Pike first, strapped to a table. “You’re alive!” cried Jim, unnecessarily.

“You . . . noticed,” said Pike.

“What did he do to you?” demanded Spock.

“Some kind of chemical interrogation. I thought he’d . . . ask about fleet operations, about Earth’s defenses. But mostly . . . he just asked about you. Your family members, where they live. Who you love most.”

Spock was seized with tension, even though he already knew the Narada was heading for Vulcan. Did Nero know about Nyota, about his mother? “And he was able to make you tell him?”

“Spock.” Pike smirked. “You never tell me a damn thing. Even the slug couldn’t make me say what I didn’t know.”

Spock slapped a transport beacon on him and activated it. It was a relief to see him fade into sparkles. The Enterprise was at the ready. It would be ready for them too, if they were successful.

They divided then, Kirk heading upward toward the bridge to confront Nero, Spock running toward the black hole device. It was a ship, he’d derived that much by melding with one of the Romulans. When he reached it, he hesitated a moment. It was sleek and white, far more advanced than anything he’d flown. But it responded instantly to his commands.

That was who had come from the future. Why Nero had wanted Spock. It was himself, from over a century hence.

What he had done to deserve such a punishment was a question that would be answered later, if at all. He piloted the ship out of the Narada. It possessed no armament other than the red matter, which could not easily be jettisoned.

Perhaps the question of punishment would be solved in a much more immediate way.

Jim found when he reached the bridge that a distraction wasn't really necessary. He crouched behind a console and watched. On the various viewscreens, Vulcan ships were surrounding the Narada. Insufficient to defeat it, but maybe good enough to keep Nero from noticing the Jellyfish was gone until Spock was well away.

But there it was, arrowing away, whirling like a gyroscope. Nero noticed at the same moment Jim had. “Fire on that ship!”

Graceful as a swallow, it weaved among the torpedoes, unhurt. But then it turned, swooping back toward the Narada.

Spock, no.

Jim had studied the Kobayashi Maru in great detail: past versions of the simulation, who had designed it. And therefore he had seen the footage of Spock’s own attempt at the test, when he had been a cadet himself.

He had chosen to sacrifice his own life. Ordered an evacuation and threw himself at the enemy. Most of the pods had been destroyed anyway; there had been only 23 simulated survivors.

Spock had earned a score of 97. That was the kind of solution the evaluators liked. Which had only pissed off Jim more, because if the point of the test was to teach you to throw your life away, just like his father had, then it was a bad test. There had to be a better solution. There should have been. Back then, Jim had believed that there always was.

In retrospect, though, it had not been the point of the test. Only what Spock had revealed about himself.

Jim whipped out his comm. “Enterprise, tell me you have Spock’s signal. On the white ship.”

A slight pause. “Yes—we are monitoring his frequency.”

“Beam us both out now.”

The Jellyfish and the Narada collided in an underwhelming red burst, followed by a terrifying folding and crumpling—a singularity forming right in the middle of them both.

It took jettisoning the warp core to get even the Enterprise free. It was pure luck none of the Vulcan ships were lost. They took it in turns, towing the Enterprise back.

Back to Vulcan, because it could not go home.

Chapter Text

“It’s time to get into your groups of ten,” Jim called throughout the cargo bay. “Group leaders, count your group. Group one will be the first to beam down.”

Command training had included vast quantities of information on managing teams of all sizes from three to several hundred. However, it had not included much about how to handle civilians, let alone children. Especially children who had just lost both parents in the past 48 hours. Jim had organized everyone into groups that distributed the children evenly among the adults. Actually finding them places to sleep, dinners, and bathrooms had been Bones’s job, on top of his actual job, which was probably why he looked so wild in the eyes. “Those damn preschool teachers,” he hissed. “You can't even say dammit in front of them. Joanna’s teacher told me it's not a kind word and I should use helping words instead. Jesus fucking Christ.”

“In their line of work, I bet they forget how to turn it off,” said Jim. In a louder voice he added, “Group one, follow me to the transporter room.”

Spock was in the transporter room, supervising the beamouts. “Are they really ready for all these people?” Jim asked quietly.

“Trust Vulcans to handle logistics,” Spock answered. “They have cleared out two dormitories at the VSA for Terran refugees.”

The word still felt wrong. Technically, Jim was a refugee. He was homeless. But it felt different, having a job, having a place on this ship. It made him different from the nervous adults and sniffling children in front of him.

If only by a little bit.

“You and your crew are welcome to disembark as well,” T’Pau was saying on the viewscreen. “We are eager to thank them for their service and congratulate them on their victory.”

From her station, luckily outside the camera frame, Nyota looked disgusted. A quick scan of the bridge showed that most present felt the same. “Given that most of my crew have just lost their home, Oreldai, congratulations of any kind would be in poor taste. I believe they largely desire rest.”

“That can also be arranged,” said T’Pau. “I congratulate you, however, Spock.”

“I would not describe this mission as a successful one,” Spock argued, keeping his tone respectful though his words were not.

T’Pau blinked. “It is obviously preferable that ten billion should die than that sixteen billion should die. You have accomplished that reduction as well as saving a locus of culture and knowledge.”

Spock did not feel mollified, but he bowed his head. “I expect we will be able to bring down the majority of the crew by evening.”

The rest of the day concerned a number of exhausting tasks: speaking with many members of the Vulcan government, reporting to the small Starfleet post outside Shikahr, reporting to the main fleet, overseeing Captain Pike’s transition to the care of Vulcan healers and a human doctor named M'Benga, checking on the refugees in their temporary housing, and arranging for the beam-down of the crew.

Satisfied for the present, Spock returned to the Enterprise and announced indefinite, universal shore leave. A Vulcan repair team would beam up soon to take care of their ship for them.

The departure of the crew did not take as long as the civilians’ beam-down. Before an hour had passed, Spock roamed the corridors alone, checking for stragglers. 

The Enterprise had been supposed to have been Pike’s, and his. They would have explored the galaxy together. He had commanded her for two days and lost a planet. Not for the first time, he wished Pike had given him up to Nero. It was hard to see how it would have made any difference, but at least it would not be so decisively his fault.

T’Pau would insist he had not lost a planet, he had saved a planet. But it was impossible to feel any satisfaction in the face of ten billion dead.

On his way into engineering, he almost ran into a Vulcan coming out. “You would be Mr. Scott's colleague,” said Spock politely. “Your assistance with the warp drive and the transporters was invaluable.”

“I had something of an advantage,” said the man. “You might say I looked in the back of the book.”

Spock narrowed his eyes. This man looked uncannily like his father, though older. And he had his mother's eyes.

“You are from the future as well,” Spock deduced. The old man nodded. “You are myself from the future. You are why Nero wanted to see me. He wanted to take revenge for something I had not yet done.”

“If it makes you feel better,” said Spock’s counterpart, “I did not actually destroy Romulus. I only failed to save it.”

Spock searched the old man's eyes. “If you have not changed too much in the last century, you feel almost as guilty as if you had.”

The old man conceded this with a tilt of his head. “I intend to transport to Vulcan. In the interest of minimizing explanations, I will be using the name Selek.”

“Do you need an introduction?”

“I do not believe so. I am going to Seleya.” The old man turned to go before pausing and looking back. “Take care of Jim. He is . . . important.”

“James Kirk?” asked Spock, confused. But the elderly Vulcan had departed in a swish of robes down the corridor. Spock raised a puzzled eyebrow and shook his head. It seemed an instinct in older Vulcans to become annoyingly cryptic in their old age. He had always hoped he would avoid it, but it seemed not.

Engineering was empty, with a cavernous void where the warp core used to be. But there was a soft sound coming from the other side of the room, so Spock went over to investigate. A pair of legs poked out from under the impulse injectors as someone adjusted them with a laser calibrator.

“Universal shore leave has been announced,” Spock said. “This work can be completed by others.”

The legs scooted outward, bringing Kirk’s face into view. He looked much the worse for the wear, his hair mussed and dark circles under his eyes. “Is it mandatory?”

“You are exhausted,” Spock pointed out.

“Not because I’m working so hard.” Kirk sat up and scrambled to his feet. “I don’t see any real reason to go to Vulcan rather than staying here. This old girl is . . . well . . . At least the gravity and oxygen here are right. And I don’t feel like taking the charity of the Vulcan government like some kind of refugee.”

He was inarguably a refugee, but it did not seem polite to say so. “If you prefer, you can come with me to lodge with my parents.”

Kirk looked taken aback. “And how would they feel to have a random stranger foisted on them?”

“My mother particularly asked. I believe it is difficult for her to cope with the current situation without human company.”

“You should take Uhura.”

Spock studied the top of the impulse injectors. “I asked her. She said she required . . . time to think.”

“Ah, man, I’m sorry,” said Kirk.

Spock bristled internally. There was no reason to assume time to think meant anything other than time to think. Nyota was too rational a being to speak in euphemisms. “Her entire life has been upended,” Spock pointed out. “She will need time to reflect on this.”

Kirk looked doubtful. “Well, if your mom is sure, I don’t mind coming,” he said at last, bending down to collect his tools.

“The command chain is virtually nonexistent,” said Spock, once they had beamed down and boarded a flitter parked near the transport station. Spock handled the controls deftly, seeming not to need much attention for it. “Captain Pike is in a medically-induced coma. That leaves me in command. However, all of the senior officers and ninety-two point nine five percent of all commissioned officers have accepted the offer of indefinite leave. The remaining six officers, three Andorians, one Tellarite, one Caitian, and one Deltan, have remained technically on duty, though I do not have anything specific for them to do. There are also twelve non-Terran cadets who should be competent for any necessary tasks. Also Lieutenant Scott desires to return to duty as soon as possible; I am uncertain why.”

“Not all humans react to trauma by wanting to take a nap,” said Jim. “If we don’t have work for people, we’re going to have to make some up, because I expect in the next couple days people will start climbing the walls and be desperate for something useful to do.”

Spock’s eyebrows drew down. “I have no orders at this time. I have reported to the main fleet in the Laurentian System, and the Commodore has told us to remain here until they arrive. The rest of the home fleet is limping back to Mars on impulse power and can be expected to remain there for some time.”

Jim drew in a breath. “The Farragut?”

“There are surviving crew members from all six ships,” said Spock. “The actual names of the survivors have not yet been released.”

“So, basically, we’ve got nothing to do but sit here and wait for more information to come in.”

“Essentially. However, there may be some concerns about morale which neither I nor our Vulcan hosts can easily address. I am concerned that among my senior staff, I have no one who is both Terran and functional.” A pause as Spock banked over the High Council building, perhaps just to show it off. Its high spire was certainly impressive. “I would like to make you my acting first officer.”

A promotion without a promotion, to a job with no work attached. “Sure, why not.”

“I believe that you are in a better position to assist with the mental health and practical needs of the Terran survivors, both Starfleet and civilian, than anyone else available. We are likely to remain without orders for at least a week, and the debriefings will take much longer."

Jim eyed Spock thoughtfully. Did Spock need a first officer, or was he taking Jim’s comment under consideration, that people needed things to do?

He was getting an awful lot of attention from Spock, which was disconcerting. This was the man who had had him hauled up on charges. But it was also the man who had beamed up with him onto the Narada. Who trusted him because Pike had trusted him.

What kind of guy was Spock, really? There weren’t a lot of Vulcan/human hybrids out there—Jim had never heard of another. At times, he seemed wildly insensitive to his crew’s loss; other times, he seemed anxious to help, if clueless about how to do so.

And he had tried to die, twice. Once by offering to give himself up to Nero on request, once in setting a collision course with the Narada. Jim didn’t know if he was brave, suicidal, or stupid.

As the flitter approached Spock’s parents’ house, Jim stared down, surprised. He’d somehow been expecting a modest apartment in the city, or maybe something bigger further out, like Jim had grown up in. Instead it was right on the edge of town, so that the house itself was only blocks from the High Council chambers, but the walled garden behind extended so far back that it touched the open desert outside the city. The property alone had to have cost a mint. It was a large, airy house built of old red stone—almost certainly centuries old. Maybe it had been here before the city had grown up around it, even.

“Who are your parents?” he blurted without thinking.

“My father is Sarek, son of Skon, the Vulcan ambassador to the Federation,” said Spock coolly. “My mother is Amanda Grayson.”

“Amanda Grayson, the linguist who did all that work on the universal translator?”

Without moving a muscle on his face, Spock somehow managed to look pleased. “The same.”

“Now I’m all nervous.”

Spock glanced over, raising an eyebrow. “You were not ‘nervous’ about beaming aboard the Narada.”

“Ah, but then the worst that could happen was getting horribly murdered,” said Jim lightly. “Now I might embarrass myself, that’s so much worse.”

“I will never comprehend human emotions,” said Spock, swooping low to land the flitter on a pad in the front yard.

Spock’s parents were waiting on the porch. “Live long and prosper, my son, Cadet Kirk,” said Sarek. He was tall, distinguished-looking, and absolutely expressionless. “The welcome of our home is yours.”

Amanda looked tiny next to him, dark-haired under a light veil, with too-bright eyes. “Spock,” she said softly, putting her hands on his shoulders. “I was so worried.”

“As you can see, Mother, I am quite well.”

Amanda turned to Jim and smiled. “So nice to meet you, Mr. Kirk. I wish the circumstances were better. Can I get your bags from the flitter?”

There was a brief, awkward silence. Jim rubbed his arms, even though he was the opposite of cold, feeling underdressed in his thin, machine-fabricated uniform. “I, uh. We didn’t pack before we left, so. This is it.”

Amanda looked stricken. But she didn’t let her graciousness slip. “Oh, of course. Well, you’ll find we have most of the basics in the guest room, and we can order anything you need. Will you come in? I can see you wilting out here. Believe it or not, this is cool for Vulcan, since it’s almost sunset.”

Indoors, it was not only air-conditioned but oxygen-enriched, and Jim took a grateful breath. Spock and his father both immediately vanished to different parts of the house. There was a faint sense of awkwardness and repression in the air which Jim wasn’t sure whether to attribute to Vulcan culture, the terrible circumstances, or some family drama he wasn’t dialed in on.

“So, we’ve got to prioritize,” said Amanda, picking up a padd and making a list. “I meant to have dinner in about an hour, but if you’re hungry now I can get you something. Have you had a chance to contact . . . anybody you might need to?”

“I should probably make some calls, yeah,” said Jim, scratching at the back of his neck. He hadn’t talked to his mother in years, and Deneva was too far for real-time subspace calls, but this was the kind of situation that demanded reaching out. It would surely be a long time before any comprehensive list of victims was released.

Or, more likely, a list of survivors. It would be shorter and much easier to compile.

Amanda must have seen something in his face, because she folded him in a tight hug. “I’m glad you came,” she whispered huskily. “I know we’re strangers, but under the circumstances . . .”

Jim gulped and patted her back a few times before pulling away. Theoretically, he was safe now and he could go ahead and let it all hit him. But he couldn’t think of anything he wanted to do less. “Thanks, Mrs. Grayson. Or is it Mrs. Sarek?”

“It’s Amanda,” she said firmly. “Can I call you James?”

“Only if I'm in trouble. Otherwise call me Jim.”

She showed him his room, which was larger than any room that had ever belonged to him in his life. It had its own bathroom, with fluffy towels and a fresh toothbrush, and a large desk with its own computer console. “Don’t worry about subspace charges,” Amanda assured him. “We have an unlimited diplomatic line.”

Jim blinked. Money. Now that was a thing he hadn’t had to worry about in a while. He had his student stipend and had always carefully saved a percentage in the bank. But now the bank and the planet it was on were part of a singularity, and the Federation government that signed his paychecks was about half gone.

Don’t think about it. He cleared his throat. “Thanks.”

When she was gone, he sat down at the console. He should call, really call, but he couldn’t deal with that right now. He didn’t want to see his mother cry, but if she didn’t cry, that would kind of be worse.

Taking the coward’s way out, he tapped out two identical text messages instead. I’m alive and well, please confirm you are too. This number on Vulcan is where to find me for now. Will update when I have a permanent —he paused a moment— place to be.

He hit send. It would take a couple of hours to hit Deneva, but his mom would get it as soon as she checked her comm. So, if she did happen to be worrying about him, that should ease her mind.

He was about to get up and hit the shower when a video call came in. Shit. He answered it. His mom looked as she always looked: frazzled, a little greasy, her hair tied back under a bandana. “Jim! I was wondering when you’d call.”

“Oh. So you knew I was fine.”

“Reports are you saved Vulcan and killed that Romulan terrorist.”

Right, of course she’d know, being on the Reliant. Her security clearance was high enough to be told everything there was to know. “Well. I helped. You heard from Sam yet?”

“Yeah. He’s fine. We’re all fine.”

There was an awkward silence.

“Tell you one thing,” his mom said after a second, “makes me glad I haven’t been home in so long. I’m . . . less attached than most.”

“Good for you,” said Jim flatly. “I gotta go.”

“Suppose I should get back to work too,” said Winona. “I’ll probably see you on the news at some point.”

Her picture winked out, and Jim sat for a moment staring at the blank screen. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected.

After a shower—real water, hot—he changed into a pair of pajamas Amanda had left for him. The waist was a little tight and the legs a little long, so they’d be Spock’s. Then he wandered downstairs. He desperately needed some brain rotting media. Video games would be ideal. Deeply stupid Orion soap opera would do. But it seemed all the family had were books. Jim grabbed a pile of his favorites and sat down on the couch.

Half an hour later, Pride and Prejudice , Oliver Twist , The Brothers Karamozov , and Murder  on the Orient Express were all sitting in a rejects pile. He hadn’t realized just how often Earth came up in Terran literature. Instead he was reading Let Me Help, by Udva Hadrin, of Alnitak III. He’d read it as a kid, hadn’t really gotten it, but it was making a lot more sense now.

“I see you have found my mother’s book collection.” 

Jim looked up at Spock, realizing suddenly that he was sprawled all over the place. He sat up quickly. “Um. Yeah. I didn’t think to ask if she minded.”

“She does not. That is why she places them there, so that people might read them. She sent me to ask if you wished to join us for dinner.”

Jim looked longingly at his book. He was two chapters in and hadn’t thought about anything but that the entire time. The thought of sitting making small talk with strangers didn’t appeal. “I’m not really hungry.”

Spock’s gaze sharpened. “When did you last eat?”

“I . . . I had a ration bar at some point . . . today?” Was it today? It all seemed a blur. He wasn’t sure what day of the week it was.

“Remain here.” Spock departed, returning two minutes later with a full plate. It was divided in six sections, like a pie, and each one held a different kind of vegetable. “My mother was uncertain what you might like, so she cooked everything.”

Jim flushed. “She really didn’t have to.”

“She thrives on taking care of people. It is a great relief to her to have something to do.”

“I can relate.” Reluctantly he set his book aside and started to eat. He still wasn’t hungry, and he couldn’t seem to taste much, but somehow the food kept disappearing, so maybe his body knew better than he did. “Tomorrow, we can go by the temporary housing where the crew is and I can show her a lot to do.”

Amanda beckoned Spock toward the library some hours after dinner. “Should I wake him?” she whispered.

James Kirk sprawled on the couch, a book facedown on his chest, fast asleep. “No,” said Spock. “I believe I can move him to his bed without difficulty.”

She put a hand on his arm to forestall him. “Who is he, Spock? I thought you might bring Nyota.”

“He is a cadet,” said Spock. “If Nero’s defeat could be credited to one man, Kirk would likely be that man. In any event he has saved both my life and those of all the civilians we brought with us.”

“So you brought him because he’s a hero?”

Spock regarded Kirk as he considered the question. No, it was likely because he could not have extracted him from engineering otherwise, and his elder self had enjoined him to “take care of Jim.” But he could not deny that their joint boarding of the Narada had given them a certain . . . rapport. “In part, I suppose.”

“I don’t like the way he’s taking this.”

He looked at her, puzzled. “He has been taking the situation far better than any of the other Terrans aboard.”

“He’s taking it more like a Vulcan, you mean. When humans act like this, they’re numb. Not processing. It’s bound to come out at some point.”

“I am uncertain,” said Spock. “He implied he had past experiences which made this easier for him.”

Amanda shook her head. “That’s worse, Spock. If the things he’s been through in his life are so bad that losing his planet has no effect—”

“I assure you, it has had an effect,” said Spock. “He seemed quite a different person before. More . . . ebullient.” 

“Well, I hope we see that person again at some point,” said Amanda. “You’ll need to keep an eye on him.”

He nodded in assent, and she went to Kirk’s room to pull down the covers. Spock moved quietly into the room, removed Jim’s book, and carefully lifted him off the couch. He was less heavy than he appeared.

He woke slightly when Spock laid him on his bed. “S’posed to . . . buy me dinner first,” he mumbled, without opening his eyes.

“Pardon?”

“Before taking me to bed. Get it?” Not waiting for an answer, he rolled onto his stomach. Spock pulled the covers over him and switched out the light.

Chapter Text

Amanda was thrilled to have been asked to help, and the next morning she came with Jim and Spock to the VSA housing with a massive clipboard and a determined expression. Even on the way she was already making a list. “Chocolate,” she said firmly. “Vulcans use it only very sparingly, but I find most humans find it comforting.”

“Booze,” said Jim. “I don’t know where you’d even find it on this planet, but I don’t think it’s fair to expect anybody to endure this situation sober.”

“Fair enough,” said Amanda, writing it down. “I doubt you could get anything good, but I’m friends with the owner of the import store, I bet he’d donate everything he has.”

“Human-style clothing,” said Spock. “I find humans are most reluctant to wear any garment that does not include pants.”

“Oh!” said Amanda, making another note. “Tampons and so on. Vulcans don't have periods, but I have a source.”

“Is there anything about Vulcan biology that isn't better?” asked Jim, feeling slightly sour.

“Plenty, but they'll never admit to it. Let me tell you, they wish all they had to deal with was PMS.”

“Mother,” Spock protested.

The crew was doing about as well as could be expected. An air conditioner, running full blast, had brought the dormitory down to a bearable eighty-five degrees, and Bones had shot up everyone with tri-ox. Most of the men were shirtless, and Uhura met them at the door in her regulation red bloomers and a bra. “Eyes front, soldier,” she snapped at Jim before he’d more than glanced at her. “It’s hot, if you didn’t notice.”

“Hard not to,” said Jim. “Uhura, this is Amanda Grayson.”

Uhura’s eyes widened. “Oh! I’ve heard so much about you! Your work on subvocalizations among the Xantrenes—”

Amanda smiled gently. “I’m just here in the role of Spock’s mother, today.”

Uhura gave Spock a bug-eyed look, something along the lines of and did you intend to mention her to me at any point?

So. They must not have been dating that seriously. Not that it mattered to Jim at all, even a little bit, despite how Uhura looked in her skivvies. If he’d ever had a chance with her, he’d blown it the day they met.

“Well,” said Uhura, holding out her padd, “I’ve compiled a list of friends and family that need to be either contacted or confirmed deceased. I also have a list of officers who would like to leave as soon as possible to rejoin loved ones in the colonies. Our hosts have been great about providing medications and necessary supplies, but there’s exactly one computer terminal in the whole wing and every single person is going to need a turn with it.”

Jim glanced nervously at Amanda, wondering if she’d be offended by Uhura’s attitude. But instead she smiled and took the padd. “Excellent. I’ll forward this immediately to Sarek’s staff. Flights haven’t been scheduled yet, but I know they’re working on it.”

Uhura nodded sharply. “Thank you, Lady Amanda. Spock.” She walked off without another word.

“Your girlfriend seems nice,” said Amanda to Spock. 

“She is having a difficult time,” said Spock stiffly.

“I know. I was being serious. She’s really taking charge of the situation.”

Jim headed off through the dorm, checking on people. Aside from Pike’s skeleton crew of fifty or so, it was all cadets. The Enterprise hadn’t been due to launch for months yet, so the permanent crew had not yet been assembled.

Scotty was in a dorm room, extremely drunk and holding a large clear bottle. “There you are,” he said to Jim, squinting. “Both of ye. Are they letting us back on the Enterprise yet? Because I refuse to be sober till they let me get back to work.”

“I’ll see what we can do,” said Jim. “Not a lot we can do until they get us a new warp core to install. Where did you even get alcohol here?”

Scotty made a vague gesture at the bunk bed. “Seems the child here won’t leave home without his ‘wodka.’”

Jim came closer to investigate the lump on the top bunk. “Chekov?”

The boy’s head lifted off the pillow. His face was blotchy and wet. “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” he said pitifully. “My Standard is not so good and I don’t know if there’s a place left in the uniwerse that speaks Russian.”

Jim scratched his chin. “I think there’s a pretty big Russian community on Proxima,” he ventured.

“Maybe,” said Chekov, but he flopped back into his pillow. Poor kid, he shouldn’t even be away from home at his age, and now he must have lost his whole family.

Sulu was sparring with all comers in the common area. Jim checked to make sure everyone was actually sparring and not just fighting and moved on.

A large crowd was around the one comm terminal, watching the news. They’d tapped into Standard Galactic News, which broadcast from Yorktown and was the preferred news source for human colonies around the quadrant. As such, it was mainly showing candlelight vigils full of crying people who hadn’t been to Earth in six generations. He left, unwilling to watch more than a few seconds of it, and headed to the other dorm, looking for Bones.

Jim found him sitting on the floor in the hall, outside a closed door, looking haggard. “She’s sleeping,” said Bones softly. “Figured it was best to let her.”

“Does she know—”

“Yeah. Hard to keep her from finding out. I suppose I could have strung her along with ‘maybe some other ship beamed her up’ but I can’t lie to a kid.”

Jim nodded. “Holding up okay?”

“Not really. I mean I hated the woman myself but that didn’t mean I wanted her dead. I guess I always thought there was a chance we’d make up. After all I fell in love with her for a reason. And if we could both get over how bad the divorce was, maybe someday we’d be friends. And now instead I’m going to have to raise a kid that liked her better but got stuck with me.”

“I’m glad she’s got you.”

“No kidding. She’s got one more person left than any of the other kids has. That’s what Savannah said.”

“Who?”

“Joanna’s teacher. That woman is a saint. She’s found herself the mom of a bunch of orphan children and hasn’t missed a beat. I think she’s doing storytime right now. If you can get her more books in standard, kids’ holos, stuffies, candy . . . hell, you should just ask her. There isn’t a thing about children she doesn’t know.”

“You know she offered to be left behind. Glad I didn’t listen.”

Bones looked horrified. “Oh god, I don’t even want to think what a mess we’d have if you hadn’t gotten the teachers.”

“I wonder if we can recruit some Vulcan childcare workers. Foster families, even.”

“I doubt any of these people have the slightest idea what to do with a normal human child. Anyway, we’re doing all right. I think having the kids to watch is making the adults handle things a little better.”

“There’s a lot to be said for keeping busy,” said Jim.

By the end of his walk through the dorms, Jim had a long list: things he needed to do, things he needed to get someone else to do, items he needed to somehow acquire. With, presumably, a budget of zero. Amanda, he assumed, meant to provide the necessities on her list out of her own pocket, unless she could get some things donated. But Jim wasn’t sure her budget had room for a second air conditioner and an oxygen enriching machine.

Well, it was possible the VSA had such a thing lying around. So Jim sought out the dorm director who was supposed to be their liaison.

She was an older woman, hair graying, but still solidly in her working years—maybe Sarek’s age or so. She rose to her feet immediately when Jim entered her office and bowed deeply. “You have the gratitude of all Vulcan, Mr. . .”

“Kirk. Just a cadet, but I’ve been put in charge of the crew’s morale.”

She picked up a padd off her desk, rapidly typed, and then nodded. “Their—emotional well-being?” She spoke Standard with an accent; she likely didn’t deal with humans often. Morale was just the kind of word that wouldn’t translate well.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“T’Breth,” she provided. “How is the crew of the Enterprise, Cadet Kirk? Is there anything at all you require?”

Jim fidgeted a little, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The padd made a good prop, and he pretended to look at it. “There’s a couple things that would really help, if you happen to have spares lying around.”

“If we do not, we will acquire them.”

“I’m talking about some kind of big things,” he protested. “For instance, a machine to enrich the oxygen within the dorm and another air conditioner. Twenty-eight degrees is cool for Vulcan, but it’s still pretty hot for humans. But if you don’t have one you’re not using—”

“As I said, we will acquire it.” She made a note on her padd.

Jim felt more awkward than ever. This conversation wasn’t like any he’d had before, and he’d talked to Vulcans plenty of times. But, he supposed, only ever Vulcans who knew humans very well. “T’Breth,” he ventured. “I’m . . . not sure of the terms of our stay here. Like, how long we can stay, what you’ll provide, what we should provide ourselves . . .”

Without moving a muscle, she somehow managed to convey bewilderment that a person could be so slow. “The length of your stay is as long as you require. What we will provide is everything. What you should provide yourselves is nothing. How could it be otherwise? You have nothing to provide.”

“Now wait a minute—” He paused to calm himself down. Emotional displays never got anybody anywhere with Vulcans, and he was hardly in a position to complain. “We are not entirely without resources,” Jim said, finding refuge in the double negative Vulcans loved, which made it possible to truthfully say a thing like that when your resources were the clothes on your back and a half-empty bottle of vodka. “Such generosity is not required of you.”

She blinked. “We are not being generous.”

Jim rubbed his forehead. “I don’t understand.”

“We—” She looked down at her padd again to search up another word. “We owe a life debt,” she said at last.

Jim shook his head. “Pssh. That’s just a day’s work for Starfleet. We had to do it, you don’t have to pay us back.”

“It is not payment,” she said, her tone tinged with some frustration. “It is life debt.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s not really a concept we have on—” He choked suddenly. Swallowed hard. “That’s not a concept humans have. Could you, um, elaborate a bit?”

She looked thoughtful. “Four days ago,” she said slowly. “We were evacuating the planet. Children and caregivers of children were prioritized. Every available shuttle was used for the task. And yet, mathematically speaking, we were well aware it was not possible to evacuate more than ten percent of the population in the time available, and even those who were evacuated might not survive long on T’Khut with the inadequate food and shelter available. I spent the thirty-nine hours before the destruction of the Narada preparing for my own death. Most of us were. The planet was almost entirely silent except for the sound of the shuttles.”

Jim swallowed. He wished he hadn’t asked. At the same time, he empathized and was bitterly, furiously envious that they’d had the warning. What could Earth have done with that kind of time?

“Today we are all alive and expect to remain so. The Enterprise, alone, saved our home and our people. This creates a relationship between you and us. Do you understand that?”

He breathed slowly, in and out. It still didn’t feel great. But he supposed it was better to be taken care of out of gratitude than out of pity. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll—try to understand that.”

“Please request anything you desire,” she added. “This applies to every Vulcan, and every member of your crew. We were not prepared to receive you, so some requests may take some time, but if it is in our power to give, it is yours.”

“Thank you,” he managed.

“Gratitude is not necessary. This is not a gift.”

He felt heavy on his way down the hall and back to the dorm, and not just from Vulcan’s extra gravity. The Vulcans wouldn’t admit to it, but they must be ecstatic right now. Alive, when they hadn’t expected to be. And at the same time, maybe a bit guilty that Earth hadn’t been so lucky. In such a mood, maybe it pleased them to shower favors on the crew.

Still, Jim badly wanted to get out of this dorm and to—to anywhere else where they wouldn’t be imposing.

Which, he realized, was nowhere.

By the time Spock made a final pass through the dormitories that evening, there was a neat bulletin board in the main common area. It listed contact numbers, house rules, and a meal schedule. Below that was a list of tasks, from the simple (“read books to children”) to the complex (“meet with Sohran to develop events calendar”). Quite a few names had already been written beside the tasks.

Beneath that was an odd sort of activities list.

Room 211: sharing memories, crying

Room 240: trashy holos, snacks

Room 236 has been assigned as the Bar.

Room 273: colonial meeting space

Common room 1: sparring. Please avoid injury; Dr. McCoy would like to mention he is a doctor, not a boxing coach, and he is VERY BUSY. If you do become injured, he is in room 143.

The main computer console in common room 2 is available for ten-minute slots. The screen playing news has been moved to room 237. Lieutenant Stevenson has current control of the remote.

Tomorrow after breakfast, remain in the dining room if you wish to join a tour of the city. Other outings will be posted as they are planned. If you want to go shopping on your own, see T’Breth for a universal credit chit.

He had certainly chosen correctly in his choice of first officer. Despite the unfamiliarity of the situation, Kirk seemed to have arranged everything in accordance with human tastes. “Morale” was something Pike had often stressed as important, but Spock had never understood either why it was so important or how to generate it. In this situation, it appeared to be everything.

The only question was, where was he now? Spock wandered through both dormitories and the dining room before he spotted the man at the far end, sitting with a plate of fried plomeek across from . . . was that the Finance Minister?

“That's exactly what I'm always saying!” Jim’s voice filled the empty room. “I've always said terrocentrism was going to bite us in the butt, and here we are!”

T’Dana raised one silver eyebrow. “To ‘bite in the butt,’ Cadet?”

“To have unintended consequences,” said Spock smoothly, coming to stand by Kirk's shoulder. “Did you need anything, Minister?”

“No, I only came to observe the situation,” said the minister. “However, this young man has important insights on the human planets which I find fascinating.”

“Do not allow me to interrupt.”

“Every human colony is unique,” Jim continued. “The ones outside the Federation, largely older ones, were founded specifically because the people there didn't like the direction Earth was going. Freecloud, Turkana IV, places like that. Not only would the refugees not be comfortable there, they might not be allowed in at all. Meanwhile the newer colonies, like Deneva or Yorktown, don't have the resources to take in substantial numbers of new people. It would take funding and supplies to allow it—and in station-based colonies like Yorktown, they literally couldn't expand if you paid them.”

“So where are the refugees going to go?”

Jim spread his hands. “That's what we’ve got to figure out. Right now Luna and Mars are bursting at the seams; neither place can keep the refugees they currently have for very long. It’s not like they could put up tents outside. Of course if we split everyone up between a dozen different planets, it would be easy, but that would mean saying goodbye forever to anything like a Terran culture. We'd have to assimilate into new societies with their own norms.” He pushed back from the table, carrying his empty plate to the slot intended for them, and looked at Spock. “Heading back, Commander?”

“There is no urgency. However, you have been hard at work for thirteen hours.”

“Then I've got at least three more in me,” said Jim with a grin. “Thanks for the conversation, Minister.”

“You have given me much to think about,” she responded solemnly.

Out in the hall, Spock said firmly, “Starfleet regulation 102.9, subsection c, forbids shifts exceeding twelve hours, even voluntarily, except in an emergency situation.”

“Is this not an emergency?”

“Not in the sense of lacking sufficient labor. I assure you the crew will survive if you come back to my parents’ house to sleep.”

“I feel bad staying there while everyone else is bunking here.”

“Thanks to the additional supplies you sourced today, I do not believe the crew is physically uncomfortable.” Spock paused, watching Kirk to make sure he actually intended to follow. The most obvious reason Spock could think of to bring him home each night was to ensure he ever stopped working and slept. “What were you attempting to do just now, conversing with the finance minister?”

“She was being incredibly ignorant about the situation. Thought they could just shuttle us off in a batch to any other human world and wash their hands of us. I don't know how much influence she really has in that decision, but at least someone in your government needs to have some understanding of the complexity of human planets.”

“That is my father's job, not yours.”

“Maybe I should talk to him too,” said Kirk thoughtfully.

“You do realize I appointed you first officer, not solver of all Terran-related problems?”

“Didn't see anyone else doing it.”

Spock could not think of a valid argument against that.

Kirk did, indeed, talk to Sarek. Spock was pleased to see him eat at the table instead of on the couch, balancing the plate on his knees so he had a hand free to read his book. But as far as he could tell, it was as much a pretext as the fried plomeek he had pretended to pick at while speaking with the Finance Minister. At least this time he did eat some of it.

“See, the thing is,” Kirk said, pausing to chew the rest of the bite of food in his mouth, “people have been equating Earth with humans and humans with Earth too long.”

“I am, of course, aware that the human race has spread far beyond the Sol system,” said Sarek. Spock swallowed. It was uncomfortable to see Kirk converse so familiarly with his father, but on the other hand, Sarek did not seem offended. Perhaps could not be offended by the man who had helped save Vulcan.

“Right, but it goes the other way, too. Earth has—had tons of non-humans on it. It started out with the colonies, Earth insisted that it was the homeland of every human and so every human had a right to return there, however long their families had been gone. But they kept it as aliens started coming in more numbers, because, well, if they had open borders with humans, they might as well have them for anyone. So an Earth visa is the easiest visa in the quadrant to get. Earth wants people to come. Even Riverside, Iowa, wasn’t all-human.”

Spock put in, “My mental image of Earth has always been one of notable diversity. I thought so when I visited as a child, and when I arrived at the Academy it was especially marked.”

“Exactly. I don't know of another planet that literally accepts all comers. It's especially important with Orions because a lot of them have criminal records but it doesn't mean they don't deserve somewhere to be.”

Sarek frowned. “I cannot think of one either. Vulcan certainly has rather stringent immigration requirements. And do the human colonies not follow the Earth tradition?”

“Absolutely not. The colony I was on—” He cut off.

Spock raised an eyebrow. “I did not know you lived on a colony.”

“Only a couple years. Anyway my point is that the attitude is entirely different there. It’s not a genetic thing. Earth chose to be that way, and a lot of people left to build their own thing they wouldn’t have to share. When you start your own colony you can base it on whatever shitty idea you want, and only let in people who share it. Ethnic supremacy, religious supremacy, eugenics.” Kirk cleared his throat. “Um, even monarchy. The Hapsburgs started one in sector nine.”

“Roma Aeterna,” supplied Sarek.

“That’s the one. Anyway, my point is that no, there’s nothing like Earth, there’s nowhere accepting Orions or Klingon defectors or refugees from across the Neutral Zone. Starfleet’s always been a draw, but it’s not actually possible to join Starfleet right now, not with no Academy. Do you have any idea if there are plans to rebuild it yet, Sarek?”

“It is a matter for much discussion,” said Sarek. “But the real negotiation cannot start until more of Earth’s leadership has gathered.”

That night Kirk fell asleep easily right after dinner, while he was working on yet more lists on his padd. Spock moved him into bed again, but around midnight there was a soft knock on his door.

“Enter.”

Kirk stood in the doorway, his hair rumpled and a pillow mark on his face. “Sorry, I was awake and your light was on . . .”

“That was because I am also awake. I sleep less than humans do.”

“So you don’t mind?”

“I did invite you to enter.”

Kirk came in, folding himself down on the floor. Spock was not particularly busy, having finished his meditation and merely enjoying a little light reading on warp theory. But he set his padd aside and joined Kirk on the floor.

“Your sleep remains disturbed,” said Spock.

“Oh, it’s always like that.” Kirk rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m just a bad sleeper. And the Academy only encouraged it. You can’t finish in three years and get eight hours of sleep a night.”

“I can attest to that.”

There was a long silence. Spock did not know what to say to this person, no longer a stranger, not yet anything like a friend. When they were working together, whether on the Narada or at the VSA dorm, things flowed effortlessly. Without that, the conversation faltered.

Kirk’s eyes were looking curiously around the room. Spock had always preferred to keep his most treasured items in view, and thus there was a great deal of visual interest to entertain the cadet, at least. Kirk’s eyes landed on the chess set. “You play chess?”

“From time to time. Both two and three dimensional.”

“Bet I can beat you in three.”

Spock raised an eyebrow and got up to get the set. It was unlikely, but not impossible. He usually played the computer, which was poor training for playing an unpredictable living opponent.

The chess set soothed the awkwardness, and before long Spock was fully engrossed. Kirk presented a fascinating challenge. By the latter part of the game, when they were both down to a few surviving pieces, Spock found himself having to take significant time to find a move that would not give himself away.

Finally he withdrew his king to queen’s level and looked up at Kirk expectantly.

Kirk was asleep leaning against the wall, his mouth slightly open. He’d waited so long for Spock to make up his mind that he had not been able to stay awake.

Then again, sleep was the goal. In that case, it could be a strategy he could use again. He carefully moved the set to his desk without upsetting the pieces and waited a few minutes to be sure Kirk had entered the deeper stages of sleep before carrying him to bed.

Kirk stirred as he was laid carefully on his back, but did not wake. Spock found himself gripped with a strange emotion. Concern, perhaps. This cadet was so dynamic, so powerful in wakefulness, but in sleep his face became relaxed, even vulnerable. In sleep, he did not remember that he had lost his home. Perhaps his dreams had taken him back there, as no starship could again.

Spock brushed a lock of hair off his forehead and left the room, fingertips still tingling from that faint brush against his skin.

Chapter Text

Every day that went by was a little easier, in practical terms. The crew and their batch of refugees had everything they needed for the present. Many of the refugees had already moved out of the dorm and into other lodgings, though the preschoolers and their teachers remained so they could stay together.

The Enterprise crew was doing noticeably better. Jim couldn’t say they had recovered, per se—they were still drifting, still tearful. But they were signing up for volunteer work, organizing entertainment for the kids, exploring the city. Nothing too grueling, but as Jim had predicted, they didn’t want to stay still either.

A Vulcan mind healer had arrived to help, but had had a breakdown almost immediately and that idea had had to be abandoned. The Vulcans were scrupulously careful not to touch any of the refugees, which luckily they could put down to their culture. But Jim was pretty sure it was because the grief emanating from each of the survivors was more than their telepathy could take.

News streamed in: stories of people who had escaped by the skin of their teeth on whatever shuttle was available. Stories of people who had luckily just happened to be on vacation at the time. Apparently the Pope had given up his emergency shuttle to the poor of Rome and had died in the singularity. Which was heroic of him, but now there were four competing claimants to the papacy and the Catholics of the quadrant were losing their shit. Food and air were running dangerously low in Luna City, and they were shipping off refugees anywhere that would take them: Mars, bases on the Jovian moons, Centauri, Andoria.

Sam wrote from Deneva.

Yeah Mom told me you were alive. But that was a stressful couple of days when I thought you weren't. You're welcome to come here if you're in need of a place, temporarily or forever.

Unfortunately that doesn't go for anybody else. Deneva is closing its doors to anyone who doesn't have family here. I hate it but nobody would listen to me.

Gaila wrote from Mars.

Sorry about your planet. I was freaking out about you because I thought you'd be grounded because of the cheating thing. 

The Farragut is so damaged it will take at least six months to fix. Till then we're kind of diddling our thumbs here on Mars. Is that the right idiom? Anyway we are free to take leave somewhere else, and in fact they want us to because we're sleeping in the halls, so I will try to find somewhere else to be. Somebody suggested going back to Orion. Idiots. Why do they think I came to Earth, for a school field trip? 

I know it's not my planet, but I'm still so, so sad about it. It was the first place I was ever safe.

Miss you, hugs and kisses. Hope someone nice is keeping your bed warm while I'm not in it. 

After he got that one, he had to go walk into the desert for a while. Just to get away, and to have something to do besides staring at Gaila’s letter. Go back to Orion. It had been a long time since Gaila had heard that. At the Academy, nobody cared where you were from. You were Starfleet now. And that was truer for Gaila than most people. Earth was her only home.

The desert went on and on, the ground uneven enough that he lost sight of the city. The heat beating down from above and rising up in shimmers from the ground was an excellent distraction. Good enough that Jim couldn’t remember how to get back, and now he was thirsty too.

Be awfully stupid if he got lost and died out here. He’d had his survival training in Montana. He could’ve handled that, no problem. Here on Vulcan he didn’t even know which way north was. It was a strange land, a place that wasn’t for him.

There was a wobbling black blob in the distance, coming closer. Jim waited, squinting, to see if it was a hoverbike he could flag down or some carnivorous creature looking for a snack. But instead it resolved into Spock, running, as if it were comfortable jogging weather.

“Kirk,” said Spock, drawing to a halt, “I am certain I have explained to you that you should not be out here by yourself.”

“Didn’t want company.” He’d been trying for surly, but his dehydration only made it raspy.

Spock pressed a canteen into his hands. Jim poured most of it down his throat and splashed a little on his sunburned neck.

“I fully understand your motivation,” said Spock, as they started walking back in the direction Spock had come from. “I too used to come out here when I wanted solitude. I would stay out here for days, sometimes.”

Jim looked around at the sand, the dry brush, the rocky terrain. “I suppose it’s not dangerous for you, since you can handle the heat.”

“Le-matyas are not picky eaters. You are lucky you did not encounter one.”

“Running from a deadly animal that wants to kill me sounds like a thrill. Gets the blood pumping, drives the other thoughts out of your head.”

“Kirk,” said Spock, and then more softly, “Jim. I respect your dedication and your emotional control. However, if it comes at the price of deliberately putting yourself in danger, the cost is too great.”

Jim was too dehydrated to be polite. “Why, because I’m an endangered species?”

“Hardly. There are many human colonies remaining.”

“Yeah, but I bet I’m the last Iowan.” He heard the words as he was saying them, and they sank in a little bit. Every school teacher he’d ever had, the waitress at the diner, the cop who’d arrested him when he stole Frank’s car—”

“Your mother is also from Iowa,” said Spock, and it was a stupid, nitpicky thing to say but it derailed a train of thought that was going nowhere good, so Jim let it pass.

“So what does it matter, if I want to live on the edge a little bit?”

Spock was quiet for several paces. Jim wished he would say something heartfelt and meaningful, like “it matters to me because I’m your friend,” which he had to admit he’d been fishing for. More likely he would say something about the difficulty of replacing him.

Instead he finally said, “I must ask you to humor me in this.”

Spock had done extensive research on Kirk. At least, the maximum amount possible. The Enterprise computer had a list of Kirk’s achievements, preceded by a list of minor arrests, preceded by a complete blank spanning from ages ten to eighteen. It assured him that if this was insufficient, more complete records were available on Earth.

Not for the first time, Spock wondered how much information had been lost along with the planet. Cultural information—history, literature, music, art, academic papers—was mostly copied elsewhere. But census data, law enforcement records, birth certificates, would largely be gone. For years to come, forgers would use Earth as a convenient birthplace nobody would be able to check.

But this meant Spock could not know what it was that Kirk had experienced before. Only that, clearly, he had dealt with it by flinging himself forward at any and every challenge and surmounting it. Spock could relate to that.

Amanda worried about Kirk and showed it by cooking for him as often as she could get him to eat. At first she worried about whether Vulcan food would be too unfamiliar or Terran food too evocative, but it soon became clear that Kirk didn’t taste much of it anyway. They had learned to put food in front of him when he was doing something else, and his hand would mechanically shovel it into his mouth, without him seeming to be aware of it.

Spock forced him off duty every evening and provided him with enough distraction to fall asleep. He had tried other approaches, but it soon became clear that Kirk found lying in the dark with nothing to do, even for five minutes, intolerable. He deprived himself of sleep until he would fall asleep on the couch, or at the table, or on the floor of Spock’s room. If he ever wondered how he ended up still waking up in bed every morning, he did not mention it.

Getting himself lost in the desert was a troubling development. It did not sound like the cadet had a death wish, but Spock would have preferred certainty on that point.

But Spock had not given him a lecture, because there would have been no true utility in it. The only one who could heal Kirk was Kirk. Time might also have helped, Spock believed, but so far there had been no visible improvement. Even in a single week, many of the crew had stabilized significantly. Kirk was operating exactly the same as before: no visible emotional breakdowns, but a troubling deficit when it came to taking care of himself. But if Kirk was still doing his job—which he was, and more—Spock had no official justification to intervene.

Still, he was glad he had brought Kirk home with him, where he and his mother could step in and take care of him. It was, after all, an honor to feed and tuck into bed the man who had saved Vulcan.

Spock had carefully given Nyota space, as she had requested. He had thought that, at some point, she would reach out to him and let him know she was ready to interact with him once again. Surely she had to know he was capable of being sensitive to her grief.

But she did not do so. Eventually he came to see her himself. He knocked at the door of her dorm room and stood with his hands behind his back until she answered.

She came to the door, looking only slightly less polished than usual. She was wearing a Vulcan-style light robe and no makeup, but her hair was sleek and pulled back as always.

Her eyes flicked over him, unreadable. “I’d invite you in, but my roommate is sleeping.”

“Would you walk with me, then?”

She shrugged and came out. Spock held his peace until they had reached the sidewalk outside. Then she suddenly burst out, “So now you decide to check on me.”

Spock blinked. “You told me you needed time to think. I gave it to you.”

“I didn’t mean over a week.”

“I have been available to speak to.”

She gave a frustrated sigh. “You’re never going to be the one to track me down, are you? At the Academy it was one thing. You were a professor, I had to be the one to start things or it would be harassment. But you wouldn’t have anyway, would you?”

Spock did not know how to answer this. Of course he would not have, before they were even friends, because she was one of a thousand students and he was focused on the ones who were actually in his classes. But once they were friends . . . perhaps. It still did not feel likely, and not because he was not attracted to her. “I do not like to feel I am imposing,” he confessed.

“I don’t like it either, and yet you always leave me to be the one to do it. I lost my whole planet and—” She cut herself off with a sigh. “I just—as I’ve been thinking about it, I’ve started to realize, you and I approach this stuff really differently. I want some sign you want me, you wait for me to come to you. I want to connect after a thing like this, you’re willing to give me so much space I might float off into it. You’re Vulcan, I’m human, we have different ideas about emotion and what it’s for. And we could bridge that gap— I could bridge that gap—as long as I was at my best. And I am never, ever less than my best.”

“You are not,” he said fondly.

“Except right now,” she said. “This has been too much. I can’t carry the whole load of this anymore. I lost my planet, Spock. I can’t be a top-flight communications specialist right now and do all the communicating for both of us.”

“I . . . I have been unaware that this imbalance existed.” Suddenly he was rethinking their whole relationship. This eminently logical human. So easy to interact with, expecting nothing that was not natural for him to give. 

That was an adaptation? An effort for her? 

That was the obvious explanation, and yet it had never occurred to him. He had thought that was how she was. As long as he had known her, that was how she had been around him. 

She sighed. “I suppose I have no one but myself to blame. I wanted you so bad. I went after you so hard. And once I had you, it wouldn’t have made sense to suddenly change how I acted with you. I didn’t even realize till . . . all this . . . just how much work I was doing to be everything you needed me to be.”

“We should alter our dynamic with one another, then,” he said. “I do not believe it will be difficult. I do know how to interact with humans.”

“I don’t want to alter our dynamic, Spock.” She stopped, turned to face him. “I want to break up.”

A strange idiom, break up. As a meteor breaks up in the atmosphere. Flaming out. He searched her eyes, looking for a clue there. Was he supposed to fight this as well? Push harder, to prove he wanted her enough? “I do not want that,” he said, hoping it would strike the correct balance. If she had changed herself for him, that meant he had no true idea what she was like, how she desired to interact, how she communicated when she put in no effort.

She reached out, squeezing his forearm. “I’m sorry, Spock. I don’t have it in me right now to teach you how I want to be treated, and I know that’s what you would need before you could ever do it. I need to deal with my own feelings right now.”

Spock believed she was being sincere. No further argument was desired. It was time to accept what was happening to him and deal with its attendant pain on his own.

She had been the first one to accept him wholesale, back at the Academy. Speaking with her had been intellectually stimulating—she was a prodigy, and her mind had been the most attractive thing about her. But much more important was the way she had made him feel wanted, wanted without having to adjust himself to a Vulcan or human standard.

Only, perhaps, she had not actually wanted that. She had wanted him to adjust a little bit, and only hadn’t told him so. The thought was destabilizing. He took a deep breath to reestablish his serenity as best he could. “I have never experienced the end of a relationship before. What do you want of me now?”

“Do you think we can still be friends? Go back to how we were before we started all this?” Her face was anxious. This was important to her.

He felt reassured. He would not lose her, at least. He would only have to adjust the terms on which he interacted with her. He would still be permitted to care about her, and she would still, he hoped, accept him. At least mostly.

“I would like that.”

She stepped closer, opened her arms. “Can I get a hug?”

He held her tightly against his chest. It seemed to him that if she was capable of asking directly for the type of interaction she wanted, and he was capable of giving it, continuing their relationship would not have been impossible.

But she did not want to. Kaiidth.

Chapter Text

When the main fleet arrived from the Laurentian system, everything went to hell.

It wasn't just them, either. Turned out more of the government had gotten away than Jim had thought: the Earth governor; the Federation President and most of the Senate; a contingent of admirals. It pissed him off. Of course all the important people had had their own shuttles to escape in. Getting sucked into a singularity was for plebs.

So not only did the Enterprise crew have to get debriefed by the admirals, they also had to deal with massive amounts of political grandstanding as the various Federation delegates competed about who cared the most about Earth for the TV cameras that had followed them here for a scoop.

Jim found himself grilled for hours with questions about how fast he had fallen toward the drill platform and could he maybe have fallen faster (no, that was not how gravity worked), why had he been giving orders when he wasn’t part of the chain of command, and for that matter why was he even on the ship when he was under academic suspension. Did he sneak on board? Convenient Pike wasn’t awake to vouch for him, wasn’t it?

They were worse to Spock. Jim could see it happening: everyone wanted someone to blame for the loss of Earth, and it couldn’t be Pike, a popular captain and wounded hero. It had to be an alien, because the alien could not possibly have tried his hardest, because he couldn’t have cared. Bridge recordings were played and Spock was forced to defend every choice of words, the evenness of his voice, his decisions. Surely his lack of empathy toward the Terrans on his ship after the event was proof he hadn’t cared enough beforehand. All he’d cared about was jetting off to Vulcan as fast as possible, even though it was pure speculation that Vulcan had ever been a target!

“Can I say something?” Jim piped up as they rolled into hour four.

“Are you a member of the board of admirals?” asked Komack. “Then no.”

“Let him talk, James,” said Nogura tiredly.

“Spock lost people that day also,” said Jim, rising to his feet. “I know everyone knows this, but it’s being ignored that Spock is also human and his mother is Terran. That entire side of his family died in the attack. He kept his composure because he has been trained to do so, and thank god for that because if he’d taken a single hour to mourn we wouldn’t have caught up to Nero in time to save Vulcan. It was that close.”

“So you’d like to go on the record as approving of Spock’s command?”

“Unequivocally.”

It helped about as much as he’d thought it would: none. But afterward, as he and Spock walked home through the blistering heat, Spock said, “I do appreciate your vote of confidence, Mr. Kirk.”

“Not that they listened to a damn word. They’re fixated on making you the scapegoat.”

“If they dismiss me from the service,” said Spock, “I believe the Vulcan Science Academy still wants me.”

“You really think they’d go that far?”

“Every admiral on the board is human,” said Spock. “One hundred percent of them are grieving and angry. I cannot predict what they might do.”

Fortunately, Captain Pike woke up soon after that, and his testimony did a lot to clear Spock from blame. The final decision of the board had been to promote Pike to admiral and all the cadets on board to ensign. Jim went straight from academic probation to lieutenant. Only Spock received no promotion, just the Starfleet Award of Valor, which was kind of a cut-rate medal compared to the Starfleet Medal of Honor that Pike received. 

Once the whole thing went public—or as much as the admirals deigned to release—it was clear that Jim had been canonized as the hero of the day. It pissed him off; he hadn’t done more than Chekov or Scotty, and he’d done less than Spock had. But it didn’t matter. He was the face of all the rescued preschool children, who were the light in the darkness to a lot of devastated people.

Which was a hell of a job to put on a bunch of four-year-olds. Jim, Bones, and Savannah had to make a major stink to get their names redacted in all the reports. Jim knew better than most that being the survivor of a terrible tragedy wasn’t the kind of thing you wanted following you.

Savannah turned out to be, for a preschool teacher, genuinely delightful. Aside from not letting Bones swear, she got along with him great.

“I’m trying to find a way to keep all the kids together while getting them families at the same time,” said Jim, when he met with her. “It’s not fair to expect eight teachers to raise a hundred kids, but if we split them up, that’s taking away every familiar face from before the tragedy. It was—it’s comforting for kids to be able to stick with the same people throughout a traumatic event.”

“Finally somebody who understands,” said Savannah. “I swear the Earth governor acted like we were asking for the moon. Not literally the moon, I’d like to get them a little farther from the scene of the crime if we can.”

“I’m narrowing down a few places. A lot of the newer colonies don’t have the resources to take in a lot of extra people, but they have plenty of room. So we could found a whole second colony on a different part of the planet, if we could get the resources. I haven’t found a bottom yet to the Vulcans’ generosity—they feel they owe the Enterprise crew a life debt, for one thing, and for another, they know it could very easily have been them. But a whole colony is a lot for anybody to fund.”

“I’ll set up an account for donations,” said Savannah practically. “These kids are the darlings of the quadrant right now, but that’ll dry up in a couple of months. The more we can get now, the better.”

Various supplies started arriving, donations by different planets. The quality was . . . variable. It was obvious people had mostly wanted to feel like they were helping. Andor sent a giant fluffy stuffed . . . thing for each child. Yorktown sent entertainment holos. The stupidest thing to arrive was a massive container full of . . . winter coats. On Vulcan. In summer.

The best thing to arrive, finally, was the new warp core from the Utopia shipyard. Gaila came along with it, in a dumpy Starfleet supply ship. “Figured I might as well,” she told Jim. “Since I’m Starfleet, Mars couldn’t literally deport me, but I was definitely feeling in the way.”

He came to her tiny quarters on the ship, with the vague notion of sex, but instead he only held her while she cried. “The Subspace Railroad is gone,” she said, wiping her green cheeks. “I mean, some of the volunteers and waypoints are still there, but the whole thing was run from Earth. The safe house I first arrived at, all the people, the Orion girls and the kids . . .” 

He stroked her red hair and shushed her and didn’t say anything.

“I feel like a shit, making you comfort me when it’s your planet.” She readjusted herself in his lap, buried her face in his neck.

“Don’t be an idiot, it’s not like it’s not yours. Otherwise what planet would be?”

She hadn’t been born on Orion, not a lot of people knew that. She’d been born in a shipping container in transit from Orion to Romulus. Her childhood had been rocky at best, until she’d been one of a dozen rescued by the Subspace Railroad and taken to Earth at the age of twelve. 

“Terrans are so kind,” said Gaila softly. “Vulcans would give you the shirt off their back, but Terrans will jump in front of a phaser for you. You’ve got no fear and no damn sense.”

“Thanks?”

She punched him gently on the arm. “I’m alive because of Terran stupidity and poor risk analysis, it’s a compliment.”

Somehow that felt a little better than being painted as a hero by Command. What if he hadn’t been brave, beaming down for Joanna—what if he’d just been stupid? It still worked. And it didn’t make him feel he was being painted as something he wasn’t. He’d driven a car off a cliff once; nobody had ever accused him of good risk analysis.

“Are you okay?” Gaila had pulled back and was investigating his face.

“Of course,” said Jim. And then, because she obviously didn’t believe him, he added, “C’mon, you know nothing ever got me down yet.”

She touched the tight muscle in his cheek that was doing its level best to smile. “It’s okay to fall down, you know. Sometimes you have to before you can get back up.”

“Too many people are counting on me.”

“Oh really.” She narrowed her eyes. “Because I’m guessing you collected people and made them count on you so you didn’t have time for anything else.”

He winced. She knew him far too well. Spock had been such restful company lately. He didn’t know Jim well enough to poke at him like that. And Bones had been dealing with his own shit. He’d been free to cope, or not cope, in his own way.

“I have to go,” he said, sliding her off of his lap.

“Sorry.” Her face said she knew exactly why he was leaving. “But somebody had to say it and clearly they haven’t.”

“No hard feelings. I just—I need to—”

“I know.” She hung out the door as he left, calling, “I love you!”

“You’re so weird, Gaila, you can’t say that to everybody!”

“What if I do love everybody? Have a little respect for my culture!”

Jim grinned a little to himself as he passed around the corner. Felt good to throw around those old jokes. He and Gaila got each other, two irrepressible, cheerful people with bleak backstories. Usually that was a good thing. But she was also one of the only people who could see when he was full of shit, so she could be dangerous company.

Spock’s feet hurt and his thighs burned. Up here, the atmosphere was even thinner, the sun beat down even harder. And he’d gotten used to Earth’s gentle gravity and mild climate during the last four years; he lacked the tolerance he should have had.

But it was immaterial. One did not beam to Mt. Seleya, and one did not take a shuttle. One climbed, or if necessary crawled.

Spock was not an aspirant to the monastery here, he was only visiting. But the rules were the same either way. If you could not make the pilgrimage, you were unworthy to reach the temple. Which seemed an unfair rule, but it had been the case for thousands of years and would not be altered now, no matter how illogical it was.

He had been conflicted about coming here at all. Surely the man would not have gone to Seleya if he had wished to remain involved. But Spock had three days’ mandatory leave, having worked twelve days in a row, and it had seemed like a good idea at the time. Now that he had a blister on the side of his foot and the heat was making him dizzy, he was questioning the wisdom of that decision.

But at last he reached the temple. In the open courtyard, there was a deep well, from which pilgrims could drink when they had finished their climb. Spock drank deeply and poured the rest into his hair, where it evaporated within minutes, cooling him. Then he got once more to his feet and went looking for himself.

He found his counterpart in the orchard, where fruit-bearing trees were planted closely enough that their leaves formed a dense canopy. Here, the shade and the cool wind down the mountain slope combined to lower the temperature several degrees.

The old man was not meditating; he was picking fruit, delicately setting each ripe globe into a basket on his elbow. Each fruit contained all the water a newly-sprouted seed would need. The sight of the blue-purple fruits made Spock’s mouth water. He had, in accordance with tradition, fasted this morning.

At his approach, the old man looked up. “Spock,” he said, his face softening. “You have made quite a journey today. Have a pla-savas.”

“No, thank you,” said Spock automatically.

His counterpart’s eyes twinkled, and he placed a fruit directly into Spock’s hand. “So stubborn at this age. So was I.”

Spock could hardly force the fruit back on him, so he bit into it, catching the juice that dribbled down his chin with his hand so it wouldn’t be lost. It had been so long since he had eaten one of these. They did not grow many places.

“What brings you here, young Spock?”

Spock swallowed the last of the fruit. It was traditional to lick one’s fingers, so as not to lose the water, but that felt impolite to the extreme by modern standards. He wiped his hand on his trousers instead. “I had the time.”

“You must know I cannot guide you with respect to your future. None of the recent events happened in my timeline. I have no idea where they will lead the universe, or yourself.”

“I am aware. I did not expect that.” Spock put his hands behind his back to repress the urge to fidget. The man was so like his father in looks, but so unlike him in personality. Expressive, as Spock himself was not, not at this time. “I wished to inquire what you meant when you told me to take care of Jim.”

“I do not think the instruction was ambiguous.”

Spock found his sense of humor was much less amusing when he was on the receiving end of it. “Why did you give it? You said he is important. Does he save the universe at some point?”

The old man’s mouth curved slightly upward and he turned to pick another fruit. “He does seem like he could, doesn’t he? In my timeline, he saved the Earth many times. In this timeline, who can say what he may achieve?”

Spock waited. His question had not been answered.

His counterpart eventually relented. “Did it never occur to you that I enjoyed meeting the young man recently and wanted to make sure someone was taking care of him?”

“No,” said Spock. “You knew him in your universe. You must have.”

“I did,” the old man admitted. “But in my universe, he was a lieutenant commander by now. I am more concerned about this Jim. His past is quite different, and he is dealing with the loss of his home, as his counterpart never had to. I would have stayed to supervise him myself, except that I needed to make myself scarce before your superiors arrived. They would have been most eager to interrogate me.”

“They were disappointed to have so little information about who you were and where you went. Kirk and I both kept our speculations to ourselves.”

“That was wise.” The old man placed one last fruit atop the others in his basket and set it down before sitting with his back against a tree. “What have I missed, from here?”

“Starfleet Command is displeased with me, but they have chosen not to dismiss me from the service at this time. The crew is recovering, and the Enterprise repair proceeds on schedule. Nyota Uhura and I have ended our relationship.” The old man raised an eyebrow in surprise. Spock added, “I suppose, without the destruction of Earth, it would have continued.”

His counterpart shook his head. “It never existed in my universe. She proposed one several times, but by that point I was interested in a different prospect. Who, for their part, was interested in someone else. The complications of youth.” His eyes twinkled in amusement. “Nyota and I did, however, become lifelong friends.”

Spock nodded. It was somewhat reassuring to hear that their friendship was a constant. “My parents are well,” he continued. “My father and I are still on uncertain terms.”

“That was the same in my universe. I did not return home for many years after my departure for the Academy. Perhaps this time with them will allow you to repair that relationship.”

“I doubt it,” said Spock. The words that had passed between them in their last argument had been too harsh, and neither of them had forgotten.

“And Jim?” the old man asked, his eyes becoming intent. “How is he?”

Spock shook his head. “It is hard to say. He is—admirable, as always. Efficient. His work is not impaired. I could wish that it were, if it meant he were taking care of himself better.”

“Do you see him often?”

Spock felt an odd reluctance to admit to the truth: fetching him food, playing chess in the middle of the night, carrying him to bed. He only replied, “Yes. He is staying with my family.”

His counterpart looked pleased. “In that case, I believe he will be fine.”

“I believe I should also ask after your well-being.”

“I am well. The quiet here has been good for me. The loss of my own timeline has been difficult, and the loss of Earth. But I have made considerable progress in accepting these losses. When that work is complete, I will have to decide what to do with myself next. A career in science would be difficult, as my scientific knowledge is a century beyond yours. But my other calling, as an ambassador to the Romulans, is obviously not possible today either.”

“My own future is no less uncertain. I certainly will not retain the Enterprise, but beyond that I cannot say.”

“Did you want to command her?”

Spock shook his head. “I wanted to continue to serve under Captain Pike. But he has been promoted to admiral.”

The old man looked distant. “I served under Pike for eleven years. I saw him as a father.”

Spock nodded. Yet another potential future that would not happen. At this point, all he knew of his future were negatives: not with Nyota, not with Pike, likely not on the Enterprise any more at all, with how the admiralty felt about him.

His counterpart seemed to sense his discouragement, because he reached out and squeezed Spock’s upper arm. “I wish I could give you a future like my past. That door is closed to you, but some of its best parts, I think, may stay the same.”

“And will you direct me toward them at all?”

“I dare not attempt it,” said the old man. “You are far too contrary to take any advice of mine.”

“I listened to you about Kirk,” Spock protested.

“Good. That is the only truly necessary thing. For the rest, you will have to create your own destiny.”

Chapter Text

“Come on,” said Jim, leaning against the doorframe of Bones’s dorm room. “You need a break.”

“I’m on duty.” Bones didn’t look like he was on duty. He looked like he was reading an Orion fashion magazine “for the articles.”

“No you’re not, I made the rotation myself.”

“I’m always on duty, we don’t have another doctor!”

“We’re on a civilized planet with a well-supplied hospital. You can afford to take the day off.”

Bones looked at his watch. “Joanna comes out of Savannah’s story time in five minutes.”

“Perfect. I want to bring her, too.”

Apparently those were the magic words, because Bones got up and dug around through the mess in his room for Joanna’s shoes. “She’s been climbing the walls. I hope you picked something fun for kids.”

“There’s a great children’s science museum near here, apparently,” said Jim. “Amanda says it’s the best.”

It turned out Amanda had been understating the issue. It was the best science museum he’d ever seen, and he’d gone to a lot as a kid, only to be disappointed at a few hands-on activities for babies and hardly any science he didn’t already know. This museum had scanning electron microscopes for kids to look at their own shoelaces and fingernails. There was a simulated warp bubble that made warp drive make more sense than his 101 level class ever had. There was a model protein molecule two stories high that you could climb on.

“Damn, I wish I was four too,” said Jim, as Joanna ran from exhibit to exhibit, losing her mind with excitement.

“You’re four at heart,” Bones pointed out. “Go climb the protein.”

Jim eyed the solemn-eyed, responsible-looking Vulcan tykes climbing the thing. “Nah, they’ll think I’m a kidnapper or something.”

“So what’s the occasion?”

Jim shrugged. “Just haven’t seen much of you lately. I was afraid you might be starting to miss me.”

“Not a chance,” Bones teased. “I was enjoying the quiet.”

“The quiet, or Savannah?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, when I go through the dorm, you’re with Savannah nine times out of ten.”

“Of course I am, she’s my kid’s teacher!”

“So why do you guys hang out when Joanna’s already in bed?”

“What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?” Bones leaned on the railing separating them from the giant protein. Joanna was already on the third amino acid from the bottom, but the shimmer of an inertia field showed she’d be in no danger if she fell off. “Okay, if I’m honest, I do like her. I like her a lot. But this is hardly the time, is it? She’s partly responsible for a hundred kids, not just mine, and I can’t be taking up too much of her time. And she’s lost everybody. Just doesn’t seem right to take advantage of that.”

“We’ve all lost everybody,” Jim pointed out. “Well—most of us. But we can’t just stop living because of it. Might help to move on a little bit.”

Bones snorted. “I can’t believe you’re lecturing me on that. I haven’t seen you do anything that wasn’t work in weeks.”

“Except right now. When I am visibly not working.”

“When was your last day off?”

Jim thought about it. Counted on his fingers. “About three weeks. But don’t tell Spock. I had to sneak some of those days behind his back.”

Bones rested his elbows on the railing and buried his head in his hands. “This is what comes of me being too busy to babysit you.”

“Like you’d have been able to stop me anyway.”

“I’d at least be able to make you eat regular meals.”

“I’m eating regular meals!”

Bones looked disbelieving. He knew perfectly well how Jim could be, having taken on the job of making him eat his vegetables since their second year. The first year he’d attempted to live on donuts and energy drinks and landed himself in the campus infirmary. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to eat. It just sometimes didn’t occur to him that eating was a regular part of the day, or that the feeling in his stomach meant it was time to do it. Especially when he was stressed out. “Is Spock’s mom spoonfeeding you or something?”

Jim squirmed uncomfortably. It wasn’t the truth, but it was a good deal too close. “Spock practically is. His mom cooks, he makes me eat it.”

“You've got to be losing your mind, working for him,” said Bones.

Jim crinkled his forehead, puzzled. “Why?”

His friend's eyes widened. “Because he's the guy who called you up on charges! He's a goddamn martinet and you never saw a rule you didn't want to break, just to see if you could. And remember how he played the dead-dad card on you?”

“Oh, yeah.” Jim rubbed the back of his neck. “I forgot about that.”

“I thought you hated him,” said Bones. “I hate him. People who don't smile give me the heebie jeebies.”

“That's racist.”

“There are Vulcans that smile.”

“Okay, it's bigoted against his religion, or something. It's not like he doesn't have feelings. He emotes a little, with his eyes.” Jim made a gesture toward his own. “And when his mom teases him, he teases back.”

“I can't believe you. The old you would be pulling shit on him all the time, just to punish him for telling you what to do. And now you like him?”

“I guess we've all kind of . . . grown up,” said Jim softly. “And to me, he's the guy that beamed onto the Narada with me.” Spock was more than that now, though. So many conversations over late-night chess. Debating ethics, obsessing over the Enterprise’s specs, exchanging book recommendations. Jim hadn't yet been able to stump him with literature quotes. 

The man held surprising depths, it wasn't a crime to notice that.

“Well,” Bones said at last, “I guess that beats you being at loggerheads with him all the time. Still makes me want to give you a mental health assessment.”

“No,” said Jim, more sharply than he meant to. 

“I was joking,” said Bones, his face turning worried. “But if you need somebody to talk to, apparently the Betazoid counselor from the Reliant is back on duty. They had to suppress his telepathy temporarily, but he's still supposed to be a good counselor.”

“I don't,” said Jim shortly, softening it with, “but thanks.”

When Joanna had finally worked her way through the activities, it was late in the afternoon, beginning to finally cool off. “We have to get her a snack,” said Bones. “You don’t want to see her with low blood sugar. She’s worse than you.”

“I want ice cream,” said Joanna. “Do they have ice cream here, Daddy?”

“Unfortunately Vulcans don’t do milk,” said Jim. “But Amanda told me about a little place just round the corner that might be good.”

It wasn’t bad at all. Joanna got a smoothie as big as her head and a packet of little triangular crackers. After a hard stare from Bones, Jim ordered the same.

Apparently it had still been too long of a day for her, though, because less than halfway home she started to whine about the heat, then about her feet hurting, and then screaming in earnest that she hated the whole planet and wanted to go home. Bones looked over at Jim apologetically.

Jim hoisted her up in his arms. “You and me both, kid. It sucks.”

“You’re not supposed to say sucks,” said Joanna, calming down just enough to be critical.

“It does though,” said Jim. “It sucks lemons.”

“It sucks broccoli!” Joanna agreed.

“It sucks meatballs!”

“It sucks turkey poop!”

“You’re a bad influence,” said Bones. But he was smiling a little, now that Joanna was feeling better.

Jim was feeling worse. He had known, without having to think about it, that there was no talking the kid out of being upset. There was no logical way to brightside having lost your whole planet and your mother. So why not give her more ways to shout about it instead?

But Jim knew that if he started shouting about it, really saying how he felt, it would get a lot uglier than this, and go on a lot longer. So he kept his mind on progressively funnier ways it sucked, and tried not to think about what, exactly, it was that hurt them all so bad.

Spock arose at his usual time at 0600. It felt unconscionably late, but he had begun staying up till past midnight to make sure he was available if Jim couldn't sleep. He slept better during the second half of the night, Spock had found.

To his surprise, his father stopped him at the bottom of the stairs. “Your first officer is asleep in the living room.”

Spock blinked. It was more words than Sarek had directed to him in the month he had been here. “I will return him to his bed.”

“When you have done so, I wish to speak with you.”

Spock found Jim asleep on the couch again with a book. He must have awakened again after Spock had gone to bed and tried to alleviate the situation with reading. Based on the progress he had made in the book, he had been awake for some time. 

Spock carefully slipped one arm beneath Jim's knees and one beneath his shoulders and gently lifted him. Either he was losing weight, or Spock was putting on additional muscle from how often this happened. 

It was worrisome to find him here. His sleep lately had gotten even worse, despite a medication prescribed for him by Dr. McCoy. He was also not eating as well, even when Amanda tried to tempt him with cookies and cake.

And there was no reason for it. Nothing new had happened that Spock was aware of. Amanda's opinion was that Jim was reaching the end of his ability to suppress his feelings, and a breakthrough was forthcoming. But Spock doubted Jim would surrender to so mundane a thing as his own limitations.

Spock carefully laid him down and pulled the blanket up. Jim rarely woke for this; he was too exhausted. It was after passing into REM sleep that he usually woke. He did not confide his dreams to Spock, but they could not be pleasant.

Back downstairs, Sarek was waiting in the kitchen. “Is he well?”

“Small talk,” or was he genuinely concerned? Neither seemed in character. “For the moment, yes. His overall condition is poor but we are doing what we can for him.”

Sarek nodded. “When you were a child, you often fell asleep there. You believed you no longer needed a nap, but a little after noon, sleep would always overtake you. Sometimes I would carry you to bed in just that way.”

Spock was baffled. Years of barely speaking, and now his father was sitting at the kitchen table, reminiscing. He raised a questioning eyebrow. 

“This has gone on long enough,” said Sarek. “I believed you would rebuff me if I attempted to restore communications, because of the things I said when we parted.”

“Perhaps I might have years ago,” said Spock. “Not now.”

“I will not apologize for any of it,” said Sarek. “However, I have . . . reconsidered some of my opinions. At the time, I believed you were abandoning the principles of nonviolence I had taught you, in joining the military instead of pursuing the sciences.”

“To which I replied that Starfleet does a great deal more science than warfare,” Spock answered, “and that as a science officer, I was unlikely to be called upon to shed blood.”

“You were incorrect in that conjecture. You have shed blood, in destroying the Narada.”

Spock stopped himself from defending his actions. Sarek would not have bothered reopening the conversation merely to resume arguing. At least, it seemed unlikely. “Yes,” he said instead. 

“And six billion lives were saved because of it,” Sarek continued. “I find I cannot disapprove of your actions.”

Spock struggled to conceal his relief. “I am . . . gratified to hear this.”

“I still choose to walk the path of absolute peace. I save lives through diplomacy whenever the opportunity arises. Yet perhaps there is room in Surak’s principles for your path, as well. Certainly I trust that you would never enact violence unnecessarily.”

If Sarek continued in this vein, Spock would be unable to contain an embarrassing display. As it was, he was flooded with a sense of warmth. They had had a good relationship at one time. Perhaps they might again.

Spock cleared his throat. “I concede your original thesis. This has gone on too long. Have you eaten?”

“Yes. I only stayed to speak with you before I left. It is difficult to find a moment to speak with you alone.”

“Is it an imposition to have Kirk here?”

“No. He has saved Vulcan; he could not possibly be an imposition anywhere on this planet. And besides,” he said, with the ghost of a twinkle in his eye, “he makes your mother happy.”

“They’re restructuring Starfleet,” said Pike.

They were in Pike’s borrowed office, larger than most Vulcan offices, so there was room for the wheelchair to get around the desk.

“I expected that,” said Jim. “They have to. The Academy’s straight-up gone.”

“It was a mess to begin with. When the Federation was founded, we all had our own little militaries. We had ours, the Vulcans had the Expeditionary Force, the Andorians had the Guard. And Earth volunteered ours to be the Federation military, open to everybody, taking orders from the whole Federation. But it was still an Earth phenomenon and it shows. Ninety percent human throughout the Fleet, one hundred percent human at the top. So we can have an Andorian president as titular commander-in-chief, but all the practical decisions have been made at the admiral level, which means all of them have been made by humans.”

“You know I know that. I wrote a paper.”

“In which you proposed putting the Academy on a lifeless asteroid so it could be genuinely neutral. I remember. You got a C and whined to me that it was because your ideas were too forward-thinking to be appreciated.”

“Wouldn’t be a bad idea now, though, would it?” said Jim. “Put Starfleet’s base somewhere actually neutral and populate it with a genuinely diverse set of cadets.”

Pike sighed. “There’s even less interest in doing that now than there was before. The admirals are feeling threatened. A huge chunk of the survivors are Starfleet, obviously. Everyone who was on a ship at the time, the starbase staffs, families who settled in whatever quadrant their mom or dad was in. So Starfleet feels like . . . what we have left.”

“That doesn’t make it fair,” said Jim indignantly, thinking about Gaila. “It doesn’t belong to us. It’s not a humans-only club.”

“The Federation Senate wants to give it back to us.”

“What?”

“Make some wider body—they’re tossing around a name, probably Federation Fleet—the actual military arm of the Federation. And then organize all the other member fleets under it. So Starfleet would be ours, but we’d be working alongside VEF ships, Andorian Guard ships, whatever. Each commanded by our own people in our own way.”

“But what about the other ten percent?” Jim dug his fingers into his hair in frustration. “Starfleet is already full of non-humans. Hell, they’re the ones who kept the Enterprise together when half the crew was crying too hard to man their stations.”

“You’re preaching to the choir, son. You’re not going to convince Komack not to make a grab for whatever he can save and make all-Terran. No, I called you in here because you’ve been handed a bully pulpit and a bargaining chip, and I want you to use it. Get public opinion on our side.”

“Just because everyone’s calling me a hero?” Jim asked sourly.

“More than that. And you didn’t hear it from me.” Pike pulled on the arms of his chair to lean his body forward. “They’re giving you the Enterprise.”

“This is bullshit!” Jim kicked a chair which, being sturdy Vulcan construction, refused to tip over.

“I thought your whole dream was being a captain,” said Uhura calmly. He’d come to her room because he knew that, of all the crew, she seemed the one most likely to know what to do next. “You never stopped boasting about it. ‘Hey, you’re really hot, when I’m a captain you should come work for me.’”

“I have never sounded like that.”

“I can duplicate any accent. You sound like that.”

He sighed and threw himself into a chair. “I wanted to earn it. Surely you can understand that. Half the Academy already thought I got in from nepotism anyway.”

“They thought that the first year,” said Uhura. “By the last, you’d proven your point.”

“Was that . . . a compliment?” He raised his eyebrows at her hopefully.

“It was close enough to one that I’m not going to say it again.”

“I’m a lieutenant,” Jim went on. “And basically an honorary one at that. I did one heroic thing but I haven’t worked my way up to this. I’ve been expecting years of being the best of the best, of earning bigger and bigger things. And now they’re going to throw this in my lap and I’m not ready at all. I’m going to fall on my face because I have three years of Academy training, one hour of space jumping, and a month of making chore rotations for a bunch of sad cadets. That’s not command training!”

“You’re being used,” said Uhura bluntly. “This isn’t a command decision, it’s a PR decision. You’re probably the most popular person in the Federation right now. You’re the son of a hero who avenged your father’s death. You saved all those kids. And you’re completely apolitical, so far. Every speech they make you give is like, ‘It wasn’t me, it was the whole crew, also please donate to the Terran Children’s Fund.’ It’s publicity gold. By making you the face of the next thing they want to do, they’ll make it look like you support it.”

“So I should turn it down,” said Jim. “I don’t want to be used for this. To lever Spock out of the chair even though he’s earned it.”

“They’ll never give it to Spock,” said Uhura flatly. “You saw the way they grilled him, and the press conferences after. They’re making you the face of victory and him the face of defeat. And if they’re trying to elbow out all the non-human members of Starfleet, they definitely aren’t letting an alien command a ship. If you turn it down, they’ll try to give it to Sulu. And if he says no they’ll move on to whoever has seniority from the Farragut. Parker, I guess.”

“You’re telling me it’s lose-lose.”

She looked thoughtful. Then one corner of her mouth turned up. “I’m telling you it’s a no-win scenario. I know what you do with those.”

A month living in Spock’s house had driven out any shyness Jim might have had. He knocked once on Spock’s door and barged in without waiting for an answer.

Spock, kneeling on the floor, opened his eyes and raised one eyebrow. “I assume by your mode of entry that the house is on fire.”

“No, but almost as bad,” said Jim. “Do you know what they’re trying to do to Starfleet?”

“I have discussed it with Admiral Pike, yes. There are both positives and negatives to the proposal.”

“Positives?” Jim sank down on the floor with his back against the wall. “Earth has a history with ‘separate but equal,’ it isn’t good.”

“I am aware of your history.” Spock adjusted his posture from his meditation pose to something more comfortable. “And if Earth—if the Terrans retained the level of power and influence they have had previously, I would be concerned the result would be a powerful, all-human Starfleet, and a few ships each from the poorly-funded militaries of several smaller member states. However, this is not currently the case. Earth provided ninety percent of the manpower and eighty percent of the funding for Starfleet. Meanwhile planets like Vulcan spent a tiny fraction of their annual budget on funding Starfleet, and a slightly larger but still miniscule fraction on the VEF. We were capable of being pacifist and scientific while being defended at minimal cost to ourselves. It has not been lost on the Vulcan government that the planet was saved by a Starfleet ship carrying only half a Vulcan. We have started to look to our own defense, and so are the rest of the member states. We can no longer rely on you to carry that burden.”

“Sure,” said Jim, “but why not within Starfleet? Why does it have to be separate?”

“Part of why Starfleet enrollment among non-humans was low is that non-humans have never trusted Starfleet to be equitable. Another is that our differences can make it extremely difficult to live together, in everything from cultural expectations to oxygen requirements. Young people looking to enlist in a military are hesitant to live full-time among outworlders. If they could attend an academy on their own planet, take orders in their own language, and serve on a ship where their own culture is dominant, it would remove a barrier that all the goodwill in the universe could not wish away.”

“Wow. Okay.” Jim hadn’t thought about it that way at all. Was Spock hankering to get on a ship of all Vulcans, quit taking commands from a human and honestly xenophobic admiralty?

“There are, of course, negatives,” added Spock. “Though mostly personal. I would be expected to resign my commission and join the VEF.”

“And you don’t want that.”

“Why do you think I joined Starfleet?” asked Spock. When Jim didn’t answer, he said, “My father disapproved. My classmates at the Academy were slow to accept me. The only captain who has ever requested me on their crew was Captain Pike. Meanwhile I had an offer from the VSA.”

“Seems like you shouldn’t have, when you put it like that.”

“I do not truly belong anywhere,” said Spock. “Vulcan is my home, and it has always made me aware that I am not fully its child. Earth was cold, damp, difficult to adjust to. But Starfleet—to me it has always been a third option. A place not solely composed of any one species. A place where merit was the only requirement to belong.”

“Damn,” said Jim. “So I was right. It is a terrible idea.”

“I do not know that the desires of ten percent of Starfleet’s membership should take precedence over—”

“Bullshit,” said Jim. “It does. They can reorg all they want, but if they don’t put in writing that members of all species are welcome, I’m not going along with it.”

“You are aware of what they intend to give you.”

“Yep. I hate it. I don’t deserve it. You do.”

“Mr. Kirk. Jim. I do not want it. I thrived as first officer, but command was never my goal. If you wish to take the offer, do not hold back on my account.” Spock’s eyes fixed on his, deep brown and utterly sincere. It seemed incredible, but Jim believed him.

“In that case,” said Jim, “I’m going to have to find a way to do both. Accept command, accept the reorg, but insist Starfleet remains open to all comers. If I have to captain the Enterprise, I want you on my crew.”

“I would like that also, but we must live in the realm of the possible.”

“Why should I? I never have before.” Jim had an idea, a very good idea, but he didn’t want to bring it up yet. Not till he could back it up at least a little.

Spock was looking at him as if he were some interesting specimen just discovered today. “You truly do not believe in losing. Even now.”

“If I did,” said Jim, “I would have died a long time ago.”

Chapter Text

Now that the warp core was set into place on the Enterprise, Jim spent most of every day up there, along with a large portion of the crew. Everyone had had their downtime, whether they spent it drunk or having a mental break or asleep, and they were desperate to get back to work. Jim assigned cabins first thing. He’d developed an intimate understanding of the deep human need to have a place that belonged to them.

His own quarters were on deck 5, with the senior officers, but he didn’t want to jinx himself by taking either the captain’s or the first officer’s cabin. He picked a mid-size room with a desk and gradually started populating it with his crap. None of it was remotely important—a particularly nice rock from the desert behind Spock’s house, Chekov’s vodka bottle rescued from the trash with a dried flower in it, Amanda’s copy of Let Me Help, which she’d given him after seeing him reach the last page and then flip back to the first page and start over. But it was his. He was marking territory.

Every morning he and Scotty connected the warp core to all the things it was supposed to be connected to, and every afternoon he beamed down to deal with suppliers and the Vulcan government and Savannah’s preschoolers. There were more humans on Vulcan now, having traveled from Luna and Mars to relieve the overcrowding there. The Vulcans had housed them in hotels and apartments and boarding school dormitories, but they all still had that lost look in their eyes. Like tumbleweeds, with no roots at all. They needed to find a permanent place, and they needed to find it soon.

Jim used his celebrity to get himself in touch with the heads of various colonies. Got used to hearing the word no, way more used to it than he’d ever allowed himself to be in the past. No, we don’t have room. No, we don’t have resources. No, we left Earth to get away from people like you. Or sometimes, yes, but only if you stop speaking your native tongue/ agree to have no votes till the second generation/ allow your children to be adopted by native families so they will assimilate properly. Which, to Jim, was as good as no.

The crew was doing much better, though. Scotty was happy as long as he had engines to play with. Sulu came back from his leave on Yorktown looking space-pale but happier than he had since before their space jump. Chekov had found a large Russian family among the Luna refugees and gotten himself adopted. Bones had apparently taken Jim’s advice to heart, because he and Savannah were dating now.

Uhura appointed herself Jim’s PR advisor and met with him often to help him handle the ridiculous quantity of attention he was garnering. “It’s just communications,” she explained. “What did you think I was, some kind of switchboard operator?”

The official offer from the admiralty arrived, together with the date of the announcement a couple days out. Not enough time, Jim worried. He had to write the perfect speech that would make everyone agree with him. So far, he wasn't at all confident in his drafts. And then there was the question of managing Komack, getting Nogura on his side, leveraging popular opinion, and getting his face in front of every holocamera on the planet.

He begged Uhura for help, and they met in a tea shop to go over Jim’s strategy. “You’re not going to win this by being stubborn,” she informed him. “The admirals can and will dig in their heels and give it to someone who plays along with them better. You’re going to win this with charm. Remember how you used to have that? Charm?”

“I still have charm,” Jim objected. “I never sleep alone if I don’t want to.”

“You just happen to always want to, huh?” Her gaze was a little too knowing.

The proprietor came up to their table, beaming about as much as a Vulcan could. “I have recently acquired something for humans,” he said. “I will bring it out.”

“Hope it’s beer,” muttered Jim to Uhura.

It was not. It was a giant mug of hot chocolate, complete with whipped cream and little chocolate sprinkles. “Um,” said Jim, staring down at it. “Thanks.”

“It is, I believe the phrase is, ‘on top of the house,’” said the proprietor proudly.

Jim smiled. “I appreciate it, really.” But when the man had gone back into the kitchen, he pushed it over to Uhura. “What is it with Vulcans and chocolate?”

“It’s a controlled substance here,” she explained. “This monstrosity is enough to have a Vulcan seeing pink elephants.” But she took a long drink, leaving whipped cream on her upper lip. “Damn. Make that two Vulcans seeing pink elephants. Don’t you like chocolate?”

“Just not hungry. Spock’s mom shoves more food at me every time she lays eyes on me. Speaking of. You’re still ‘taking some time’?”

“Nah. I took some time. Figured it out. He’s not for me.”

“Why not?”

“My entire planet was destroyed and he kept his distance!”

“You told him to leave you alone.”

“He was supposed to—” She sighed. “Yes, I understand the irony that a communications officer thought that saying the opposite of what she wanted was going to work. I thought I wanted to be alone. But when I actually was, I didn’t. And I thought, I need a guy who knows what I need even when I don’t. Spock’s a telepath and it still doesn’t help.”

Jim sighed. “It’s his way of showing respect. Letting you handle your own feelings, not bringing them up unless you do.”

“Well, that explains a lot about you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve been spending all your time with him and at his house. And yet look at you. You try to play it like you’re over it, when it’s obvious you haven’t even begun. He’s enabling you.”

“People keep telling me that,” said Jim bitterly. “Always assuming I don’t know how to cope with my own feelings. This isn’t my first go-around!”

“What was?” she asked quietly.

Jim could feel his face closing off, his body tightening up. Knew Uhura could see it. “Never mind.”

“Okay then, how’d you handle it?”

He glared at her. “Well, clearly I did handle it. I did fine at the Academy, right? I’m doing fine now.”

“All right,” she said, holding a hand up. “If you say so. But look at the draft of your speech, Jim. It’s bullshit.”

“I spent an hour working on that thing!”

“You sound like a damn Vulcan in it. ‘Obviously not every planet is in possession of an independent force, and Starfleet has traditionally provided opportunities for the natives of dozens of these planets.’ You sound like you have no connection to any of it.”

“I can’t feel things on command just because it makes good PR.”

“No, and I’m not asking you to. But I am saying, sometime before the announcement, you need to dig deep and ask yourself why you even want this so bad. Because you were not in my room kicking over chairs because it’s statistically beneficial to have non-humans in Starfleet. Find out what that reason is and then put it in the damn speech!” She stabbed her finger down at his padd. Then she pushed the enormous mug back over to him, still half full. “Drink up, Kirk, if I have another sip I’m gonna start seeing pink elephants.”

“You’ve got whipped cream on your face.”

He sat for a while longer, drinking the extra-strength hot chocolate, thinking over what she’d said. The worst bit was, he wasn’t even sure what his first go-around had been. 

Generally, he blamed Tarsus for everything. Oh, so he had a rap sheet as long as his arm? Of course, Tarsus had taught him the joy of stealing, of breaking and entering, of flouting authority. Couldn’t hold onto a relationship longer than a week? Tarsus. Couldn’t imagine a future that didn’t end with him smeared on a road somewhere by thirty? Tarsus Tarsus Tarsus.

And yet there had been things before that. There had been juvie, and before that, Frank. By the time the thing with the car had happened, there wasn’t a person alive who knew anything about Jim’s feelings. Already he had felt he owed it to everyone not to have any.

He hadn’t learned to bottle his feelings up on Tarsus. He’d been a master at it already.

There was one person who might have some insight on the situation, and he didn’t want to see her. His mom had been in orbit on the Reliant for weeks, and he hadn’t taken the time to say hello. It was, maybe, a little childish. He’d hoped she’d be the one who reached out to him. But it never seemed to work that way.

Reluctantly, he set up a visit. It was unlikely to help, but it was something he should have done anyway. He found her behind the deflector array, recalibrating it. Unnecessarily, he was pretty sure.

“You said you had time to talk,” said Jim. “I could’ve waited till you were off duty.”

“I am off duty,” she said. “But what were we going to do, drink coffee and stare at each other? Grab a spanner.”

He perched on the catwalk beside her and started calibrating. Yep, every circuit was operating within 1% of tolerances. Typical.

Winona waited, and waited, and after she’d worked her way around a quarter of the dish, she finally said, “Jim, what are you here for?”

“I was just . . . wondering.” Already, Jim was wishing he’d stayed planetside. There were two possible outcomes, either he upset her, or she’d have nothing useful to say. Possibly both. “How did you . . . go on? How do you, when something bad happens? Because everyone’s telling me I’m doing it wrong but . . .”

She snorted. “There’s no secret to it. You just do because you have to. I guess it helped I had you. Couldn’t’ve laid down and cried, I had to feed you on the hour because you were so tiny. Always helps to be doing.”

Jim smiled. “I guess we’re alike in that.”

“On another level, though,” she said thoughtfully, “I didn’t. A big part of me died on the Kelvin. I kinda wish you’d been able to meet the old Winona. She’d have made a better mom than I did.”

He thought about that, the whole way around the deflector dish. He’d learned early on that it was unfair to expect too much of his mother. Everyone said it, all the time. That she’d never been the same, and really how could you expect it, when she’d had to survive what she had. So people made allowances. 

And Jim had just . . . followed along. Asked his grandfather or his aunt or his brother to help him so that his mom wouldn’t be bothered. And when his mother had had a chance to get back into space, he’d told her to do it. Nine years old, and he told her he’d be just fine, he liked Uncle Frank anyway, he’d be proud of her. Because he could see she wanted so badly to go. Everyone said it would be good for her. Maybe bring back the old Winona sparkle.

It didn’t, but she still didn’t want to come back. Jim said that was fine, he would be fine. Winona was hardly more absent in space than she had been at home. 

A lot of things had gone wrong after that, but Jim could admit his sins were mostly his own. Winona couldn’t have stopped him. But still, it would have been nice to have had the kind of mother who was all there.

Dammit, Uhura was right. It was one thing to shut it all down for his own comfort. But half a person couldn’t do all the things a whole person could do. He’d have to process this at least a little or he couldn’t do the kind of good he wanted— needed to do. He didn’t want to realize, twenty years later, that he’d been so locked inside his own head that he hadn’t been there for the people who needed him.

He reinserted the last isolinear chip and tucked the spanner back into Winona’s tool case. “Thanks, Mom. That helps.”

She raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Well, I’m glad you’re in a mood to be helped by your morbid old mother.”

He headed down, his footsteps tapping quickly on the metal catwalk. “Don’t forget regulation 102.9, subsection c!”

“Honored in the breach, kid,” she said, pulling another tool out. “Everybody knows that.”

Spock and Kirk were watching some truly terrible television. 

Kirk had expressed a wish for it—”brain rotting media” was his term—and Spock, not wanting to deny him anything that might help, had dug around in the attic until he located a screen large enough to set up on the low table by the couch. 

Picking a show had been difficult. No old shows filmed on Earth, which ruled out most media in Standard. It could not be violent either, or sad. And definitely not the news. Kirk had finally selected a Denobulan soap opera and settled in.

Spock could not keep track of the relationships among all the characters. Someone didn't like her husband's other wife. Someone's grandmother was holding an inheritance over everyone's heads. There was a secret baby, and Spock was beginning to suspect one of the characters was actually twins.

“You really don't have to watch this with me,” Kirk said, not for the first time. A man on the screen was sobbing, copiously and not very convincingly. Kirk looked a little embarrassed to be watching this. 

“I wish to. It is . . .” He searched for a positive thing he could possibly say that was true. “An interesting anthropological study. I admit I know very little about the daily life of Denobulans.”

Kirk laughed. “You don't have to pretend it doesn't suck. I know it's trash. And it's no good for knowing a thing about Denobulan life, let me tell you. Almost nobody hires hitmen on their grandma for fear they’ll be written out of the will.”

“Nevertheless,” said Spock, and turned back to the screen to watch a transporter accident turn the secret twins into secret quadruplets.

Kirk had assessed his psychological needs correctly. He had lacked focus for reading lately, which had driven him into ever more frantic overactivity. His plan, it seemed, conscious or otherwise, was to keep his mind too full of other things to remember the loss of his home. 

The show was good enough for that purpose. It was too poorly made to elicit an emotional response, but just engaging enough to maintain Kirk's attention. 

One of the secret quadruplets had gotten amnesia by the time Kirk's eyelids started to droop. He leaned against Spock's shoulder and breathed with the steadiness of sleep. 

Spock waited. Five minutes was adequate to ensure he was soundly sleep enough to move, but Spock waited longer, for no particular reason. It was simply quite comfortable to remain here, Jim's sleeping body a warmth along his side.

Sarek came into the room to get a book, gave Spock a long, thoughtful look, and went out again. Spock resisted the impression that he had been caught in an impropriety. They were only watching a show. 

But it was past time to put Jim to bed, so he carefully did so before returning downstairs to speak to his father. That long look suggested a desire to talk, and their relationship was still delicate enough that Spock felt he should take every chance. 

Sarek was at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of tea and reading. Spock set the kettle back on, mainly to give himself something to do. 

“I believe this has gone beyond life-debt for you, Spock,” said Sarek without prologue. 

Spock's hands stilled on the case of tea leaves. “On what do you base this belief?” Remembering himself, he opened the case and spooned leaves into the pot.

“You do much more than is required. Much more than he will even notice.”

Spock wished to contradict this, and could not. Ten minutes of his time on the couch had been unnecessary—perhaps all of it. Kirk had urged him to go. 

“It does not matter,” said Spock. “It does him no harm.”

Sarek raised an eyebrow. “He is not the one who concerns me in this instance.”

The water boiled, and Spock poured it into the teapot. “Concerns? Surely there is nothing I have done which can be considered concerning.”

Sarek gave him a look, the look that he had given when, as a child, Spock had attempted to prevaricate. “You are freshly out of your relationship with Nyota. You are in a transitional period of your life. I do not disapprove of your choice, but the timing seems inopportune.”

Spock's eyes widened. “You think that— No. I feel that Jim—that Kirk and I have begun a friendship of sorts. Or that I would like to. I do not believe it extends past that.”

Sarek searched his face before dropping his eyes back to his book. “That is likely for the best at this moment. However, I do encourage you to be conscious of it. These things can evolve past our control if they are not attended to.”

Spock took his cup of tea to the table and sat down. “Is that what happened with you and Mother?”

Sarek raised an eyebrow. “No. In my case it was a highly logical choice in any event, so there was no reason to resist it.”

How often, Spock wondered, were people so lucky? Attachment on both sides, coupled with a situation where it was logical to pursue it? He had thought he had had it with Nyota, but had “taken it slow” in deference to her human customs. Perhaps that had been a mistake. Maybe if they had bonded, he would have been able to see and respond to her dissatisfaction before it had become too much for her to bear. He would have known she needed him, even when she said otherwise.

Then again, perhaps she would have felt trapped, because she did not actually want him as much as she had thought she had.

Sarek finished his tea and closed his book. “I hope for the same for you as I had with your mother. But remember that arranged marriages can also be highly satisfactory. If you wish us to return to the search—”

“No,” Spock interrupted. “Thank you, Father. I will find my own way in this respect.”

Sarek gave a slight sigh. “In every respect, my son. I can hardly criticize; I was much the same at your age. But do not leave it too long. We cannot know how much time you will have.” He rose to his feet and left the room, sparing Spock the burden of thinking of a response to that.

It was certainly positive that his father cared so much, that he was willing to speak his mind. At the same time, it certainly brought to mind the difficulties they had had before. Sarek had always been far too perceptive, and Spock had been too independent to appreciate the interference. At sixteen he had developed a terrible infatuation with a classmate, and Sarek had not only noticed but given advice. Spock had been so embarrassed he had done the opposite of everything Sarek suggested, and unsurprisingly the object of his interest had taken no notice of him.

Was he being equally perceptive now?

No, Kirk was only a friend—not even a friend. Spock felt friendship for him, which was not entirely appropriate and thus best kept to himself. Kirk relied on him; it was not quite the same thing. But that was of no real consequence. Spock was aware of his emotional weaknesses and how to temper them with logic. He did not impose on Kirk or make him uncomfortable. 

If Spock took excessive pleasure from their late-night conversations, if he felt undue anxiety about his health, if he arranged his day to ensure they spent time together, it was still essentially harmless. His meditation was sufficient to cope with this unfortunate excess of feeling. He expected that soon, Kirk would be in command of the Enterprise, heading out on its next mission, while Spock would either be grounded or forced into the VEF. At that time, the situation would resolve itself, albeit uncomfortably.

It was simple enough to test and prove the point. If he had been attracted to Kirk, he would want to kiss him, which it had never occurred to him to do.

He briefly imagined such a thing. A stroke of his fingers, a press of lips. All at once a hot rush flooded his body, punching out his breath and making the hair on the back of his neck rise. His imagination ran away with him, imagining Jim’s soft moan, that pink mouth opening for him, their bodies urgently pressing close.

Well.

This was unfortunate.

Chapter Text

The obvious solution for Spock's sudden infatuation was distance. It seemed simple enough. However, Spock had not accounted for how close they had already come. Once he was paying attention, he found most of his usual boundaries had been eroded. He thought nothing of touching Jim— Kirk —after so many nights tucking him into bed. That boundary held firm enough with everyone else in the world, save his mother. Kirk was different. 

All the reasons to be restrained in his friendship with Kirk were all the more true of his attraction. His father was right. He was in a vulnerable position. This feeling was a transitory emotion; it could not be trusted. 

And Kirk was not the type of person who Spock was looking for. He wanted someone like Nyota: calm, possessed of a self protective instinct, interested in a long-term commitment. A relationship with Kirk would cause endless anxiety and emotional upheaval. 

But, as they worked together, it seemed impossible to maintain the necessary distance. Working at the kitchen table, their hands repeatedly brushed together unintentionally as they reached for a padd or a stylus. Had he been this careless all along? It felt different now that he was paying attention.

Kirk leaned in to look at Spock’s padd, his shoulder against Spock’s chest and their cheeks almost touching. “Is the engineering team fighting you on deadlines again?”

Spock’s hand tightened on his stylus. “I do not believe I am technically in breach of shift regulations because—”

“I’m the last person who’s gonna tattle on you for that,” Kirk said, amused. “Anyway, don’t let them get away with this. This sentence here? Completely vague. Contains no information. Tell them the deadline stays the same, but you’ll show up to help tomorrow if they’re really falling behind. Bet you anything they will suddenly say that actually they are doing just fine.”

Spock raised an eyebrow, but replied as recommended. “You have a remarkable capacity for inferring human motivations.”

“Takes one to know one,” said Kirk, finally leaning away. “Not—I don’t mean you can’t handle humans because you’re Vulcan. Just, it helps to have somebody like me in your corner to help.”

“That is kind of you. However, I am not offended. I know my understanding of subtext is poor, and I also know I will not be commanding the Enterprise much longer. You will.”

Kirk sagged, staring disconsolately at his own padd. “Maybe. I’m having my doubts.”

Spock picked up Kirk’s padd to have a look, assuming Kirk had been working on his acceptance speech. The announcement was tomorrow night. Instead, there was only a brief list:

Get laid

Fight somebody

Get drunk and cry

Talk about feelings???

Kirk snatched it from his hands. “It’s not for work, it's just . . . my stuff.” And then, with a sigh—probably having realized a single glance had been enough for Spock to read the entirety—he added, “It’s a list of ways people have been coping with their feelings lately.”

“I was unaware sexual activity was one of the methods.”

“Oh yeah, they’ve been at it like rabbits in that dorm. Don’t worry, un like rabbits, they’ve all had their shots; I got Bones to make sure of that.”

“And it helps?”

“Well, that’s what I don’t know. I know what they’ve been up to, but without a control group I can’t measure the relative effectiveness. I do know morale has improved. Still shaky, but I think the only thing that will cure it is some stability. To know where they’re going to land next.”

“Hence why you’ve assigned everyone quarters despite the refit being far from over.”

“Exactly. They don’t even need to sleep in them. But they’ve been collecting stuff, decorating. The den instinct is pretty strong with humans. The worse the trauma, the more they want to go home and lick their wounds.” He swallowed. “So it’s a double whammy. We’re dealing with grief and we don’t have one of the top things we’d do about it. And every time we’re reminded that we want it, we remember it’s gone, and we get . . .”

“I understand,” said Spock. He wondered if Kirk had realized he had changed from third to first person plural. He had a strong suspicion the list was more personal than general. “Perhaps we could test one of these methods right now.”

Kirk looked startled. “What?”

“I could spar with you, and you can report if it has any effect on your morale,” said Spock. Kirk immediately relaxed. “I am, of course, willing to talk about your feelings, but I understand you might find me an unfit partner for that exercise.”

Even this was not exactly in line with his intentions. It was the opposite of creating distance. But Kirk’s mental health was more important than Spock’s feelings. He clearly needed assistance of some kind.

Vasodilation markedly increased the redness in Kirk’s face, but he nodded. “Yeah, I could do with some exercise. Do we have to go outside?”

“There is a practice area in the basement.”

Kirk was, to put it mildly, not a good fighter. He had clearly been trained at the academy and started out with good form. But when Spock pressed an advantage, he would forget everything he knew and try to win by brute force. Which probably worked for him most of the time, but it wouldn’t work against a stronger opponent.

“Flinging your whole body at the enemy is unlikely to be effective,” said Spock, helping him off the ground for the fourth or fifth time. “A trained person will always defeat someone who is merely brawling.”

“Who said I was trying to win?” said Kirk, plunging back in, fists flailing. 

Spock threw him to the ground immediately. “Is that not the object of this activity?”

“You said it was to get my feelings out,” said Kirk. “Well, my feelings don’t have any finesse. They want to smash someone’s teeth in.”

“You will not be able to give me any dental trauma in this match.”

“Exactly. You’re enough stronger than me that I can just whale on you and you won’t get hurt.” As if to illustrate his point, he swung wide at Spock’s face.

Spock deflected it, swept his ankle out from under him, and dropped him to the mat. “Would not a punching bag do as well for the purpose?”

“A punching bag wouldn’t throw me around like this,” said Kirk. He scrambled to his feet again. “Don’t suppose I could talk you into giving me a split lip or a bloody nose or something.”

Spock’s eyes widened in alarm. “Why would you wish that?”

“Just what I’m used to, buddy. Don’t take it personally.” He flung himself at Spock again, and this time Spock grappled him into a tight hold. 

This had been a mistake. Kirk's body was hot with exertion, damp with sweat, smelling of human musk. But Spock had made a decision and held to it, despite the way it discomfited him.

Kirk flexed his body to fling him off, but he had no leverage and he was outweighed. “Okay, okay, dap-lan-pa or whatever. Uncle.”

Spock held him more tightly. “I will not be used as an instrument for your self-harming impulses.”

Through his carefully maintained shields, he felt the flare of Kirk’s anger. Startled, he loosened his hold. Kirk spun out of his arms, eyes flashing a hot blue, and Spock discovered he had been toying with him the entire time.

It still wasn’t an even fight—Vulcan strength was hard to account for—but Kirk brought out all the finesse he hadn’t had before. Odd; usually people became poorer fighters when they became angry, forgetting all their technique. Jim had become focused, moving quickly and precisely. Spock had to work to block his punches. He was playing to injure, aiming primarily at the face.

Spock finally managed to fling him face-down on the mat and put a knee on his back. “I do not understand the motive of your behavior.”

“Neither—did—Pike,” Jim gasped. “Will you let me up?”

Reluctantly, Spock released him. It did not matter if Kirk desired to be injured. Spock believed he could avoid that while still fending off Kirk’s attacks.

“I don’t know if I could explain it,” said Kirk, panting, trying a right hook that didn’t connect. “It just helps to get angry. And getting hurt helps me get angry.”

Spock smoothly ducked Kirk’s next attack. “Why would anger be helpful?”

Kirk contemplated this through the next few blows. The next time he landed on the mat, he lay there reflectively for a moment. “Anger is the most primal emotion.” He climbed to his feet, tried again. “Sadness is more complex. So you start with anger.”

“And do you proceed past it?”

Kirk narrowed his eyes, aimed a kick right at Spock’s abdomen, where his heart was. Instinctively, he moved to protect it. But Kirk had known he would, used it as an opening to get in his first blow on Spock’s shoulder. “Anger feels better. Anger’s what you use in a fight, when you still might win. Sadness is defeat.”

“And you do not believe in defeat.” Spock threw him again, this time following him down to the ground to pin him.

Kirk strained against him, muscles bulging, but couldn’t break free. “You trying to prove me wrong?”

“There is no shame in defeat. One cannot win them all.”

“But this one,” Kirk said, voice rising in anger, “I couldn’t afford to lose!” He twisted at last, shaking Spock off to the side and rolling on top of him.

Spock flung him off easily, straddled his chest before he could get to his feet. “You have lost this one, Jim. You pulled from it what victory there was to be taken. But you lost. I lost. We all lost that day.”

He had Jim pinned by the bare wrists. Anger, sadness, defeat, defiance, poured out of him. Perhaps Spock was pushing too hard. But Jim had asked. Spock believed he might finally be ready to mourn his homeworld. He was resisting, not because he wanted to, but because he did not know how to stop.

“Let me up,” said Jim.

“Admit that we lost.”

Jim strained against Spock’s hold, but the angle made it impossible to bring his full strength to bear. “Asshole.”

“Do you not want to move through this?”

“No!” With an effort Spock could feel, he controlled his voice. “I’m fine.”

“Fine has variable definitions. You came here for a reason.”

Jim frowned stubbornly. “It was an experiment.”

“It was because you decided it was time.”

Abruptly the tension left his muscles and he slumped back against the floor. The emotions coming from him shifted, turned quieter. “We lost,” he whispered.

Spock released his wrists. Jim did not attempt to resume the fight, so Spock climbed off him and let him up.

Slowly, Jim got to his feet. “I can’t,” he began. And then, “I have to go out, okay? Try one of those other things.”

Spock did not want to let him go. His emotional state was still volatile. But Jim’s feelings were his own. He had to find his own answer.

He nodded, and Jim left without another word.

Jim made a beeline for the only person he knew who could help him when he got like this: Bones.

“Help,” in this case, meaning “pour bourbon into.” Which definitely did help. Perhaps a little too well.

“Do you know there are no Basques left?” said Jim, several drinks in. “No speakers of Irish Gaelic. The whole Baha'i faith is gone.”

“Pawpaws,” said Bones. “They're hard to domesticate. Can't get them off of Earth.”

“Robins are extinct. Dandelions. So much crap we didn't even value.”

“French wine,” said Bones. “The Louvre.”

“Hermit crabs.”

“Live oaks.”

Jim looked down at his padd. “I don't know how to work live oaks into my speech.”

“I don't know how you're supposed to work any damn thing in,” said Bones. “All they want you to say is yes, thanks.”

“Well they don't get what they want. I want Shp—Spock.”

“You're trauma bonded to him, aren't you?”

“Ooh, practicing psychology under the influence, pretty sure that's illegal, Bones. And no I am not trauma bonded, it's just—he's so competent. And unflop—unflappable. We're gonna need that.”

“He's going to drive me insane the whole mission.”

“If they let you bring Joanna.”

“I've decided to count on it, otherwise I have no clue what's even going to happen. I know I'm not leaving her.”

“Planning for the future is good for morale,” said Jim, staring up at the ceiling. Kinda funny that he was lying on the floor. He didn't remember getting down here.

A pretty face surrounded by blond hair peered down at him. “I think that's about enough for both of you,” said Savannah. “You think you're good to walk home, or do you want to stay here for the night?”

“It's night?” Jim sat up. The room spun. “Spock hates when I stay out late.”

“I dislike it,” said a male voice.

Jim twisted around to see Spock standing in the doorway. “Why are you here?”

“You may recall that I put a tracker on your comm to make it easier to find you, given you are highly mobile during the average workday.”

Jim giggled. “Highly mobile. You make everything sound classy.” 

“Trauma bonded,” said Bones sagely.

“Is he even competent to return home?” Spock asked Bones.

“He's fine,” Bones said dismissively. “He's got a fast metabolism. Hits him hard and he sobers up fast. By the time you get home he'll be able to be polite to your mother.”

“He's here and you could just ask him,” said Jim, feeling salty.

Spock hauled him to his feet. He teetered slightly, but stayed up. They made their way out of the dorm, Spock's arm around his back. Jim wasn't sure if he was being directed or carried.

“The Appalachian Mountains,” Jim mumbled. “The Statue of Liberty. Bumblebees.”

“Has this been ‘drink and cry’ or ‘talk about your feelings’?”

“Got a twofer,” said Jim. “Only one left to go.”

“I do not think that—”

“Ignore me, Spock, I always flirt when I'm drunk.”

“I see.”

“Not that you're not—oh god make me stop talking.”

“I have occasionally wished I had that ability.”

“The thing is,” said Jim, returning to the circuit his brain had been on for the last couple of hours, “the thing is, I don't have a right to mourn. I'm like that kid who—you know—he doesn't call home in twenty years and then he shows up at the funeral thinking he has any right.”

“That is a reasonable approximation of my relationship to Earth,” said Spock. “But you lived on Earth most of your life.”

“And every second of it I wanted to get away. It was all I ever wanted to do. That's why I stole that car. Don't believe them if they say I didn't want to live. I just—the walls were closing in on me, Spock.”

“You stole a car?”

“And I got off planet for a while, but it didn't help, not if I just had to be on a different one, and then things went bad and I had to go home anyway. So many people died.”

“Which planet was this?”

“I thought I'd missed my chance. Never thought Starfleet would take a high school dropout repeat offender. If Pike hadn't told me I'd still be in that bar. Well. Dead. I'd be dead. I never would have gotten off that rock.”

Spock had no questions about this part. Pike must've told him. “See, listen to me, I'm calling her a rock. She did more for me than my actual mom and I didn't even look. The day we left—I didn't look at one damn thing! I don't even know what the weather was!” His face was wet and he didn't care. Tears trailed down his jaw and dripped off the end of his chin.

“There were high cirrus clouds and a mild westerly breeze.”

“God. I'm never gonna see that sky again. I had a last chance to look at it and I didn't even take it.”

“You could not have known.”

“It wasn't that I hated her, Spock. You have to understand. I wanted to still be from there. Local boy makes good. I'd be off flying at warp through a nebula but it would all be okay because it would still be there waiting for me. If I ever got tired. If I ever needed to go home.”

“I do understand this, Jim.”

“I—didn't—even know—that goodbye—was a thing I needed to say.”

His face touched something soft and dry, and he realized it was Spock's shoulder. He was being pinned again. No—he was being hugged. That was worse. “Don't hug me, Spock, I might cry.”

“You are already crying.”

Jim stopped trying to pull away. “Sorry to let you down,” he mumbled. “I'm only human.”

“The cause is sufficient,” said Spock, his arms tightening slightly. “I have observed that humans have a remarkable resilience. Grieving Vulcans do not often recover so well.”

“It's the crying probably,” said Jim. “And that alcohol works on us.”

Spock released him, which almost made Jim whimper. At least he kept his arm around Jim's back. “What you describe—wanting to leave a planet and still be of that planet—is something I have also felt. Vulcan has not accepted me, but it is still mine. It is where I am from. It cannot cease to be where I am from.”

“Unless it fell into a singularity.”

“Even then. You are a Terran. You are of Earth. That cannot change, no matter what you may have felt about it, or how far you go. It is a reality subsisting in yourself.”

“We need to go look at it,” Jim said suddenly.

“At what?”

“At your planet. I didn't so you have to. Let's walk out into the desert. See all the things you're gonna miss.”

“It is unsafe to go into the desert at night. We will go into the garden.”

There was the sound of a gate unlatching, and Jim was startled to see they were already here. How long had they been standing right in front of the house? Oh god, if Sarek had seen him crying . . .

Spock pulled him by the wrist, and he stumbled a little on the edge of the sidewalk before finding the rock path running from the gate. In the shadows, it didn't look like much. Spindly trees, low thorny shrubs.

Spock led him to a bench and sat him down. “If it makes you feel better, I assure you I appreciate my planet often.”

“It does a bit.”

They sat in silence. Jim was still crying silently, one tear sliding down his cheek as the next welled up. He scrubbed at his face with his sleeve, taking shuddery breaths, trying to put it all back in. He'd let out enough. He was done. He wanted to stop now, but the tears seemed to be infinite. He'd only wanted to take the pressure off a little bit so he could write the damn speech and maybe sleep at night. Not grieve an entire planet in a single evening.

With an effort, he got hold of himself. The alcohol was wearing off and he was feeling a little less fragile. He sniffed hard, tipping his head back till the tears dried up.

There was a faint brush against the back of his hand. Spock was gently running two fingers over it. A warm calmness spread through him, like Spock's hug earlier. Like the first sip of hot tea warming his chest, making something loosen that had been tight longer than he could remember. The back of his neck prickled.

He looked over at Spock to find those dark eyes already fixed on him. Entirely without expression, and yet, in the eyes, he couldn’t help feeling there was a spark, warmth, sympathy. Jim’s lips parted. He’d been teasing all this time, but this, this was real. He wanted—

Spock’s hand withdrew, and his eyes lowered. “It is late. You need rest. Tomorrow you will need to write your speech.”

“Spock, I—”

“Come inside.”

Jim reluctantly allowed Spock to guide him into the house and up the stairs. To his surprise, Spock followed him into the bedroom. For a second he was hopeful, but Spock only sat him on the bed and knelt to pull his boots off. Then he made Jim lie down and tucked him into bed. “Wait,” said Jim, reaching after him. Spock immediately came close enough to take his hand. “You've been doing this . . . all this time? I thought I was just too tired to remember going to bed.”

“Yes,” said Spock simply, squeezing his hand and letting it go. “Good night, Jim.”

For the first time since he'd come here, he curled up and fell asleep without having to distract himself from the silence.

Chapter Text

Jim had been drunk. Of course his barriers had been down.

But, Spock asked himself, what was his excuse?

At the time, he had justified everything with the thought of Jim’s fragile emotional state, what he needed. Jim had needed to be touched, to be held. He was human; it was a normal human need and denying it to him would have been detrimental. And he had been vulnerable in sharing his feelings, naturally Spock had to return that—it was a human social expectation, it felt uncomfortable for them to be the only one revealing their feelings.

But he had also kissed Jim, with the vague thought of sending him some telepathic consolation, but even he could not lie to himself convincingly enough to believe that was the only reason. He had done it because he had wanted to. He had touched Jim’s sorrow and smoothed it over, just a little; he had touched the very edges of Jim’s mind, and it had only made him want more.

Jim would not know it was a kiss, which made it worse. That meant he had taken advantage in two ways, first of his ignorance and second of his intoxication. He had come very close to taking it further. Trailing two fingers down Jim’s jaw, pressing their lips together. He could sense Jim wanted him to.

But that would have been a misreading of the situation, which was that Jim was finally grieving his planet and would have taken comfort from anywhere. Spock was aware of Jim’s reputation at the Academy—everyone was. It was not impossible that Jim would have let him do anything he wanted. Kneel at his feet, open his trousers, take him into his mouth. Jim would have enjoyed it, digging his fingers into Spock’s hair, crying out, finally purging his sorrow in intense pleasure. It was one of the four ways on his list.

But it would not have meant anything to him. In the morning he might not even have remembered. Or worse, he would have remembered and been ashamed, or angry that Spock had taken such advantage.

In the Vulcan tradition, it was considered unethical to make any kind of romantic overture to a person in mourning. They were too vulnerable to it. The raw ends of their severed bonds would latch on, only too easily, to anyone who offered. Instead, healing must take place first, so that the person could be safe behind their mind’s boundaries, assured of their own logic before making a choice.

Spock did not know how long it would take a human to recover enough not to be vulnerable. But certainly, in Jim’s case, it had not been nearly long enough.

When Jim awoke, there was a glass of water on the bedside table and two hangover tabs. He took them before even getting out of bed. In about half a minute his head stopped trying to split in half and he went downstairs looking for Spock.

Last night he’d been drunk. His sudden instinct to make a pass at Spock had been...impulsive, and Spock would have recognized that. He’d headed Jim off because he’d have assumed Jim didn’t mean it.

But he was awake and sober and he still meant it. Spock. Of course. He was attractive—that had been obvious from the beginning. But he’d only hit on him in the way he hit on Uhura. Kind of more as a compliment than with any kind of intent.

Last night, though, it had been more. Spock got him. Maybe Bones was right and it was just trauma making him grab desperately for the first person who was nice to him. But lots of people were being nice to him these days. Spock understood, and that was so much more important. Spock knew what it was like to have to get away, to need the stars, with a bone-deep need no one but his mother had ever seemed to understand before. Spock knew guilt. Spock knew what it was to deal with hurt with forward momentum: simply throw himself forward, do the next thing.

Spock had always known and respected that Jim didn’t want to talk about it. Jim had assumed that was because Spock was a Vulcan. He understood and approved of emotional repression. As Uhura had said, Spock was enabling him to hide from his feelings.

But it wasn’t that at all. Spock had only sensed it wasn’t yet time. That Jim wasn’t ready. And when he was, Spock had been there too. Not with shame and condemnation, but acceptance, even admiration.

He’d known he couldn’t captain the Enterprise without Spock. But now he couldn’t help feeling he couldn’t handle his life without Spock. It was hard to imagine that Spock, who had so easily understood everything else, would fail to understand that.

Downstairs, in the kitchen, was only Amanda, drinking tea and reading. “Is Spock here?” Jim asked.

Amanda raised an eyebrow. “It’s nearly noon, Jim. He’s working. Probably on the Enterprise. He said he doesn’t need your help today. He told me to make sure you eat a healthy breakfast and work on your speech.”

Jim rolled his eyes. “I swear he thinks he’s my mother.”

She reached into the fruit bowl on the table and handed him something knobbly and green. Jim took it and stared at it for a minute. He wanted a banana. Were there still bananas? Surely those at least would have been cultivated elsewhere. With a sigh, he sat down and started peeling the thing. “Has he really been tucking me into bed every night?”

“He was worried if he woke you, you wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep.”

“Why does he care so much?”

Amanda propped her elbows on the table, hands encircling her teacup. “He sees you as a hero, you know,” she said, after a minute. “He feels very guilty he wasn’t able to save Earth. Every Vulcan owes you a life debt, but I think Spock feels it the most strongly of all. It was you who made sure he beamed off that ship in time. He meant to give his life to make up for his failure to save Earth. Which is just him all over,” she added, with an exasperated smile. “Thanks for not letting him.”

Jim stared down at his fruit. That was a much more obvious reason, wasn’t it. Spock didn’t like him, not like that. Spock felt like he owed him. So he could count on having Spock at his back and in his corner as first officer, but a life debt wasn’t love. In fact, it would be taking advantage to even try. Spock wouldn’t want to refuse him anything, but that didn’t mean he wanted anything.

With a sigh, he carried his half-peeled fruit upstairs and set it on his desk next to the computer console. Bones was right after all, wasn’t he? He and Spock were both fragile right now, their hard edges knocked off and their wounds raw and sensitive. They had latched onto each other, but what each of them was looking for was probably pretty different.

Resolutely, he sat down and opened his speech. It would be harder to access the feelings he had had last night, without the help of alcohol or Spock. But he could at least remember what he had said.

His fingers flew over the keys, writing, deleting, rearranging. When Amanda knocked on the door some time later, he looked up, befuddled for a moment. “What time is it?”

“You’ve been working nonstop for four hours,” said Amanda. “And I see you haven’t even eaten your fruit.” She set a plate on the desk covered with crackers and spread and little dried fruits like prunes.

“Amanda, you really shouldn’t fuss over me so much.”

“Nobody gave me a starship to distract myself with,” she said practically. “So I make do with what I have.”

“To command the flagship of the reorganized Terran Starfleet, the Enterprise, we have selected a man whose heroism in the face of unthinkable tragedy proves he is his father’s son: James T. Kirk.”

There was an impressive smatter of applause from a crowd so small, especially given the Vulcans in the audience showed their respect by sitting quietly. Beside Spock on the stage, Jim rose to his feet. Spock’s eyes followed him. This was Jim’s moment. Spock had no doubts that he deserved this and would be exceptional at it.

Jim took his place behind the podium, and all the cameras zoomed in on his face. This would be broadcast throughout the Federation, to the colony worlds, to the refugees huddled wherever they had landed.

“Thank you, Admiral.” Jim nodded and smiled, and Komack beamed at him before returning to his seat. The admiral had total confidence Jim was his man, there to do his bidding. It would be interesting to see how he reacted to the speech itself. Spock had not read it, but he knew Jim well enough to know it would not be what Komack expected.

“Growing up, I always had my eyes fixed on the stars,” Jim began, casually, as if he were speaking ‘off the cuff,’ although Spock knew he wasn’t. “I got that from both my parents—Kirks don’t stay grounded for long. We get up and go. We explore. And maybe you’d think people like that wouldn’t care much about the Earth, but I can tell you we do. I do. She was my roots and my wings—I could soar as far as I wanted, knowing I had her to come home to. Knowing that whatever planet I touched, whatever strange new life I encountered, I could introduce myself as James Kirk of Earth. A man with a home.

“That’s been taken away from me. From all of us in Starfleet. It’s hard to keep exploring out into the universe without that sense of home behind us. But when I got back to the Enterprise after some time away, I realized—I still have her . She was built in the Iowa cornfields, finished in Earth orbit. She’s the closest thing I have to home, and I’ll be happy to command her.”

Komack leaned forward, as if to rise again to his feet, but Jim kept talking. “Starfleet has been a home for all of us explorers since it began. A home we could take with us. And not just for Terrans, but for explorers of every species and name. Children of two worlds have found a home there where every part of them is accepted. Children of worlds that cast them out or didn't keep them safe have been wanted and valued there.

“My last sight of Earth was on the Academy grounds. Humans rushing around with Vulcans and Orions and Deltans, all of us fixed on one goal, of saving our home. And I do say our home, because one of the most precious things about Earth was how it would take anyone. More than humans were lost that day. If Starfleet is what we have left—if it's our moving home that we carry with us—we can't lose that. Earth isn't just the redwoods or the Eiffel Tower, it's her people, and we're still here. Everyone who ever found Earth a safe harbor is Terran to me.

“I've heard they're considering making Starfleet a humans-only operation. If that happens, it wouldn't be the Starfleet I know, or anything like the Earth I remember.

“I accept command of the Enterprise, but only on one condition. I need Commander Spock, her previous acting captain, as my first officer. I can't do it without his expertise and skill. If I can't have him, I can't have the best person for the job, and I will have to decline. We took down Nero together, and there’s no one else I want at my back on this mission.”

Spock stiffened in shock. Everyone who knew Jim at all, knew his dream was to be a captain. Why jeopardize it by insisting on someone the admirals obviously would not approve?

Jim looked to the side, over at him, and grinned. That smile would be on every front page tomorrow, Spock was certain. “What about it, Spock, do you want to come with me?”

The crowd cheered, whooping and shouting because the noise they made with their hands was insufficient to express their feelings. Spock found his face was softening, nothing so blatant as a smile, but Jim, he thought, would recognize it for what it was.

Komack got up and joined Jim at the podium. “Well, we haven't even talked crew assignments yet—”

“Look me up when you do,” said Jim genially. “I'm not going anywhere.”

The ceremony came to a disorganized end. In the green room behind the stage, Komack immediately turned on Jim. “Kirk, if you wanted Spock on your crew, you should have asked the board in private! When we could have actually had a chance to discuss it!”

“Would you have said yes?”

Komack looked taken aback. It was pleasant to see someone else floundering for words in the face of Jim’s attitude, for once. “It’s not your job to dictate terms, Kirk! It’s your job to say thank you, smile, and wave!”

Jim ducked his head, smirking. “Guess you’re not very familiar with my work.”

Pike, however, wheeled a little closer and shook Jim’s hand. “Proud of you, son. You picked the best there is.”

“I know it.”

“It hasn’t been decided,” Komack repeated.

“It was unwise to stake everything on one crew appointment,” said Spock softly, so only Jim would hear.

“I wanted the best,” said Jim stubbornly. “And I wanted to make a point, which I think I did. I hope you don’t mind that I sprang it on you like that. You will accept?”

“I would follow you anywhere,” said Spock honestly.

Jim’s smile faltered a bit, sliding down at the corners. But he clasped Spock’s upper arm firmly. “I couldn’t do it without you. I meant that.”

“You may be correct.”

Jim looked wounded, though probably in jest. “Please do me a favor and don't say that in front of the cameras.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “You think they will want to interview me?”

“I'm certain of it. Just stick to me like glue and be yourself. I want them to see us as a unit.”

They left the green room and found themselves in a crowd, partly well-wishers and partly reporters. Obedient to his orders, Spock followed directly at his elbow. Jim charmed everyone so thoroughly that Spock barely had to say a word.

“It was perfect,” Uhura enthused, as they celebrated Jim's appointment in her dorm room. “You were perfect. Both of you.” She glanced quickly at Spock and then away. Jim caught the look, wondering how things exactly stood between those two now.

“Guess we'll see what the brass thinks,” said Bones sourly. “Pretty sure they'll just go to the next name on the list. You prepared for that, Jim?”

“Of course. I don't bet anything I can't afford to lose.”

“But you've wanted to be captain of the Enterprise since—” He cut off abruptly, at a warning gesture from Jim.

“I doubt they will be able to avoid giving you a command eventually,” said Spock, “even if they rescind this offer.”

Uhura set her padd upright and turned on the news. “Your body language is flawless here. Look. Jim faces the reporter, Spock's angled toward Jim. You look like a captain and first officer already.”

“It was unintentional,” said Spock.

“This is PR. Appearances are essential.”

“This will not be decided by public opinion,” said Spock. “Not only will it be decided by the Earth and Federation governments, it is unclear when or whether Terrans will be able to vote their representatives out.”

“Humans hate being disliked,” said Nyota. “The admirals wanted to pass this off as a reorganization, a centering of Terran interests. People weren't aware it was going to mean booting non-humans out of Starfleet. I'm not sure even the Federation Senate realized it would have that effect. Now they are in the position of trying to implement it against strong opposition.”

Jim braced to see if this was going to end up being a fight. The two of them hadn’t been broken up that long. But Spock only bowed his head and said, “We shall see.”

The screen flashed the photo of Jim, smiling down from the podium at Spock, Spock looking upward like Adam in Michaelangelo's Creation.

(Which was another thing that no longer existed.)

If Jim had seen this the night before last, he would have thought: ha! Proof Spock is in love with me!

But now all he could see was what Amanda had told him: devotion. Life debt. Guilt. Spock would follow him anywhere just because he'd helped, because he'd done what anyone would have in the situation. He could have been anyone and it wouldn't have mattered. Spock saw him as a hero, a paper cutout people could project anything on.

Just like how everyone else saw him.

Not that it mattered. He hadn't picked Spock on a whim; this had been his thought from the beginning. Spock was the best, it should have been his command instead, and if Jim could ram it through the admiralty, he'd be preserving Starfleet for every other non-human in it as well.

“Thank god you're so pretty,” said Bones. “You'll get your way on that smile alone.”

Jim smirked. “It wouldn't be the first time.”

The confirmation of Spock's appointment came in writing. It seemed the admirals didn't want to see Jim gloat—which he definitely would have. Jim went straight to Pike. “How'd you do it?”

Pike laughed. “What makes you think it was me?”

“Had to have been, none of the other admirals like me.”

“It wasn't decided by the admirals,” said Pike. “We were called back to the Senate to have it out in committee. Turned out nobody there had thought through the implications of splitting the fleets, and it hadn't been decided exactly how to split them. They'd said Starfleet was the Earth fleet, but they didn't mean to say Terrans could decide unilaterally who could be in it—especially given the Earth government’s mandate from the people is questionable at best.”

“You're telling me the Senate made them give me Spock?”

“Spock was the perfect choice. If Komack said he couldn't be in Starfleet because he wasn't all human, then it followed he couldn't be in the VEF either, because he’s also not all Vulcan. But if they tried to split up the fleets by citizenship instead of species, we'd run into the problem of deciding what's an Earth citizen when most of us don't have records, none of us are residents, and we're probably all going to have to accept citizenship other places eventually. So, they did the only thing they could do. Put each fleet under its own leadership, but allow all Federation citizens to apply to any fleet they want. So if you wanted to join the VEF, I guess you could.”

“And be hot and breathless forever? No thanks.”

“And that was what smoothed down all the separationists’ feathers. Most people will still want to join their planet’s fleet, if it has one. But this way nobody's forced to. Now I wouldn't put it past Komack and his pals to try to set academy standards in whatever way keeps out the most non-humans, but at any rate Spock is safe, and everyone else currently in Starfleet. Meanwhile Komack’s in his eighties. He’s got to retire eventually.”

Jim breathed a long sigh of relief. “I wasn't sure it would really work.”

“I said to use your bully pulpit,” said Pike. “Not stake your whole dream on a long shot.”

“I always stake everything on long shots,” said Jim. “Not really sure what you were expecting.”

Pike chuckled. “I hope you recognize it was god’s honest truth what you said about Spock. He really is the best there is.”

“I meant every word.”

“Good. Because if you don't take good care of him, I'll promote him out from under you. Don't believe the regulations-quoting exterior. He has absolutely no fear.”

“I beamed onto the Narada with him,” said Jim. “Trust me, I know.”

“Heaven help us,” said Pike, rubbing his face. “I'm not sure the universe can handle the combination of both of you.”

Jim walked out of Pike's office feeling genuinely excited for the first time in a long time. His twenty-four hours of fighting and drinking and crying must have done some good, because somehow he didn't feel like command was something he had to do to keep himself busy. He felt like he wanted to.

He flipped open his comm. “Kirk to Spock. You get your notice?”

“I have, Captain.”

“Excellent. Where are you, I want to celebrate.”

“I am on the Enterprise.”

“Perfect. I'll meet you there.”

Chapter Text

Every day, Jim sat down with Spock on the Enterprise, surrounded by Vulcan shipyard workers and engineers, and did paperwork. Command so far contained a disappointingly small proportion of strange new worlds and a large proportion of paperwork.

If Spock found it an excessively sentimental choice to do everything on the Enterprise amid the noise and dust when perfectly decent office space existed on the surface, he didn't mention it.

“I've got to have Gaila,” Jim said, opening a blank transfer request.

“Because she is your girlfriend?” asked Spock.

Jim blinked. “No, because she's the best computer specialist in our class, and she'd fit in great with our crew. Who told you she was my girlfriend?”

“Nyota.”

Oh, of course. “Uhura's never really gotten our relationship. She's not not my girlfriend, but she was seeing at least nine other people back at the Academy, and I . . . at this point, I feel like we're mainly friends. You don't have a problem with her, do you? Orions are like that, it doesn't mean they don't know how to be professional.”

“I do not have a problem working with Orions.”

“Good.” He finished filling out the request, sent it winging its way to Komack’s desk. “Weird thing. I've got 47 new crew assigned to me and only eight are human. If non-humans are all requesting us, that’s fine, but if Command is trying to purge the rest of the fleet and send them all here—”

Spock reached out his hand for Jim’s padd. Jim handed it over, and Spock took a minute scrolling through. “Keenser will have requested a transfer in order to remain with Mr. Scott. They were colleagues in Luna City. Twelve of these are from the wrecked home fleet; they have no current position until their ships are rebuilt. Sh’relin of Andoria is quite well thought of in the sciences world. It would not surprise me if she were joining us in the hopes of doing more planetary work.”

“What about the Deltans? How are we going to handle that one? The ‘celibacy oath’ solution is bullshit, it was never the Deltans’ behavior we were worried about.”

“The two Deltans we have been assigned are a bonded pair. As such, they no longer produce pheromones.”

“Perfect.”

The mission wasn't a long-term, exploratory one, like the Enterprise was built for. The official charter was to assess planets for colonization potential. There were plenty that had been marked in passing but never thoroughly explored; it was possible one of them might be suitable for setting up at least a titular home for Terrans.

The unofficial charter was to be seen tooling around the galaxy, like a Starfleet vessel was supposed to be doing. Every week ships weren't seen in their usual haunts was a week the Romulans or Klingons might spot a weakness. The Third Fleet had been patrolling the Neutral Zone without a break, despite the grieving of the crews. The First was heading out now to relieve them. But the Klingons were generally all over the place, and it wouldn't be surprising if they were playing their usual game of snapping up pre-warp planets and sticking bases on them, so Starfleet couldn't blow them up without violating the Prime Directive. So the Enterprise would have to keep a sharp lookout for that kind of shenanigans while being visibly present in places they might be tempted to try it.

“My only thought is that I’m not sure Bones is qualified to treat all these species. He knows Vulcan medicine enough to get by, and I know he’s treated Andorians, but Caitians? Roylans?” Jim frowned, pulling his leg up onto the edge of his seat and clasping his arms around his knee. “Hell, what doctor does know that many specialties? We might have to hire five or six of them.”

“There is Dr. M’Benga, of the VSA,” Spock volunteered. “He is, to my knowledge, the foremost expert on xenomedicine in the sector.”

“Do you know him well enough to ask him?”

“No,” said Spock. “I do not know him at all. However I believe Ensign Uhura is slightly acquainted with him. They met at the Earth Conference for Xenosciences during her first year at the Academy.”

“Perfect,” said Jim, starting a message to her. “But we still need Bones. Maybe make sure we’ve got the admirals’ approval to bring Joanna on board before we officially sign on M’Benga. We don’t want them thinking for a second that we’ll do fine without Bones.”

Spock tilted his head. “Is that strictly true?”

“Absolutely. Three shifts, three doctors, is the absolute minimum. We’ll still need to find at least one more.”

“I will make the request,” said Spock. “They will know that I do not make it out of sentiment.”

“Perfect.”

Yet another ceremony, in front of yet more cameras.

“I relieve you.”

“I am relieved,” said Pike with a laugh.

At the reception, traditionally for friends and family of the crew, there were instead mostly Vulcans. Because most of the crew’s friends and family were dead. It was the kind of thing that just kept coming up. Jim felt a bit bad for having living family, but since they weren’t there, it wasn’t like he was flaunting it. Winona didn’t come because Jim had assured her she didn’t have to, and Sam was much too far away to make it.

Spock’s parents were there, however, along with a petite, elegant woman with hair piled atop her head. She swept over to where Jim and Spock were standing with Uhura. “Spock,” she said, by way of greeting.

“T’Pring,” said Spock, inclining his head. “These are—

“I know who they are. The entire Federation knows who they are.” She looked at Spock expectantly.

“This is T’Pring,” said Spock stiffly.

“His wife,” she added. Having dropped this conversational bomb and left both Jim and Uhura staring, she held up the first two fingers on her right hand toward Spock. “My husband, attend.”

With one almost panicked look at Jim, Spock attached his fingers to hers and let himself be led away.

Jim stood there, blinking, staring after Spock. Married. Married?!

“She must be his childhood bondmate,” said Uhura after a minute. “In these old, traditional families, they marry off the kids at seven. It doesn’t mean, like, marriage, not like we’d think of it.”

Jim dragged his eyes off Spock and T’Pring, talking intently in a corner. “Did you know about this?”

Uhura looked aghast. “No! I’m not that kind of woman. I didn’t think he was that kind of guy!”

“But you said it’s not like marriage?”

She shrugged uncertainly. “It’s like . . . betrothal, mostly. Except you can’t get out of it without mutual consent. So some couples think of it like marriage, and some couples date other people until they can have the bond broken.”

Jim went back to watching Spock and his wife. Unfortunately, since they were Vulcans, there was no sign as to whether they were professing their undying love for one another, or whether she was calling him a cheater and a cad. “She seems like she thinks of it like marriage.”

“Which would mean he can’t get out of it. Yeah.” Uhura pressed the rim of her cocktail glass against her mouth, as if trying to flatten the expression off it. Since her eyes were still flashing angrily, it didn’t work.

“In that case I do feel bad for him,” said Jim. All he could think about was that night in the garden. Everything in the air urging a kiss. And Spock backing up, putting him to bed instead.

Guess he’d thought better of the idea of cheating on his child bride.

“He might have told me,” she said shortly. “I pursued him for years. I thought his hesitation was just because he was Vulcan. But I’d have left him alone in a heartbeat if he’d told me he was married.”

“Of course you would,” said Jim. “This is on him.”

“No wonder he didn’t tell me anything about his family,” she said bitterly. “Apparently I was just practice.”

Jim rubbed her upper arm comfortingly. “No, I’m positive you weren’t. Just so hot and nice you made a Vulcan lose his head.”

She blinked a few times and sniffed. “You’re not the worst, Kirk.”

“Well, I understand.” His eyes drifted back to Spock. He was nodding solemnly at something T'Pring was saying.

Uhura looked at him sharply. “You mean you—”

“Well, I thought —for about five seconds—but I’m pretty sure it was all in my head. Anyway I’m not saying it’s the same. Just, if you start a ‘pining for a married Vulcan’ club, sign me up.”

She grinned at that. “No, I’m not really pining. More pissed. But I’m sorry. He’s—well, let’s just say I understand the appeal.”

Next time Jim looked around for Spock, he was nowhere to be found. Nor T’Pring either. They’d probably left together. Jim wasn’t sure which was worse, them having sweet married reunion sex, or Spock being dragged off unwillingly by a harpy he couldn’t shake, so he imagined both for good measure.

He was nowhere to be seen the next morning at his house either, at least not by the time Jim got up. He sat in his room, going over the Enterprise’s supply list yet again, trying to square what Command had supplied with what a starship actually needed.

It wasn’t like he was unaware Starfleet was short on funds. Of course it was. Its supply houses were largely gone, and the companies that stocked them. Its annual budget had been spent on things that no longer existed. The Federation had forwarded them an immediate infusion of credits, but that would still have to supply too many needs for too long.

But the priorities were bothering him. Starfleet had provided one phaser and one phaser rifle for every member of the crew, but no fresh food, it would have to be replicated only. Jim thought that, in a situation like this, morale would be more important than ever. Command was clearly thinking something more like time to tighten our belts and watch out for more Romulans.

And if it was just that, it would be one thing, but Bones had objected in the strongest terms to what Command thought was enough for Sickbay. Too much of the fancy equipment the Enterprise had been fitted out with had been lost in the battle with Nero: the bone knitter, the quantum imager, half the stuff in the lab. Command had paid to replace some of it, but for the rest had simply said that these were difficult times and broken bones were rarely life threatening.

But think of the loss of personnel-hours when everyone who broke a bone would have to be off duty for days or weeks! To say nothing of the unnecessary pain.

He priced out everything on the list, added it up, and turned a little pale. He’d been aware outfitting a starship was expensive, but good lord. These things could be purchased on Vulcan, but Jim could think of no way to scrounge up the money if Command couldn’t be convinced to pay up.

There was the sound of a flitter landing outside, so he got up and went to the window. Amanda was hurrying out to meet it. The hatch opened and Spock staggered out.

Jim was horrified. Spock looked ghastly, his face gray and his eyes glassy. He walked like his feet would barely carry him. Amanda tucked herself under his arm, making him lean on her, and guided him into the house.

On the stairs, he heard Amanda’s gentle voice saying, “Another step. There we go. Almost there.” She brought Spock into his room. His bed creaked. “Do you want soup? I could make you soup.” 

“No,” said Spock’s voice weakly, and then, “Perhaps after I have slept.”

“I am so sorry, kan-bu,” she said. “Is it very bad?”

“It does not hurt, Mother,” he said. “Or—not in that way, at least. We agreed on this years ago. It was for the best.”

“If you’re sure.”

Jim wandered into the kitchen half an hour later. Amanda was chopping something that looked like green onions as her soup simmered on the stove. She looked up to see him, making a visible effort to clear the concern off her face. “Oh, hello Jim. I didn't realize you were still at home.”

“Yeah, I was planning on working on paperwork here till Spock got back from wherever he was.”

“I see. You saw him come in?” She pushed the fruit bowl over to him.

“Yeah.” He humored her by rooting through and pulling out a pla-savas. Though what he really wanted was a steak, if there had been one anywhere on the planet. “Is he okay?”

“They told me he should be better by tomorrow.”

Jim relaxed a little, reassured that somebody knew what was wrong with Spock and how long it would last. Like it was a planned surgery, maybe, something he'd had to get done before they left. “They?” Jim ventured.

She looked at him assessingly. “If he didn't tell you, I don't think I should. But you can ask him about it tomorrow.”

“Maybe I will.”

Spock was fine in the morning, though, so Jim decided least said was soonest mended.

“Here's the list of requisitions Command rejected,” said Jim, over breakfast. “I took off everything I agreed wasn’t necessary, but that still leaves a hell of a lot.”

Spock scanned it. Then scrolled and scanned the rest of it. “I expect the VEF would oblige us, since it is for the Enterprise.”

“I think we’ve asked for enough favors.”

Spock looked confused. “I do not believe there is a limit, as long as something is in their power to give.”

“It’s just—it’s begging, Spock. We shouldn’t need the help.”

Spock looked down at the list. “It appears that we do.”

Amanda, sitting down at the table with her cup of tea, put in, “Humans hate feeling indebted, Spock.”

“But Vulcan is indebted to them,” argued Spock. “The balance sheet is unequal in their favor.”

“Spock,” Jim said. “I’m homeless. I own nothing that hasn’t been given to me. I don’t know how to explain to you why it hurts to ask for more. I want to find a way to earn this stuff. Something the Enterprise has that we can trade for it. Materiel or manpower or anything we’ve got. If I put you on this, can you promise me you’ll at least do what you can to give something in return?”

“You are asking me to acquire the supplies we need in a deliberately more costly manner for purely emotional reasons.”

“Yes. Is that too much to ask?” He smiled sweetly. Heads I win, tails you lose. Either I have unlimited credit with the Vulcan people or I don’t.

“It is not,” said Spock, taking the padd and pushing back his chair. He left the house without a further objection.

Not much of a victory. Jim could only get out of begging by begging somebody else. The person he least wanted to beg. Unlimited credit with the Vulcan people was bad enough. Unlimited credit with this particular Vulcan was much worse. And it wouldn’t be paid in cash. He was expected to command this man in life or death scenarios, and Spock was going to obey without a second thought because he owed Jim.

It wasn’t the kind of relationship he wanted them to have.

Spock took the light rail to the VEF headquarters so he could read on the way. It took some digging, but he finally found an anthropological paper by a VSA scientist which thoroughly explicated the human sense of debt and obligation.

It had begun in primitive, pre-barter economies, which were based on gifts. One gave gifts to other people in accordance with one’s status. The more one gave, the higher status one was, hence the Anglo-Saxon epithet “ring-giver,” meaning a king. Even though, logically, gifts made a person possess less, it produced the impression of wealth. It was a declaration that one could afford to be generous. The recipients of the gifts were indebted and knew themselves to be so, which bound them to the donor in gratitude. Importantly, the giver was considered superior to the recipient.

The invention of barter and later currency made this type of economy no longer necessary, and yet traces of it lingered to the present day. A human interviewed had explained his relationship with a neighbor as characterized by a number of “favors”—bringing over a baked good, mowing one another’s lawn, watching each other’s pets during vacations. This relationship was mutually beneficial to both of them, but the interviewee reported intense anxiety due to a concern that his neighbor had been more generous than him. Each favor created a strong sense of obligation in the human, such that he felt compelled to perform one of perceived equal value in return. Meanwhile, to prevent creating a similar sense of obligation in his neighbor, he regularly lied about gifts and favors to minimize them, such as saying a batch of cookies “just happened to be left over” when he had actually cooked them especially for this occasion.

Spock wondered if Jim had experienced such a relationship. Somehow, without having to ask, he felt certain Jim would have “won” such a contest, given more. He would have found a way to do so. It would have been a point of pride for him.

But if he were unable to—ah, that was the current problem. Being “behind on favors” felt like a loss of status, made him feel of low value compared to others. And because favors were by nature immeasurable, he could never feel certain he was not behind on favors. His normal response—to do more or ask for less in order to assuage this emotion—was unavailable to him at this time.

Logic balked at this irrational idea. Saving an entire planet was incalculably large; if it had been measured in monetary terms, Vulcan could never have afforded it. Or in terms of life-debt, Jim deserved to have his life saved six billion times, supposing that many dangers ever came up. Nothing Jim could possibly ask for could be too much.

And Vulcans simply did not expect such exact reciprocity. For a purchase, one paid in credits; for a gift, one did not pay. It was not expected to do so. For a life-debt, one was bound to give all that was asked for, but it was an honor to do so. There was nothing shameful about owing a life-debt. Which was fortunate indeed. If it made Vulcans uncomfortable to owe an unpayable debt, it would have significantly decreased the mental well-being of the entire planet.

Spock put his padd away and got off at the appropriate station. This would be difficult to arrange. Starfleet could not pay—it had already supplied all it could afford, and Jim’s appeal had been refused. Spock also could not afford them out of his own pocket, even if Jim would have accepted it. He was well-off, but not to a degree that would fund a starship.

They had manpower, in the form of 239 crew, still on Vulcan for two weeks yet. But the supply of human labor on Vulcan already exceeded demand. Humans could not handle the heat; could not lift much weight in the gravity; did not speak the language; and possessed few of the required skills. Spock could not imagine many tasks the VEF could possibly have that Starfleet ensigns could do.

The Designee for Logistics, T’Prena, was a tall, broad-shouldered woman with a rural accent. Her eyes sparkled when she saw Spock’s list. “We would be happy to provide everything,” she said. “For the Enterprise, there is nothing we would not do.”

“Understood,” said Spock, “but there is an additional layer of complexity we will have to navigate, in respect to cultural standards.” He explained the situation.

T’Prena looked baffled. “But we are not discussing a purchase, so why the expectation of reciprocity?”

“It is important to preserve the humans’ pride. They feel at a disadvantage due to their homeless status. They wish to feel—useful.”

T’Prena steepled her fingers in thought for several minutes. Then she opened a comm line to the VSA.

Jim sat with Bones in sickbay, listening to him rant. Listening to him rant was one of the most important parts of their friendship. Bones wouldn’t feel better till he did.

“I feel like I’m operating in the goddamn Middle Ages,” said Bones. “Crutches. If we don’t have the bone knitter you’re going to have to get me crutches so we can have injured people stumping around on them for weeks. Risking bumping themselves out of alignment and healing wrong. It’s not like every bone break is a transverse fracture you can just cast. What about an oblique fracture in a metacarpal? Do they expect me to get in there in and stick pins in? I’m a doctor, not a voodoo practitioner.”

“A bone knitter that can work on multiple species costs a small mint,” said Jim. “Otherwise I’d be selling brownies door-to-door for one.”

“Now that’s an idea. Drug dealing to the Vulcans. Get them all high and see if they give us a good tip.”

The door hissed open and displayed the backs of two crew members, staggering backward under a heavy load. Their burden was an awkwardly shaped machine with holes of various sizes in the sides. Like a sawed-off hunk of swiss cheese.

By the way Bones looked at it, though, it was the second coming. He could clearly hear angels singing. “Jim, you asshole, you let me stand here ranting when you had it the whole time?”

“I didn’t,” said Jim. “I gave the list to Spock but I didn’t really think he could—”

The bone knitter got all the way through the doors and Bones hurried over to show them where to put it. Spock entered after.

“Spock,” Jim said helplessly. “How did you do it?”

“I spoke to T’Prena of the VEF, who informed me that they regularly contract with the VSA to carry out experiments and gather data for the scholars there. The VSA normally operates on Vulcan alone, but much of their study requires data gathered from space. T’Prena convinced the VSA to transfer their contract to us. Therefore I have taken the liberty of committing to gathering their data—much of which, fortunately, is of types we regularly gather in Starfleet’s normal operations. As science officer, I deemed that it will not overextend my department to carry out this additional labor.” He took out his padd and handed it over. “Together we calculated the market value of our necessary supplies and of the research we will perform. You will see that the numbers match exactly.”

Jim blinked. He really needed to ask bigger things of Spock. There didn’t seem to be anything he couldn’t do, even when he’d been handed zero resources and asked to acquire hundreds of thousands of credits worth of stuff. He scanned the invoice. It matched to the hundredth of a credit.

They were going to space with what they needed, and they had done it on their own dime.

Ironically, the emotional generosity that demonstrated—that the logical Vulcans had taken human emotions, factored them in, and come up with a solution that would satisfy—was almost as overwhelming as cash would have been. But in a better way, Jim decided. Because at least they would be helping in return.

Spock was staring at him with his eyebrows drawn slightly together. “Is it acceptable, Captain? Have I made an error?”

Jim realized he’d been staring blankly at the padd and not saying anything. He set the padd on a counter and rubbed his hands over his face. What he really wanted was to hug Spock, but he knew better. “It’s—it’s great, Mr. Spock. More than great. You’re—well, I did know you were the best of the best.”

“But there are tears in your eyes,” Spock persisted.

“Nope, there definitely are not,” said Jim, pushing off the counter and heading for the corridor. “Sickbay makes my eyes water, all these chemicals.”

“Is this another situation where illogic is required to salvage your pride?”

“No!”

Time was counting down, and now Joanna had come aboard. Command had okayed her presence because Bones had put his foot down and they didn’t have any more doctors to offer. Savannah came too, nominally as a yeoman, but really to babysit Joanna, given her dad was going to be pretty busy.

And perhaps a little bit because she wanted to follow Bones.

He was really no one to talk about trauma bonding. Savannah had lost every single living relative, and Bones had lost all but one. At this point they had each other and Joanna and that was it. But Jim thought it was better for them to have each other than not, all things considered.

Part of Jim wanted to bring the rest of the preschool along. Because after all Joanna should have friends, and the other kids shouldn’t have to miss her. But Command would never have stood for that. He just had to find them a new place to set up shop as soon as he could.

“This deck,” Jim explained, spreading his arms wide, “is all yours to run around on, but don’t try to go in anybody’s quarters. They’re locked anyway.”

“But I can go in Daddy’s quarters,” Joanna clarified.

“Well, yeah, because they’re also yours.”

“And Miss Savannah’s quarters.”

“If she doesn’t mind.”

“And yours?”

“Better ask first. I might have left a pair of scissors out or something.”

She scoffed indignantly. “I know how to use scissors.”

“Just testing you.” He winked. “All right, off to the lift and I’ll show you the rec deck.”

Spock was in the lift, and he raised an eyebrow at Jim. “I’m giving Joanna the grand tour,” Jim explained as they got on. “Very important that she knows where she can and can’t go.”

“You have pointy ears,” Joanna put in.

“Yes,” said Spock.

“Just like all the people on Vulcan.”

“That is because I am a Vulcan.”

“I figured. I just thought it was gonna be humans on the ship.”

Jim cringed. Spock said evenly, “There are members of eleven different species aboard the Enterprise.”

“I don’t mind,” Joanna added blithely. “I think your ears are cute.”

They reached the rec level and Joanna bounded out of the lift. Cheeks flaming, Jim followed.

“Thank you,” said Spock as the doors closed.

“I like him,” said Joanna, taking Jim’s hand.

Chapter Text

Part II

Any decent realtor,

walking you through a real shithole, chirps on

about good bones: This place could be beautiful,

right? You could make this place beautiful.

—Maggie Smith, "Good Bones"

No need to clear moorings; they were leaving from orbit rather than space dock. “Chart a course to the Omicron Eridani system,” said Jim. “Stand by to break orbit.”

“Course laid in, sir,” said Chekov.

“Mr. Sulu, take us out.”

It was not as dramatic as it could have been, since they had to stay on impulse power until outside Vulcan’s gravitational neighborhood, but it still felt good to finally be moving. Going somewhere. Because, despite everything that had happened, he still wanted to be out there.

Spock looked up from his science station, meeting Jim’s eyes. Checking on him? Or just making note that they felt the same thing—the same need for the stars? Jim gave a slight nod and smile.

Omicron Eridani B wasn’t the most promising of their leads, only the closest. It had been mapped by the Republic some years back as class M, temperate, abundant water and vegetation. Which was great, but the Republic hadn’t even sent a landing party. There might be anything at all down there.

Secretly, Jim liked the sound of that.

Bones, for no good reason Jim could think of, was leaning his elbows on the back of Jim’s chair. “Omicron Eridani, eh?”

Jim looked up at him with a smirk. “No, Bones. Omicron Eridani B.”

Bones groaned. “I forgot just how horrible you are.”

“I can remind you anytime.”

“How worried should I be? What do you think the odds are of me having to regrow somebody’s kidney by the end of the week?”

“Nine thousand, three hundred twenty-six to one,” Spock interjected.

“That low, huh? I feel better.”

“That is due to the specificity of mentioning kidneys,” said Spock. “That you might have to regrow any organ is thirty-nine times higher. Due to our limited data, however, the error bars on this estimate are quite large.”

Bones rubbed his face with this hands. “You both are horrible. I’m going back to sickbay.”

“You mean, your station, where you’re supposed be?” teased Jim.

“Nobody’s sick yet!” Bones protested, but he went.

Omicron Eridani B turned out to be gorgeous. Violet skies, pine green groundcover, yellow-green trees, like the first spring growth on Earth. “Nature’s first green is gold,” Jim muttered to himself.

“Robert Frost,” said Spock immediately.

“Do you know everything, Spock?”

“Not yet.” There was a faint mischievous twinkle in his eye. That was new. 

I never saw him in his element before, thought Jim. Earth wasn’t it, and Vulcan wasn’t either. It’s here, on an all-new world no sentient life form has walked on before.

He took a deep breath and let it out. No, this wasn’t Earth. Every alien world would always be not quite right—colors not quite right, smells not quite right, sounds not quite right. But humans could live here.

The sounds were very not right. The rustle of the wind, and nothing else. Not a bird song or an insect drone. Nothing.

“Is it possible there’s no animal life here at all?” Jim asked. “All these plants and nothing to eat them?”

“It would not be unique in the universe, if so,” said Spock. “Many planets never evolved animal life, such as Barnard III.”

One of the science officers, already kneeling on the ground with her tricorder, added, “But not the case here, Captain. There’s signs of grazing in this ground cover.”

Spock stepped over and joined her. “A large ruminant, I believe. If this area of broken-off stems is a single bite . . .” He gestured over an area bigger than a platter.

Jim caught the eye of the head of the security team. There were ten of them down here: four science officers, four security officers, Spock, and himself. “We can’t relax till we know where the herbivores went to,” he told the man—Simons, he recollected. He’d quizzed himself relentlessly on the names and faces, when they’d finalized the crew roster. He might not be an experienced captain, but he could at least know his crew. That kind of thing mattered.

“Worried they’ll come back?” asked Simons.

“Worried they ran away from something bigger.”

Simons blanched and moved a little away from the group, facing outward with his hand on his phaser.

“There are no animal life signs nearby,” said Spock, eyes on his tricorder. “Nothing, that is, recognizable to this tricorder, within 100 meters. I do notice some slight seismic activity—”

Something exploded out of the ground beneath them. Something huge. Jim was thrown to the ground; for a moment all he could do was lie flat on his back, watching the thing moving up, and up, and up. It was like an office building thrusting upward from under the Earth, larger than a breaching whale. 

Looking around, he saw Spock heading toward him on the unsteady ground. Strong hands hauled him to his feet by his wrists. 

“Are you well, Captain?” Spock pitched his voice a little louder to be heard over the rumble of breaking earth. 

Jim's conscience smote him. He should have done that. It was his duty to check immediately on the well-being of everyone in the party. “Get clear, everyone!” he shouted. “As far as you can!”

He fit words to actions, turning his back on the thing and running. Once he was a good distance away, he turned around to count the landing party. Spock beside him, four science officers, one two three—

Simons. Simons was nowhere in sight. 

In the center of the scattered circle of officers, the massive creature started to sink back down, slower than it had emerged. 

“Simons!” Jim shouted. He turned and ran clockwise around the thing, hoping to catch a glimpse of Simons on the other side. 

Leathery black skin disappeared down into the hole, something finlike, a large shiny patch that might be a sensory organ. Finally the top of it came in sight—a round mouth lined with teeth. 

In the teeth was what was left of Simons.

“He couldn't be spared,” Jim said quietly that night, in Spock's quarters. “We only have so many Terrans left. Every one that we lose now—you know how everyone that dies washes away a part of the continent?”

“John Donne.”

“It's such a small continent, Spock.” He wasn't crying. He wanted to be, but he almost never could sober. Instead he was sitting on the floor, back braced against the wall, knees drawn up in front of him.

Without discussing it, Spock had chosen the quarters next to his, on the other side of his bathroom. Maybe just from some sense of symmetry. But Jim had thought at the time that perhaps it was for just this reason. Because Spock knew he could never sleep.

It had gone better, after his sobbing session with Bones, and in the garden. He hadn't needed to interrupt Spock in the middle of the night since they'd left on their mission; a little light reading in bed usually did the trick when he woke up. He’d picked up some trashy romances on Vulcan—or what passed for it, by Vulcan standards. Generally it involved tense intellectual banter and brazen eye contact and ended in the drawing-up of a marriage agreement.

But tonight, he hadn't been able to make his eyes focus on the page, and without thinking very much about it, he'd barged into Spock's quarters. Just like old times. 

Spock had still been awake. Perhaps he'd known to expect this, after today. 

“It's my duty to notify his next of kin,” Jim went on, after a long silence. “But Simons had no one living. Both his parents and his two sisters were on Earth. There was no one I could write to. I looked up his medical contact, Spock. You know who it was?”

Spock looked nonplussed. “I could not guess.”

“It was me.” Jim buried his face in his knees. “I was all he had and I failed him.”

“You could not have known,” said Spock. “It erupted with no warning.”

“There was warning. The lack of animals. The silence. I should have realized something was up. I should have called for a beamout.”

“Had you done so,” said Spock, “you could not have reported to Starfleet whether the planet was or was not suitable for colonization.”

It was true. Starfleet wouldn't have allowed a report of “had a bad feeling about it, beamed up within five minutes.”

“Well. Guess we can scratch it off the list, at least.” Jim lapsed once again into silence. He didn't know what to say. He was trying to be better about dealing with his feelings when they happened, so he could be emotionally functional for his crew. It hadn't occurred to him that he wouldn't know how, once he tried it. His old coping techniques were getting the shit beat out of him in bars, having sex with strangers, and driving cars off cliffs. He didn't know another way. Getting very drunk and crying and almost kissing Spock probably wouldn't work as a habit either. Especially not as he was a married man. Jim had to keep reminding himself of that.

After several minutes, Spock asked, “Chess?”

“God yes.”

They never finished the game. The next morning, Jim awoke in his bed.

Spock had tucked him in. Again. Jim fought a feeling of resentment. He didn’t need this. Well, he shouldn’t need this. He was the captain now, not a baby to get tucked in by the world’s most obliging friend. If they even were friends.

Not that any of that was Spock’s fault. He heaved himself out of bed and dug out a fresh uniform. Time to pretend like he knew what he was doing and had everything in hand for another day.

Spock needed to consult with Dr. McCoy.

The assignment as Kirk's first officer had been everything he had not dared to want. He would be on the Enterprise; because of understaffing he could retain his position as science officer as well; he would be with Jim.

This last should not be as important as it was. And yet the relief of knowing they would not be separated was overwhelming. There was hope yet. He would be able to accompany Jim, perhaps win his friendship; perhaps, by the time the mission was over, his love. It was not likely, but it was not impossible. 

The priority at the moment, however, had to be Jim himself. His well-being. And it was not as much improved as Spock had previously thought. It was time to enlist assistance. It would be pure ego to believe he was the only one capable of helping Jim.

He did not know the doctor well, but he knew McCoy was Jim’s closest friend. When Jim had been given the opportunity to save one thing from Earth, he had chosen to save McCoy’s daughter.

McCoy had also been Jim’s physician for years. He would know if there was anything more to be done for Jim’s insomnia. But, as Spock made his way to sickbay and through it to the CMO’s office, he found he had not yet decided what to say, how much to share. Jim was so private about his pains, despite his cheerful openness about everything else. He might have confided in his friend, but then again, he might not.

The blue light beside the door chime indicated that the doctor was not engaged, so Spock came in.

Then he stopped in the doorway and blinked. Instead of the irascible doctor, Joanna McCoy was sitting at the desk, coloring. Her tongue stuck out of her mouth at the corner. She looked up with a pair of large brown eyes, dancing with mirth or perhaps mischief. So unlike a Vulcan child. “You are not Dr. McCoy,” said Spock neutrally.

She giggled. “Not till I go to doctor school.”

“Do you know where your father is, Miss McCoy?”

She seemed to find that even more entertaining. “Nope, but he’s sure to come back here sometime. This is his office.”

“You are correct.” He contemplated the situation. He could take the child roaming around the ship looking for her father, or they could both stay in one place where they would be easy to find. Having made his decision, he sat down in the chair across from her. “I do not recognize the subject of your artwork,” he ventured.

“It’s s’posed to be a sehlat,” Joanna said. “Miss Savannah said there are sehlats on Vulcan, but I didn’t get to see one. They’re s’posed to look like bears but I never actually saw a bear in real life.”

“If you will share a piece of your paper, I will show you.”

Joanna handed one over and pushed the row of crayons toward the middle of the desk. Spock sketched out the outline of the animal, explaining as he went.

He had finished explaining the habitat, diet, and chief predators of the sehlat and was moving on to its skeletal structure when the doctor finally returned. “Joanna Jean McCoy! You scared the sh— pants off Savannah and me, running off like that.”

Joanna’s lower lip protruded. “I was only coming to find you.”

“Are you allowed to roam the ship without a grownup?”

She hung her head. “No.”

McCoy finally acknowledged Spock. “I am so sorry about this, sir. It won't happen again.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Why should it not? It has been an educational experience for her.”

McCoy looked taken aback. “A starship isn't a playground, Commander.”

Spock found this puzzling. Vulcan children were rarely confined to children-only spaces. At four he had frequently roamed the embassy alone, requesting and receiving instruction from anyone who could spare the time. “As her father, I suppose her care is your decision, but—” 

“Gonna stop you right there,” said McCoy. “What you just said is a complete sentence. I have to get her back to Savannah. What was it you needed?”

Spock remembered his original intent. “We can discuss it on the way.”

Joanna reluctantly picked up the crayons. “Can I keep your picture, Mr. Spock?”

“Of course, Miss McCoy.”

The doctor walked down the corridor with his daughter’s hand held tightly in his. That, too, was unlike Vulcan parenting. Children naturally walked close to their parents due to the parental bond—though by Joanna’s age, they were considered responsible enough to roam at a considerable distance.

“I wished to speak to you about the captain,” said Spock, as they approached the lift. “I am concerned about his psychological state.”

“Of course you are,” said McCoy sourly. “What’d that take you, a week?”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “I fail to grasp your meaning.”

“You want me to invoke 619-B and relieve him of duty, so you can have his job. You must be furious under that cold Vulcan attitude. Some upstart cadet got the job you thought you were gonna get. Well, no dice. He’s of perfectly sound mind, as far as command is concerned.”

Spock was so startled by the doctor’s outburst that he remained silent for four seconds. “Doctor,” he said at last, “you misunderstand me. I know he is fit for command and I do not desire his position.”

“Oh.” The doctor looked nonplussed, first scanning Spock and then averting his eyes. The lift arrived and they stepped out onto deck 5 and down the corridor.

“As first officer, it is part of my duty to ensure his wellbeing. I wondered if you had advice on improving his mental health, or if perhaps he is already under your care.”

McCoy furrowed his brows. “I’m not going to say he’s doing great,” he admitted. “He’s going through the same thing the rest of us are. But I thought he was doing better, as far as that goes. The eating and sleeping thing is old news. He’s had a prescription for sleeping pills since the Academy, and when he gets stressed out he forgets to eat.”

“I believe he has lost four kilos since the destruction of Earth.”

“Shit,” said McCoy, and then, at a look from his daughter, “I mean, sugar. Thanks for the heads up. I’ll drag him in. Not that it’ll do much good. We’ll both just have to stay on top of him.”

Spock hesitated. “Metaphorically?”

McCoy burst into a peal of laughter. “Yes, metaphorically. Here’s our quarters, I had Savannah wait here. You need anything else?”

“No, doctor. However, if you are amenable, I can lock out the turbolifts to your daughter’s biosignatures, since you do not wish her to wander freely.”

McCoy blinked rapidly a few times. “Sure. Didn’t know you could do that. Not,” he added, with a severe look downward at his daughter, “that you’re going to do that again anyway, right?”

“Right, Daddy,” said Joanna quietly.

“My thanks for the loan of your crayons, Miss McCoy,” said Spock, and departed.

Chapter Text

“Four point three kilos down,” said Bones. “Son of a gun.”

“It’s not that much,” said Jim. “I was a bit heavy starting out. Senior year had a lot of parties.”

“Wildly seesawing weight isn’t great no matter what direction it’s in.” Bones stood aside for Jim to hop off the scale. “I’d tell you to just be aware of it, but you don’t seem surprised so I’m guessing you already are.”

Jim sighed and looked at the wall. “I mean, what would you expect? This happens whenever I’m stressed and losing a planet is pretty damn stressful.”

“Missing meals, or not finishing them?”

“Can’t miss ‘em. Spock won’t let me.”

Bones narrowed his eyes. “What is with that guy? He asked me about you the other day and I thought he was gunning for your job. Instead, if I didn't know better, I'd think he was . . . worried about you.”

Jim sighed. “He has a life debt. Some kind of Vulcan thing. It’s not about how he feels about me. He just owes me forever because I got him beamed out of the Jellyfish.”

“I will never understand them.”

“That’s how being aliens works, Bones. It’s not just the ears. Every species thinks differently.”

“Most of them don’t think that differently. Gaila, I get. Sh’relin seems like a pretty nice lady. But he's stranger than that. It's like talking to a computer.”

“A computer who worries about me?” Jim pointed out. “Cats don't smile or tell you they love you, but it doesn't mean they don't have feelings.”

“I'm a dog person,” said Bones shortly. “You went and tricked me into an argument. I'm supposed to be telling you to clean your plate, and if you can't do that, finish the vegetables at least.”

“I hate salad,” said Jim feelingly. “Feels like I'm eating the weeds I grubbed out of somebody's backyard. And the replicated kind is always limp.”

Bones gave him a sympathetic look. “Try the squash. It doesn't have enough texture for the replicator to ruin. Or a smoothie, maybe. Plants are plants, and your colon will thank you.”

“I'm not having heart-to-hearts with my colon, Bones.” Jim gave him an affectionate shoulder squeeze and let Bones slap him on the back. “I'll see what I can choke down.”

“And if you ever need to talk—”

“Talking’s the worst!” Jim called on his way out of sickbay. He knew, one of the nights this week, he'd come over and drink with Bones, and that usually involved at least some talking. Beat therapy, they made you do that sober.

But it was different with Bones. It had always been different. He might nag Jim mercilessly, with the combined weight of being a doctor and being older. But on the other hand, Jim had been there for the first raw processing of his friend's divorce. That first year at the Academy, Bones had been fueled mainly by rage and his daughter's baby pictures. Only Jim had been willing to sit and listen to him bemoan the loss of his first and only relationship, for as many hours as it took for Bones to pull himself together and go to class.

So it was more equal than it looked, anyhow. That's why Jim had told him so much of his own shit—because when you come to a trauma potluck, you have to bring a dish, that's the rules.

With Spock, it was different, especially after he'd sobbed down Spock's shirt front, especially after Spock had gently pulled away and put him to bed. Jim had spilled his guts and shown his soft underbelly, and Spock was still calm, invulnerable, and in complete control of the situation.

Since then, he hadn't felt like leaning on Spock as much as he used to. Luckily he hadn't needed to as much. The loss of Simons was a blip, but step by step Jim was putting himself back together, needing less. So maybe they could be normal friends more, from here on out. Play chess in the daytime, because they wanted to, and forget about all the times Spock had carried him to bed.

Their next stop, requested by Command, was at a human colony, Safehold. It was not a Federation member, having been founded soon after the invention of the warp drive, in the latter portion of the post-atomic horror. They were famously insular, but they had expressed a willingness to talk, and the Federation government was eager to form bonds with as many human colonies as possible.

“Perhaps I should not join you,” said Spock, in the transporter room.

The captain looked confused. “Why not?”

“They have been in little contact with the Federation since they left Earth, and as such are not very familiar with non-humans. I do not wish to hinder the negotiations.”

“If they are, better to find out now,” Kirk pointed out. “If you don’t mind being a lightning rod for any xenophobia they happen to spit out.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “I am incapable of being offended by people whose opinion I do not respect.”

Jim barked a laugh at that and clapped him on his shoulder. “Perfect. If they’re assholes to you, it’ll be an easy decision to leave.”

“We must fulfill our mandate from Command and give them a full evaluation. If we can establish diplomatic relations, we should do so even if they happen to be impolite.”

Jim’s lips tightened slightly. “Well, I hope it won’t be like that.”

Down on the planet, they were met by a man in homespun clothes—rough trousers and a button-down plaid shirt. He wore a wide straw hat and squinted in the bright sun. “Captain Kirk,” he said. “Welcome to Safehold.” Instead of extending a hand in the usual Terran tradition, he gave a slight nod.

Jim nodded back. “Thanks for the invitation. Sheriff Dalton?”

“That’s me.” The man turned back toward the town, waving the landing party to follow after.

Spock followed his captain half a step behind, scanning the landscape for danger. They were guests, and as such had not beamed down with a security team, only Nyota and two xenoanthropologists. But Spock had a miniature phaser concealed in his pocket, just in case. The post-atomic horror had been a violent time. If these people retained any of the old attitudes, things could become dangerous.

They descended the crest of a hill, following a road through farmland toward the town. It was a lush, Earthlike planet, heavily planted with Earth crops. In the distance, the center of the town was a wide circle, intersected by streets. Branching out of it were six distinct residential areas, also circular. “Your city is quite symmetrical,” Spock commented.

“S’pose it is,” the man said without turning.

Spock and Jim exchanged a glance. Sheriff Dalton was not very forthcoming.

The road into town passed among fields of wheat, corn, soybeans, and other Terran crops. A woman in a rough gray dress was picking corn by hand and putting the ears in her apron. Spock gave her a second look, realizing that she had six fingers on each hand, instead of the usual five. He raised an eyebrow at Jim. Non-human genetics, possibly? Jim, however, flushed and gave his head a slight shake.

Dalton, looking back at them, said, “Oh yeah, the polydactyly. Haven’t managed to fix that yet.” He took no notice of the woman beyond that, only walked on.

“A mutation from the atomic age?” Jim asked.

“Sure. We don’t have the worst ones anymore. I mean if they kill you, they pretty much take care of themselves, if you know what I mean. But the little cosmetic ones, we’ve still got.”

“Earth was able to mend most atomic mutations with gene repair technologies,” Jim said. “Would you be interested—”

“Genetic engineering?” Dalton spat on the ground. “No thanks. Looks like you folks forgot what that leads to.”

Jim’s troubled expression increased, but he said nothing.

When they reached the town, Nyota and the anthropologists split off to do a more informal investigation while Spock and the captain followed Dalton for the official tour. The sheriff showed them water-powered wheat and textile mills, a blacksmith forge, a pottery studio. “As you can see we are one hundred percent self sustaining. We'll use things from other planets once in a while, if we decide they make our lives better. But we'll never rely on any of it. Our ancestors learned the danger of expecting the larger society to stay intact, to save you.”

“You do have modern communications technology,” Kirk pointed out.

“Sure, we have it,” said Dalton. “For stuff like calling you. We get the news going around the quadrant, once in a while. But we're not plugged in. Nobody's sitting around watching TV or rotting their brains on the internet.” A few terms he used were archaic, but Spock was familiar enough with the evolution of Terran languages to recognize them. 

“What would you do if you did need help from the greater galaxy?” asked Kirk. 

“We wouldn't,” said Dalton stubbornly.

“But if you did,” Kirk insisted. 

“Our ancestors got by without help from the greater galaxy,” said Dalton, somewhat acrimoniously. “We had to, because there wasn't anyone else. The aliens were happy to sit back and watch us die, till they finally deigned to show up after—” His eyes drifted to Spock and he cut himself off abruptly.

It was not really surprising to find this attitude among humans who were this steeped in 21st-century attitudes. It had taken over fifty years for the resentment against Vulcans for adhering to the Prime Directive to die down on Earth. Spock had often wondered what such people thought Vulcans would have been able to do to stop the global warfare and devastation in any event. Even after First Contact, it had taken a long time to establish a planetary government and even begin to clean up the fallout. 

Jim's eyes were on him, though, flashing with indignation, and Spock put a hand on his arm in reminder. This was not about species pride. It was about assessing these people's fitness for diplomatic relations with the Federation, as well as whether they were open to the establishment of a second human colony on the planet.

Spock felt somewhat doubtful on both points, but it would be necessary to make a thorough report. 

Jim nodded sharply in acknowledgement. “So this here is the school?”

Dalton recovered his aplomb, describing in great detail their curriculum and pedagogical philosophy. Kirk nodded along with interest and, Spock believed, approval.

“If I may ask a question?” Spock interjected. “How many students does this school serve?”

“Six hundred twenty-nine,” said Dalton proudly, rocking from his toes to his heels and back. “You'll want to see our medical center next I suppose.”

Jim fell back alongside Spock. “You don't seem happy about that number,” he said quietly. 

“The current population is lower than would be expected for a colony of this age and founding population. I theorized a comparatively low birthrate, but the school enrollment is even lower than I had expected.”

“So the colony is shrinking?”

“No. But it is failing to grow, despite abundant resources and virtually infinite space.”

Jim's expression became even graver. “All right. I'll have to poke into this more.” He increased his pace to catch up with Dalton.

The town was reasonably bustling. People in a variety of homemade clothes hurried on various errands or stood around talking. They seemed well-fed and content. Spock noticed a number of other mutations among the populace—extra fingers, facial deformations, shortened limbs—but nothing he could diagnose on sight as serious or life-altering.

After the hospital, Jim asked if they could tour one of the residential areas. Dalton agreed with enthusiasm, but Spock noticed he did not lead them toward the closest neighborhood. Indeed, he aimed them toward one of the farthest.

It was a pleasant neighborhood, with a wide, circular street lined with large houses and old-growth trees. “Are all the neighborhoods this nice?”

“This is the best one,” Dalton hedged. “But all of them are comfortable. And this is where the children would live, if they came here.”

“So that's your offer? You want just the children?”

“Their teachers are also welcome, of course,” said Dalton. “As I understand it, the challenge is to find a place that can take the entire group, so that they can stay together while also finding families. As you can see, we treasure children here.” He gestured toward a playground in the center of the neighborhood, where laughing children climbed on a truly impressive wooden play structure shaped like a castle. 

Spock studied the children a moment. None of them possessed visible mutations.

“You said your colony no longer has serious genetic diseases,” said Jim abruptly. “How'd that happen?”

“We've had an ingenious program since the very beginning,” said Dalton. “Invented by our founder. Everybody's given a rating, you see, from A to F. People in the A group are given rewards for having children. People in B are rewarded for having two, but not beyond, and so on.”

“And so on,” repeated Jim flatly. “What happens to people rated F?”

“They aren't allowed to have kids, of course,” said Dalton. “But don't worry, all your kids will be rated A. You haven't got the problems out there we've got.”

“Nor the solutions.”

“It's easy for you to come in and judge. All our DNA was scrambled from fallout. If you'd been here a hundred years ago, you'd’ve seen why we set it up like this.”

“I guess I do see,” said Jim. “Well, I hate to cut this short, but I've got to get back and talk to the teacher in charge of the kids. See what she thinks. We'll be back tomorrow.” He grabbed Spock's arm and walked rapidly away from Dalton, whipping out his communicator. “Landing party, reassemble back at the beamout point. Promptly.”

His hand on Spock's arm was trembling. At first Spock assumed he was only angry to find such a system so far beyond the bounds of Federation ethics. But a sidelong glance revealed that his face had gone completely white. 

“Captain, are you well?”

Jim seemed to notice he was still holding onto Spock's arm and dropped it. “Sure. Why wouldn't I be?”

Jim stepped off the transporter pad, weak in the knees, but he didn't think anyone could see that. “Good work, everybody. Debrief at, um . . .” He couldn't think straight. How many hours would it take before he could talk about this like a rational adult?

“If you prefer, Captain,” Spock interjected smoothly. “I can run the debrief immediately, allowing you time for your other commitment.”

Damn, Jim loved him. Other commitment. And they said Vulcans didn't lie. “Excellent, Mr. Spock, carry on then. Send the report to me after.”

Jim made his way to his cabin on numb feet. A to F. One through twenty. Break down humans into categories to make it easier to pretend there was a difference. As if the value of any life was anything other than infinite.

Dalton believed some of his citizens were worth less. If a disaster happened, if the food started running short, it would be the F group that went hungry. Jim knew that like he knew his own name.

He finally reached his cabin and flopped face-first on his bed. He felt terrible. He hadn’t been able to function. Which was stupid when he’d been able to function just fine when the entire Earth had just imploded. It wasn’t like this was worse, it was just—more personal. And his emotions were running much too close to the surface these days.

Not close enough, though, because he still just felt sick. Couldn’t cry. Couldn’t go down to the gym and whale on a punching bag. Couldn’t imagine talking to somebody about it.

The part that really stuck in his craw was that Dalton was horrified by a little gene-cleaning. He had been told about the horrors of the Eugenics Wars and taken away exactly the wrong lesson. The augments had been created with direct genetic tampering, not breeding programs, but the method wasn’t the point. The point was trying to create supermen to begin with. Assuming some people were better than others. More worthy of life.

To fix a couple broken genes in a kid who couldn’t make the right enzymes was perfectly legal in the Federation; it happened all the time. Or to fix them in a gamete, before the kid was even conceived. That wasn’t the same as saying having a faulty gene made you less.

Call some humans less, and that's how you got to gas chambers, firing squads, lethal injections. Bodies piled in the rotting fields because there wasn't manpower to bury them all. Jim's gorge rose and he swallowed hard to hold it back. It would be disrespectful, after all that had happened, to waste the calories. His belly felt hollow.

He tried all his old tricks. Imagine he was on a beach, in the woods, in a cornfield. No dice, all that did was remind him those places were gone forever and he would never see them again. Or he used to imagine he was a starship captain, free to roam through the galaxy, fixing problems like this so they would never happen again. And here he was a captain, and just as small and helpless as he had been back then. Nothing ever changed. Nothing was ever fixable.

Some hours later—Jim had no clue how many—there was a chime at the door. Dammit. He was a captain now. He couldn’t afford to wallow for hours. The debrief report would be ready for his signature. Then he’d need to write his own report to Command. Trying to think of something to recommend that wasn’t murder.

He sat up and cleared his throat. “Come in.”

Spock stepped into the room, and Jim was surprised by his own flood of relief. It’s only Spock. There was no need to perform for Spock, because somehow, he always knew already. “Sorry,” he said. “I haven’t looked at your briefing report yet.”

Spock came further into the room, standing beside the bed. “It does not require review tonight. It is only that you were not at dinner, and I—”

Jim sighed. “I ate.” He kicked a half empty box beside the bed. “Your mom gave me cookies when we left.” His face heated with shame. Those had been treats, something she did for him special, and instead he had eaten them for dinner because they were the only thing he felt like he could get down right now. Hadn’t even enjoyed them.

Bones, at this point, would be winding up for a lecture, but Spock only nodded and sat down on the bed beside him. “I too found the colony’s breeding program reprehensible,” he ventured. “But you seemed . . . unusually affected.”

Jim pulled one leg up, hugging his knee. “It was the A through F thing,” he said quietly. “It—” He broke off. If he was going to explain this, he might as well go whole hog. “When I was eleven, I stole a car.”

Spock raised a confused eyebrow. He had so many types of eyebrow raises, and Jim was beginning to know them pretty well. “You alluded to that once.”

“It was my uncle’s. An antique. Wasn’t even really supposed to be driven. And I didn’t really know how to drive it, either. I ended up driving it off a cliff. My uncle didn’t have to press charges, but he did, so I went to juvenile detention for six months. And after that, he wouldn’t take me back. My mom didn’t really want to come home and take care of me either, so I went to go live with my Aunt Mary. Actually my dad’s aunt, my great aunt. My mom and I both thought it would help. At least I could get off the planet, stop feeling like I was so trapped. So I headed out to where she lived.”

“Understandable,” said Spock.

“On Tarsus IV.”

Spock’s face was very still. “I see.”

“I was there for the—well, everybody knows the history. But that’s how he did it. Once the famine started, he put us all in working groups, one through twenty. For ‘better distribution of rations.’ Each one in a different part of the colony, you know, out of sight of each other. Six groups were dead before anybody even noticed. That’s how he managed to get so far without anybody stopping him.”

Spock remained quiet. Listening.

“I was in group eleven. The troublemakers. He didn’t call it that, we were just group eleven, but we kind of noticed, you know? Who we were put with. Aunt Mary was in group fifteen. People between 65 and 70. The last group to die.”

“I grieve with thee,” said Spock softly.

“I saw it happen,” said Jim. “I snuck out to see her, because I was getting suspicious and there were whispers going around. But I couldn’t save her.”

“You were one of the nine, then,” said Spock. “The nine that spread the word, so that the massacre was stopped.”

Jim nodded. “Over two thousand people dead before anyone noticed,” he said brokenly. “If I’d gone looking sooner—if I’d—”

Shit, he was crying again. “I couldn’t help then and I can’t help now. They’re treating people like they’re nothing and there’s nothing I can do.”

Spock’s hand was warm on his knee. He didn’t say anything—there was nothing he could have said anyway. But his thumb traveled gently, side to side, and it soothed Jim a little.

“I’m not ready for this job,” he whispered. “I’m not. First mission messed me up, and here we are on mission number two and I couldn’t even finish the conversation, I couldn’t even do the debrief.”

“That is the purpose of having a first officer,” said Spock. “No captain can be in working condition at all times.”

“They’re better than this.” Jim gestured miserably at himself. “You never take a sick day. You’re never less than perfect.”

He buried his face in his pillow again. Anger and disgust were choking out the tears now. Anger at Spock for always being so flawless. Disgust at himself for being such a mess. He didn’t want to be seen like this, he didn’t want to need help. And why did Spock always baby him like this? He could never be a real captain till he stopped needing a nursemaid.

If he’d been better than this, Spock could have maybe, eventually, wanted him for himself. But their dynamic was permanently ruined now. Jim falling apart and Spock taking care of him. Spock would forever see him as helpless and broken. Not an actual friend, an equal.

“Go away,” he said into his pillow.

“Jim, I—”

Jim sat up, temper flaring. “Did it ever occur to you I don’t want this treatment? I didn’t ask for it. I could’ve been fine by myself but you’re always here, making me spill my guts, making me weak.”

Spock rose to his feet. The angry expression Jim had expected did not appear. Spock only looked—wounded. Small. “I apologize,” he said softly. “I thought—”

“Leave,” Jim interrupted. “Please.”

Spock straightened, turned around, and left without another word.

Jim hated himself for how shattered that made him feel.

Chapter Text

Tarsus. In retrospect it made perfect sense. 

Eating difficulties were a well-known sequela of food insecurity. It also explained why Jim had insisted losing his planet was not his first major trauma.

Perhaps that was the source of his fixation on no-win scenarios. Kodos had believed he was in a no-win scenario and had responded accordingly, giving up on the notion of saving everyone. Ultimately, he had been incorrect. The supply ships had arrived in time after all. But without the intervention of Jim and his fellow witnesses, four thousand people would have died, perhaps more. Even when everything is lost, you grab what you can, Jim had said. You have to.  

And he had done the same with Earth. Madly snatched every life he could at the very last minute. He had not ranked or rated those he chose to save. He had instructed Chekov to lock onto life signs entirely at random.

Spock wished Jim could have been spared all of this. But he could not deny it had played a role in creating the principled man he admired today. Jim knew intimately the dangers of excessive pragmatism, of attempting to bargain with death. He would rather face off directly, cheating if he had to.

Spock suppressed a surge of desire. Jim’s courage, his indomitable spirit, his strength of character, he admired—no—he loved them all.

But his love was not wanted. None of what he had done was wanted. He had believed Jim had appreciated his assistance, but clearly he had made a grievous error somewhere. He was not entirely certain what it was, but the results had been catastrophic.

The likeliest possibility was his decision tonight to intrude on Jim, instead of letting the captain come to him. Always, before, he had let Jim decide what he needed and when. He had simply been overly concerned on this occasion, to the point of breaking this personal rule.

However, it was also possible that this was a reaction that had been building for some time. He had, it was true, taken it on himself to ensure the captain ate. The doctor had approved this path, but clearly it had not been correct; Jim might have seen it as meddling. And indeed, he had also completed all of Jim’s paperwork the morning after their disastrous mission on Omicron Eridani B, so that Jim would not have to do more than sign it. These actions had indeed been unasked for.

But how could he possibly leave Jim alone when he was like this, when he seemed so deeply in need?

He closed his eyes. Of course. He was emotionally compromised by his affection for the captain, exactly as he had feared he would be. Jim did not want this much of him. He had other friends closer, to whom he would have wanted to confide instead. Spock had convinced himself he was only paying a life debt, only supporting a survivor of a disaster, only being a good first officer. But he had taken it too far, in some way, and Jim had been upset by it.

Captain Kirk had been upset by it.

It was time to take more seriously his commitment to professionalism. Leave Jim’s personal care to his perfectly competent actual friend, McCoy, and focus exclusively on the help it was appropriate for a first officer to give.

“Safehold is a bust,” said Jim shortly. He’d been worried about reporting back to Command, dealing with the admirals, but it wasn’t intimidating when the face of Command was Admiral Pike.

“You can’t just say it’s a bust, Jim. Give me details.”

“You’ll be getting the written report. Basically, these people are extremely committed to eugenics. The leader was pretty open about it, and Uhura found out from some of the people that involuntary sterilization is standard for anybody with visible mutations. They assured us our kids will be rated A and kept in the nice part of town and allowed to go to school, but I kind of think that’ll be taken back when they find out a couple of the kids have disabilities.”

Pike sucked air through his teeth. “Yeah, sounds like a bust all right. You think it’s a Protocol Twelve situation?”

Jim perked up. Protocol Twelve was when you decided to ignore the professed leaders of a planet and deal directly with the people. It was inconvenient, obviously, because you couldn’t negotiate very well with a crowd. But in cases of tyranny or massive inequality, it sometimes had to be done. It wasn’t like the Federation was bound to accept as leader anybody who claimed the title.

“Not sure,” he said. “I’d like to, but I don’t know what, if anything, the people would want from us. We don’t have room to evacuate all the class-Fs, if they wanted it.”

“Hmm. Well, you’re authorized to do what you can. Though because it’s you, I know I’d better add, it isn’t your responsibility to fix this whole planet yourself. You have other people to help and other stops to make, okay? No overthrowing the government. Starfleet isn’t in the business of regime change. Just see if there’s anything you can do to help the people.”

Jim sighed. He very much did want to regime-change Sheriff Dalton out of a job and preferably out an airlock. But it would be the height of hubris to stroll in, get rid of one guy, and assume things would fix themselves. He had no idea what the average Safehold citizen thought about their system, or how much violence it would take to end it.

“No overthrowing the government,” he conceded. “I’ll keep you posted.”

Once he’d finished the meeting with his senior staff, he got to his feet. “Uhura, I’ll need you for sure. Pick five or six of your best, make sure they understand the mission. Bones, I’ll need to borrow Savannah. If they gotta hear no, they may as well hear it from the source. Giotto, I’ll want you and three security officers.”

“And I, Captain?” asked Spock softly.

“You’ll have the conn,” said Jim shortly. “Dismissed.”

He felt like shit, still, after last night. What had possessed him to dump all his Tarsus bullshit all over Spock, when Spock had already helped him with way too much already? And after that, why in the world had he yelled at Spock for caring?

The second answer came easy. It was his old reflex. Sad hurts. Get angry instead. And he’d tried to use Spock as his punching bag again, but this time in the feelings instead of the nose.

Jim had no idea whether Spock's feelings were as difficult to actually hurt as his body had been. But it wasn’t safe to assume they were, just because he hadn't shown much. Vulcans felt, Amanda had assured him both her husband and son felt very deeply. He’d kicked one of his best friends— only friends—in the teeth, left him thinking Jim resented his kindness.

The right thing to do was apologize. But a part of him still couldn't handle the idea of beaming down with his emotional support Vulcan at his elbow. Bad enough that he had to be so personally upset by this mission. Worse to need a minder. He was a captain. The crew was supposed to draw emotional strength from him, not the other way around. 

Still, right as the transporter showered its sparks across his vision, a part of him wailed, But I can't do it without him!

Sheriff Dalton was waiting for them, looking a little put out. “Why'd you leave in such a godawful hurry yesterday?” he demanded. “We didn't even get to introduce you to any of the families!”

“Sorry, Sheriff,” said Jim, pasting on a winning smile. “I lost track of time, and the crew gets nervous if I don't come back when I said. Today, I can stay till we're all wrapped up, and I brought Miss Hatfield here to see you. She's one of the teachers of the group.”

“Charmed,” said the sheriff, touching the brim of his hat. “You want the full tour too?”

“That's quite all right,” said Savannah. “All I really wanted was to sit down and talk.”

Jim swallowed. All he had to do was sit down for five minutes, explain the situation, and get the hell out of Dodge. But as soon as Dalton heard his generous offer had been refused, Jim was pretty sure their welcome on the planet would be over. So he had to draw the meeting out, to give Uhura time to visit the F neighborhood and do as much Protocol Twelve as she could. 

Dalton, clearly wanting to improve the impression he was making, had them over for lunch at his own home. It was spacious, polished wood everywhere, and Dalton’s wife was blonde and apple-cheeked, serving up roast beef and apple pie.

Jim was pretty sure if he had to actually swallow a bite of it, he wouldn't be able to keep it down. But Savannah, bless her, took over the whole conversation, centering the others’ attention on herself so nobody noticed Jim was cutting his meat into smaller and smaller pieces to make it look like he was eating it. 

“I'm really curious where class F comes from,” said Savannah. Jim appreciated her ability to ask questions like that with wide, innocent eyes. “If they can't have kids, where do new ones come from?”

“About once a generation, we tighten the standards,” said Dalton. “If we'd started expecting everyone to be healthy straight off, we wouldn't have had a sustainable population. So we started with the biggest mutations being F, and something like extra fingers or whatever was B. Now that we've got rid of the big stuff, we have the luxury to work on the smaller things.”

“What happens when you've fixed those too?”

“There's always more to fix,” said Dalton. Jim tried to hide a shudder. “A hundred, two hundred years from now? We'll be the envy of the quadrant. Smarter, stronger, prettier than anybody else.”

“By rating average people F?”

“Sure. Why settle? No reason to stop as long as we can keep our population steady.”

“And that's why you want our children,” said Savannah. “You're hoping they'll be good for the gene pool.”

“Exactly.”

Jim had serious regrets. He shouldn't have come at all. He should have sent Spock. Spock could have placidly eaten pie while hearing all this, and then sent the world's most damning report. Even Savannah had more emotional stamina than he did.

Then again, he shouldn't say even. Her job consisted of being sweet and calm to people who sometimes bit. It was probably harder than Vulcan discipline, because you had to smile.

Jim checked his watch. He'd promised Uhura an hour, and it was seven minutes past. “Well, this has been delicious, but we're due back on our ship soon, so we should probably deliver the answer Starfleet gave us and get out of your hair.”

Dalton narrowed his eyes. “You've already made up your minds?” 

“Not my mind,” Jim demurred. “But it's been decided that our lifestyles are too different to get along, when it comes to diplomatic relations. You probably know the Federation has really strict ideas on eugenics.”

“It isn't eugenics!” Dalton protested. “It's just breeding! Completely natural, humanity's been doing it to vegetables and cows since before history.”

“Sure,” said Jim, “but it's against our law to do it to people. If you ever give up your program, give us a call.”

“But the kids,” said Dalton. “I know you haven’t got another plan for them.”

Jim turned to Savannah to let her answer this. She gave an innocent smile. “One of my major concerns is what your accommodations are for disabled kids. On Earth, of course, every school has—had to accommodate every kid.”

“We don’t need to do that here,” said Dalton. “We’ve cured all that.”

“We haven’t,” said Savannah firmly. “Which was a choice, on our part. In our group we have two Deaf children and five with learning challenges. How would you accommodate them?” Her smile remained sweet and pleasant, but Jim could sense the iron in it. It steadied him a little.

Dalton stammered. “Well . . . I don’t know . . . I thought that everyone in the wider galaxy was A-type, but I guess I was wrong.”

“So you would rate those children F?”

“Not necessarily. C or D, maybe. If they could keep up in school, they’d still be allowed to go.”

Savannah shook her head, rising to her feet. “Sorry, Sheriff. I understand your demographic problems, but my focus is on the kids. Right now, even in a Vulcan dorm with no resources, every one of our kids is getting what they need. And I’m not breaking up the group. If the children can’t all thrive, we have to keep looking.”

Dalton conceded with bad grace. As Jim and Savannah left, they could hear Mrs. Dalton hissing, “I told you it would do no good trying to deal with outsiders.”

Jim let the screen door slam behind him and hurried off the porch. “We’ll catch up with Uhura and see if she’s ready to go. I don’t want to overstay our welcome.”

“I noticed the gun over the fireplace,” Savannah commented.

“Yep. This isn’t a place to hang around.”

“You all right?”

Jim stiffened. “Good enough for government work.”

Savannah took a hint, and they made their way to the F neighborhood in silence.

Turned out Dalton was lying when he said all the neighborhoods were comfortable. The road circling the F neighborhood was unpaved, and the houses were no better than shacks. Uhura stood in the central field, which instead of a playground held nothing but overgrown weeds. Beside her team were only a few colonists, all dressed in gray. Not all had any visible mutations.

Uhura stepped away from the little group to make her report. “I haven’t had much luck. Most people are out working, for one thing; we only managed to track down maybe half. And they largely buy the propaganda. They see themselves as carriers of disease, that they’re doing the public-spirited thing by separating themselves out here.”

Savannah looked pained. Jim said, “Yeah, that’s the trouble with Protocol Twelve. They teach us that in Command classes. You can’t change people’s entire point of view in the length of one mission.”

“I’ve left them a long-range communicator,” Uhura went on. “Couple medkits and learning padds. No way of knowing if they’ll be able to keep any of it, but the man I gave them to promised to keep them secret. And I have two asking to come with us.”

Jim took a deep breath in and out. You grab whoever you can, even if it’s two. “Sure. And there I was worried we wouldn’t have room.”

Uhura bid farewell to the little group, and everyone scattered except for one tall woman with twelve fingers and one boy with a port-wine stain across his face. Jim swallowed hard and addressed them. “You both want to come with us? Do you realize we don’t actually have a home to bring you to, just yet? You’ll be living on the ship for a year or more.”

The woman nodded. “Feel like I don’t much care where, if it isn’t here.”

The boy, who was maybe six, added, “Your friend told me there’s people who look all different ways on the Enterprise and nobody cares.”

“Very different ways,” Jim said. “You okay with green people? Blue people with antennae? You won’t be scared?”

The boy snorted. “That’s not scary.”

It was good enough. If they really hated it, there were plenty of other colonies they could go to next. Jim whipped out his comm to call Spock for a beamout.

It would be too much to miss two dinners in a row. People would start to notice. So Jim showed up to dinner that night, scanning the room. Spock was eating alone at a table for four. Bones was at the opposite end of the mess.

Jim should go over to Spock and apologize. He needed to. But at the same time, he couldn’t bear to. Not in front of everyone. Not yet.

He got a tray of allegedly beans and rice and went over to Bones. “Hey, stranger.”

“Hey yourself,” said Bones. “Thanks for the two new patients. I had an interesting afternoon.”

“Literally can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic.”

“I’m not! I just didn’t know I was going to have to give them an entire biology lesson. Kid, Benji, thought his birthmark was hereditary, which it isn’t. The woman, Reba, wanted me to cut off her extra fingers. I told her to wait a couple months and ask me again. It’s just not ethical to alter her body just because she’s been told her whole life it’s no good. So we sat down and talked about germ mutations and somatic mutations and societal attitudes. Then I introduced them around the crew until Benji was thoroughly satisfied that he isn’t the weirdest person on the ship. Not even top twenty. He’s playing with Joanna now. Which, honestly, is a godsend, she hasn’t been happier since we left home.”

“Good to hear it,” said Jim. “I’m going to have to come up with some kind of job for Reba to do, I don’t want her to feel like she’s not contributing.”

“Might be a challenge, to start off. She can’t read.”

Of course not. “Okay, I guess that’s job number one. While she’s working on that, she can cycle through the departments, see if there’s anything she’s interested in doing. I gave them both quarters on our deck, just to keep a closer eye on them. It’s not like we’re short on space.” He’d have to talk to them again after dinner. He’d given them a very basic tour, but there was going to be a lot to talk about yet.

“And what about you?” Bones asked abruptly.

Jim paused in pushing his food around the plate. “What about me?”

“Savannah told me what it was like. Occurred to me it might have . . . brought up some stuff for you.”

“Me? Pff.” Jim forced a smile. “That was a long time ago. I’m over it. I’m fine.”

“You haven’t put a single bite in your mouth yet,” Bones pointed out.

Jim took a bite and chewed it pointedly. Took a little effort, but he swallowed it. “See? Fine.”

Bones sighed. “When are you going to figure out I’m not a cop, I’m your friend? If you can’t drop the captain schtick with your friendly country doctor, who can you do it with?”

Spock, Jim thought. And I fucked it up. “It’s not a schtick,” he said aloud. “I’m the captain 24/7, best to act like it.”

“I’m sure even Pike cut loose with Number One once in a while.”

Pike’s taciturn first officer had been commanding the Republic during the Nero incident. She was fine, as it happened, but it must have been hard for Pike to stay focused in the battle, having watched her ship destroyed.

Pike couldn’t have cut loose. He couldn’t have made time for friendship. If they’d been too close of friends, he couldn’t have functioned as a captain when his friend was in danger. Jim was realizing it now that he was in the hot seat himself. Distance was a hell of a lot safer and more comfortable.

“Fine,” he said. “Cut loose. What’s the hot gossip from sickbay today?”

Bones chattered about who’d been put on light duty, the funny things his nurse kept saying, a fun fact he’d learned from M’Benga, and Jim tried not to look across the room at Spock, who wasn’t looking at him.

When he’d managed to clean most of his plate, Jim made his way over to the reclamator to scrape out the rest. At least it could be recycled into something somebody else would eat. It was wasted on Jim right now.

Spock was there as well, disposing of his plate. Jim hesitated. “Spock,” he ventured. Saying anything at all would be better than saying nothing.

Spock straightened. “Captain.” He gave a crisp nod and headed toward the doors.

Jim closed his eyes for a minute. He’d asked for this. He’d literally asked for space and he was getting it, so why did it hurt so bad?

Probably because he hadn’t wanted Spock to drop the friendship, just to drop the caregiving stuff. But since he’d jumped down Spock’s throat, naturally Spock didn’t want anything to do with him anymore.

It was nothing he didn’t deserve.

Chapter Text

As Safehold fell astern, Jim slowly recovered from the shock of it.

Not smoothly or easily. Not comfortably, like it had been with Spock most of the time. He woke up out of nightmares, turned on his light, and watched bad soap operas till he fell asleep again. He tried keeping a journal, but he always deleted the pages after he wrote them. He was no damn good at this, and he didn’t have the bandwidth for it. He had work to do.

Spock was unfailingly polite, but distant. Jim kept telling himself he would force the issue, actually talk about things, apologize, be friends again. But Spock’s cool professionalism was like a glass wall he couldn’t breach. One crisp Captain, and Jim always lost his nerve. If Spock was capable of moving past their argument without drama, focusing on the job, maybe it was better to let him. Forcing a confrontation might end up in a fight, and a command team couldn’t afford that. They had to be able to work together smoothly and communicate without hesitation, always.

Jim sat down with the morale officer for their weekly meeting. Ayati was one of the two Deltans, and Jim was relieved to find out he was attracted to her no more than the normal amount. Her sleek bald head and large doe eyes were pretty enough, but she was ten years older than him and not blasting any pheromones he could detect.

“I hesitate to bring this up with you, Captain,” she said in her soft, throaty voice.

“Absolutely bring it up,” said Jim. “It’s my job. What’s the issue?”

“I’m noticing a kind of . . . segregation? No, the connotation is too strong. A separation between the Terran and non-Terran members of the crew. I would not describe it as enmity, but crew cohesion is also important.”

Jim rubbed his mouth, nodding. “I’m not trying to run two crews here, so you’re completely right. But I think I know what you mean. The Terrans are all recovering from the same major trauma at the same time, while the others can’t entirely relate, no matter how sympathetic they are. Speaking of that. Are you okay, with your telepathy? Being around so many sad humans isn’t an issue?”

She gave a slight smile. “No, Deltan telepathy is fully voluntary, all praise to the universe for that. I restrict telepathic contact to my wife only, at this time.”

“Good, good. Okay, so we’ve got to find a way to make the crew unify a bit. Let me look at the shift rosters for each department. Everybody gets closer to the people they work with, that’s natural, so I might need to reshuffle a bit to make sure the mix is right.”

He pulled up the information, and he and Ayati spent a good hour rearranging, bringing the Kelpian gamma shift navigator up for a rotation in alpha shift, moving the Caitian beta shift head engineer to gamma. Keenser, he let stay on alpha with Scotty; he was good enough to head up a shift of his own, but those two worked best as a unit.

“I would also like to organize a cultural event,” said Ayati, when they’d knocked the schedule into better shape. “Something for the whole crew to enjoy. On the Farragut, we tried to have at least one major event weekly.”

“Excellent idea,” he said. “Go ahead and plan it out. If you need more staff for it, talk to Commander Spock.”

The event drew a large crowd. It ended up being something of a talent show, with crew members sharing things from their various cultures. Gaila had baked an Orion pastry, confiding secretly that she’d never actually had it before, but the recipe had sounded good. Chekov did a really impressive Russian dance. Even Reba came to the stage, singing a mournful folk song in a language Jim didn’t know.

In the intermission, everyone mingled, and Jim was pleased to see the groups were fairly mixed. Several non-humans wanted to know more about Russian culture, and Chekov, a glass of synthehol in his hand, was holding forth at length on the topic. Uhura and Gaila were sitting close to each other talking. They’d been roommates at the Academy, but Jim hadn’t seen them together since then.

Benji came up to Jim, dragging Ensign Mensah by the wrist. “Look, Cap’n,” he said excitedly, “a calico human! Like me! I thought it was just cats, except for me.”

Jim gave Mensah an apologetic look. She had vitiligo, which she wasn’t embarrassed about, but that didn’t mean she wanted to be called calico. But she only smiled indulgently. “I was telling him that if it’s pretty on cats, it can be pretty on us too.”

“It’s very pretty on you,” Jim said sincerely. Then he remembered he was captain and added, “Not hitting on you, it’s just facts.”

She laughed. “If you did, I wouldn’t report it. C’mon, Benji, I want to show you Lieutenant Prrk, she’s calico too!”

Jim sighed a little, watching Mensah go. No, he definitely should not make a move in that direction. They had been in the same Academy class, but now they were four ranks apart. A captain couldn’t go picking favorites, even if they had smiles like sunshine and legs for days and were kind to children.

In the second half, though, Spock took the stage to play on his lyre, and Jim forgot all about Ensign Mensah. He didn’t have a smile like sunshine, but his long fingers danced on the strings as his eyes grew distant and thoughtful. The first piece was instrumental, but the second included Uhura providing vocals in traditional Golic. Jim switched on his universal translator to catch the meaning, but it didn’t do well with the archaic grammar.

My life is under thy feet,

My life is under thy feet,

I spread it before thy tent,

I offer thee all my water,

Drink it from my hands.

That was the most comprehensible bit. Jim wasn’t entirely sure if it was a love song or something more feudal. Uhura’s voice shimmered on the high notes, and then she bowed as Spock rose to his feet.

It was good to see they were still friends. And a good example to the crew, as well. Jim should probably mingle more himself. He hadn’t been very sociable lately. When the second half was over, he sidled over to Gaila. “Is it just me, or were some very significant looks passing between you and your old roommate?”

Gaila sighed. “Only in one direction, I’m pretty sure. She’s got to know I’ve had a crush on her since freshman year.”

“I don’t know,” said Jim thoughtfully. “She was definitely leaning in close to you. You should probably spell it out.”

“Shut up, she’s coming,” Gaila hissed.

Uhura was gorgeous as ever in a straight, ankle-length dress with a bold geometric pattern. “How’d you like our song, Kirk?”

“You’ve got a good set of pipes,” said Jim. “Who picked the song, you or him?”

“He did. It’s an old, old one. Part of a larger ballad about two warrior brothers.” She looked thoughtfully at Jim. “Hey, can I borrow you for a second?”

Jim cast a glance at Gaila, who looked as clueless as he was. “Sure.”

She pulled him into a corner. “Spock’s not married. Never really was. I finally got up the nerve to ask. They both agreed to break it off years ago, and they severed the bond the day after the reception where we met her.”

“Ah,” said Jim, remembering how Spock had reeled out of the flitter that day, how he’d said it was for the best. Getting a bond severed must hurt. “So that’s why you’re friends again.”

“I got over my hurt feelings and asked. He explained it all, and I felt like a tool for assuming the worst.” Her eyes flicked over Jim. “Is that why you’ve been keeping him at arm’s length?”

“I haven’t!” Jim protested. “Well, it’s my fault to begin with, but he seems to have made up his mind about me.”

“I wouldn’t assume that,” said Uhura. “The only way to know what Spock thinks about anything is to ask him. I keep having to remind myself of that.”

Ayati, manning the sound system, turned on some music, and a few people started to dance. “I’ll keep that in mind,” Jim said, a little louder to be heard over the music. “Meanwhile, you should ask Gaila to dance.”

Uhura furrowed her eyebrows. “Why?” 

“Because you look like you want to,” said Jim innocently. “And so does she.”

Jim wandered off, but when he glanced back, the two of them were attempting to swing dance. Perfect.

The next stop on their itinerary was 61 Cygni IV. Still in Earth’s general neighborhood, but out of the way of any major trade route. At least one Starfleet team had visited it, but only briefly. They reported that it was cool, damp, foggy, and unremarkable. No sign of exploitable minerals—at the time, almost a hundred years ago, that had been Starfleet’s major concern. After three or four hours of investigating, they had left again.

Spock would not have called the planet inhabitable. Bearable, perhaps, or survivable. A colony of Vulcans on this planet would soon be ill of colds and fungal rashes. Even ice was not so unpleasant to a Vulcan as damp chill. But humans managed to live in places as unbearable as Seattle or Ireland. They might be perfectly content here.

They beamed down near the equator, as that was the only area warm enough for human crops. Spock was relieved when Kirk had selected him for the landing party. Perhaps Spock had been forgiven for his excessive liberties. He certainly had been scrupulously careful to be professional. Kirk often looked displeased with him, but the anger of that night had not returned, and slowly they had returned to their former professional relationship—if without the small intimacies that Spock had so treasured: meals together, shoulders touching as they bent over the same personnel reports, Jim’s infectious sense of humor. It was painful, but nothing he could not control.

61 Cygni IV was as miserable as he had expected. Spock’s thermal layer kept out most of the chill, but it could do nothing for the damp. They had materialized on a hillside covered with dense bryophytic flora, not unlike a dark green Earth moss. Trees, loosely spaced, stretched out in all directions as far as the eye could see—which, due to the fog, was not very far.

Spock took out his tricorder. “Captain, there is something interfering with my scans.”

“Think it might be the fog?”

“This device is rated for climates even more punishing than this, Captain.”

Kirk laughed, the sound oddly muffled amid the damp. “This is the opposite of punishing, Mr. Spock. It’s rejuvenating my skin and curling my hair.”

Spock allowed himself a brief glance. Indeed, Kirk’s face was flushed pink and his hair was crimping into little spirals. His blue eyes scanned the planet with interest—hopeful, perhaps, that this might be at last an enjoyable scientific adventure, as they had both wished for.

Setting his teeth, Spock turned his eyes back to his tricorder. It correctly reported the temperature, humidity, and oxygen ratio, but it could not seem to settle on a life sign reading. Sometimes it zeroed out altogether, despite the abundance of moss, trees, and small animals; other times it leapt to improbable levels.

He opened his mouth to report his findings, but one of the security officers spoke up first. “Captain? I keep thinking I’m seeing things. Is anybody else seeing . . . flickers . . . out of the corner of their eye?”

“I thought I did for a second,” said one of the science officers. 

Spock kept his head very still and widened his focus. Something flicked between one tree and another. Something of no particular color, barely visible in the fog. “Captain, I do not believe we are alone.”

Kirk's hand dropped to the butt of his phaser, his head swiveling to see what might be out there. Cautiously, he took out his communicator with his left hand. “You still got a lock on us, Kyle? We might need a beamout in a hurry.”

Quite abruptly, something barely visible stepped forward before a spot of red appeared in the center and spread outward, like dye dropped into a glass of water. Once it was fully red, it was perfectly easy to see. It was a bipedal creature, humanoid in shape, but the size of a human child. 

Around the clearing, more of them appeared, turning from a perfect camouflage to brilliant red—the most visible color in this world of white and green. 

Kirk took his hand off his phaser and raised it in greeting. “Hello. I'm Captain James Kirk, of the starship Enterprise. We come in peace.”

The creatures did not respond in any way. They stood and stared. 

“It is possible that they are not sapient,” said Spock. “Their body pattern is no proof of intelligence.”

But just then, one of the creatures stepped forward slightly, facing the security team, and began to ripple with color. As it was quite naked, its whole body became a canvas for shifting colors—some appearing and disappearing rapidly, others chasing each other across the being’s torso and limbs. Only its large black eyes were unaffected.

“I amend my prior statement,” said Spock. “The likeliest hypothesis is that these colors are a type of communication. If so, it is highly complex.”

Kirk called the ship again. “Kirk to Uhura. I'm gonna need you down here. I'm pretty sure this is a first contact situation, and the UT isn't doing jack.”

“Acknowledged, sir,” came Nyota’s voice. “I’ll be right down.”

She materialized five point two minutes later, wearing a uniform with pants in deference to the climate. “Spock thinks it's trying to talk to us,” said Kirk. 

“Sure looks like it,” said Nyota, “but the universal translator only works on auditory languages. I'm going to have to crack this one myself. In which case we might need to settle in for weeks. I would need to get them to talk enough to learn a working vocabulary. Do you think they'd cooperate?”

Kirk looked at the leader, who was still displaying colors. The pattern was similar, but not identical, to its first utterance. “It does seem pretty eager to get its message across.”

“Hey!” shouted Nyota abruptly, making the whole party startle. The being took no notice whatsoever, neither looking at her nor hesitating in its own message. “Captain, I don't think they can hear. They didn't realize you were trying to communicate at all.”

“Huh,” said the captain. “I'm gonna try something.” He began moving his hands in graceful arcs, fingers flashing through a series of figures. Spock found the motions of his hands hypnotic. Kirk had fascinating hands, blunt but deft, skillful in everything they did. 

Kirk saw Spock staring and grinned. “Don't you have sign language on Vulcan?”

Ah, a method of communication that bypassed auditory channels entirely, for communicating with non-hearing or non-speaking humans. Spock had heard of this. “No. Where speech is not effective, we utilize telepathic communication.”

“Makes sense.” Kirk crouched to match the life form’s stature and repeated his gestures more slowly. The being was taking considerable interest in this new development. 

“They don't understand, but they can tell we're communicating,” said Nyota. “Keep it up; it'll encourage them to do the same.”

Kirk did so, but within a few minutes, the beings had lost patience. The leader shifted to dusty mauve, speckled with yellow, and grabbed Kirk by the hand.

“Um, okay,” said Kirk. “Are we shaking hands?” He looked up toward Nyota. “Does this look friendly to you? He's pulling on me.”

The other creatures gathered around the landing party, pushing and pulling. They were small enough that it was possible to resist them, but they outnumbered the landing party by a factor of 1.67.

“They clearly want us to go this way,” said Nyota, planting her heels to keep a creature from dragging her into the trees. “You don't need me to tell you that.”

“They might be leading us into something dangerous,” warned one of the security officers. 

“I don't think so,” said Kirk. “Or why would they take so much time to talk to us first? There's a good explanation for this, and they told us, we just didn't understand it.”

One of the life forms seized Spock by the hand to pull at him. Instinctively, he pulled his hand away, but not before receiving a powerful jolt of urgency, anxiety. The being was afraid what would happen if the landing party did not follow. “Captain, may I have your permission to connect with them telepathically?”

“You want to meld with one?” Nyota exclaimed. “These people are completely unknown to us and barely humanoid. We don't know what that might do to you.”

Kirk turned on him a look of total confidence. “Do you think it's safe to try it?”

“I calculate the risk of harm is under six point five percent.”

“Bullshit,” said Nyota. “You have no data to base that on.”

“I have already sensed that they are extremely anxious. I believe that it is vital to learn why.”

Kirk nodded. “Okay, you have my permission—provided they'll let you.”

Moving slowly to avoid startling any of them, Spock crouched and extended a hand to the being that had pulled on him. The creature took his hand with its own. Anxiety. Urgency. Spock withdrew his hand, shaped it into the familiar pattern, and moved it slightly toward the creature's face. 

It didn't like that at all. Spock demonstrated putting his hand on his own face, to make clear what he intended. Then he tapped his forehead and pointed to the creature's head. 

It flashed with complex colors—perhaps discussing the situation with its fellows—and finally stepped closer once more. Spock positioned his hand, adjusting slightly as he sensed the location of the nearest psi points. “My mind to your mind,” he murmured, though the creature would not hear him. “My thoughts to your thoughts.”

Colors, streaking past at a dizzying rate. A loud cacophony of sound, like a radio receiver picking up several signals at once. It was impossible to think, to remember where he was, what he had come here for. There were only the colors and the sounds, unbearably overstimulating. 

He felt himself crash to the ground, his hands empty, the endless noise dulled to a confusing hum that rose and fell. 

A face appeared in his vision, the most beautiful face he could imagine. Its skin was a poem without meaning, and the eyes the color of apology.

Its mouth moved in a round shape, over and over. He could not remember why.

Chapter Text

“Spock!” Jim shook his shoulders. “Spock, c'mon!”

Uhura crouched at Spock’s other side, taking his hand. He didn't respond. His eyes wandered vaguely over Jim's face. Conscious, but unresponsive. 

The little aliens were clearly panicking now, hurrying over, flashing with rapid colors. Guiltily, Jim noticed the alien Spock had melded with was flat on his back as well. So the alien hadn't hurt Spock on purpose, the meld had gone bad for both of them. 

“Do you know of anything like this that's happened before?” Jim asked Uhura. 

“No, never. We need to get him to M’Benga.”

Finally a useful suggestion. He reached for his comm.

At that moment, though, Spock's shoulders disappeared from under his hand. Jim shouted. The aliens had picked him up between six of them and were carrying him away. “Absolutely the fuck not!” he yelled and dashed after.

They went at a breakneck pace through the forest, not appearing to be slowed at all by their burden. It was the whole troop of them, as far as Jim could tell. They faded back into their camouflage colors, which shifted so rapidly with the terrain behind them that it looked like Spock was being carried by people made of glass. 

Jim was panting before long, and the shouts of the landing party had faded away behind them in the fog. Either they hadn’t followed fast enough to keep in sight, or they had decided it would be smarter to stick together and try to scan for him instead. But there was no chance of beaming up either him or Spock until they stopped moving. Their vector wasn’t regular enough to get a lock.

The aliens at the head of the line darted downward, and Jim saw there was a dark hole under a tree root, big enough for the aliens to pass through standing up straight, but not a human. They handed Spock down, sliding him in horizontally. Jim dived in after Spock, and not a moment too soon. Behind him, the opening snapped shut, blocking the foggy daylight.

“Shit,” said Jim to himself in the darkness. Underground was the worst possible place to be, when it came to comms and transporters. Feet padded on the ground, and for a moment Jim panicked that he'd never be able to follow Spock in the dark like this. 

But a light flicked on a moment later, revealing a bare white corridor which slanted downward. They carried Spock further underground, more slowly now, and Jim could do nothing but follow. The aliens took no particular notice beyond glancing back at him once or twice. That, at least, was a relief. 

“Sorry to barge in like this,” he said, even though of course they couldn't hear him. It just felt rude not to. “I have to stay with my friend, you know.”

They descended till they were several floors below ground level. The corridor let out into a large room full of aliens flashing away at each other, then into another corridor, down another turn. Now one of the aliens had moved to walk behind him, perhaps wanting to be sure he didn't wander where he wasn't supposed to. “Don't worry,” he assured the alien, “ I'm not going anywhere but where Spock is going.”

Finally they reached a hallway full of doors. The semi-conscious alien was carried through one door, Spock through another. Jim followed and found he was in a small white room. An alcove held a sink and toilet. The ceiling, fortunately, was just high enough for his head. The little bed at the side of the room wouldn’t be big enough for either of them. 

After a moment's hesitation and flashed discussion, the aliens laid Spock on the floor instead. “Great, uh, thanks for the room. Um, why—” The aliens filed out of the room, shutting the door behind them. Jim tested the curved metal handle, but to no effect. It was locked. 

“Well,” said Jim, sitting on the floor next to Spock, “here's that one on one time with you I've been craving. Kinda not what I had in mind though.”

Spock's eyes traveled vaguely over him. A hand reached up, poked him lightly in the cheek. Seemingly satisfied, Spock rested his hand back at his side. 

“You're really not all there upstairs, are you?” asked Jim quietly.

Spock only stared.

By the time Jim started to feel like it was night, he was pretty sure they were in a hospital. That was the good news. The bad news was that it was clearly not a very advanced hospital. The doctor that came to see them poked at Spock, had him track a little light with his eyes, rolled up his sleeve to poke at his skin. But, having done that, he seemed to have run out of tricks. He flashed at Jim a while, Jim signed back at him, but they were getting nowhere. He tried to gesture at the door, at the surface, miming fingers walking out of the room, but if the doctor understood any of it, he didn’t agree. A dark gray streak appeared down one side of his torso while the rest of him kept swirling with color. No, Jim suspected, with the reason completely unintelligible to him.

Spock eventually peeled himself off the floor and sat on the tiny bed, staring at his hands. Jim kept talking to him, but Spock didn't take any notice. What kind of state did they call this? Spock wasn’t unconscious, he was capable of moving and interacting with his environment to some degree, but he wasn’t all right, either. Jim would have felt better if he had been unconscious. An unconscious Spock would presumably be himself when he woke up. This state looked disturbingly as though most of his mind was gone.

He tried not to think too hard about that. M’Benga would know, and until they’d gotten Spock under a scanner, there was no point in trying to guess. But Jim chewed the inside of his lip, worrying all the same. A head injury could get worse if it wasn’t looked at. If this was the same, then they were losing precious minutes down here. Minutes that could mean everything to Spock’s recovery.

Jim was tired enough to consider sleeping on the bare floor when a couple of the aliens came in, dragging several stacked mattresses and what appeared to be two soup pots filled with porridge. Sorry, Jim signed, I know we're basically giants to you. But thanks.  

They flashed a bit and left again, locking the door behind them. Jim sighed. “Wish you had Uhura with you instead, huh? She'd be starting to put together a vocabulary by now. All I've really got is that red is hello.”

Spock turned his hands over and inspected the other side. So he was still curious, it seemed. That was something. He was investigating, if only his hands. Jim decided to take that as a positive sign, because his morale badly needed one. Spock was just figuring himself out again. Once he'd gotten a grasp on his hands, maybe he'd move on to talking. Then he'd use that incredible brain to figure out flash language, they'd explain the situation, and the aliens would happily escort them back outside. They'd have an interesting report to write.

Even silently, in his head, it didn’t sound very plausible.

Jim pulled the mattresses around. The only configuration that really worked was laying them out crosswise, one across and four long. “Hope you don't mind sharing,” he ventured. Spock held his forefinger up to his eye as if inspecting his own fingerprint. 

Taking a deep breath, Jim considered. Spock didn’t seem aware enough even to eat, but he was going to have to. They had no way of knowing how long their captivity would be. He picked up one of the pots and the oddly-shaped spoon and sat next to Spock. “All right, enough of that. Time for dinner.” He pulled Spock’s hand down and pushed the pot in front of his face. “Food, remember?”

Spock glanced at it but took no real notice of it. He was fixating instead on the gold of Jim’s sleeve and its rows of braid.

“Do I literally have to spoon feed this to you?” Jim demanded. “You’re the one who’s always insisting on three square meals a day.” He lowered the pot to his lap and hovered a bite of porridge near Spock’s face. Spock ignored it in favor of looking at his fingers again.

“I don't care how interesting your hands are, open your mouth.” No dice. He touched Spock's chin lightly with one finger, nudging downward. This time Spock did open up. Jim put the spoon in and to his relief Spock seemed to remember about swallowing at least. He turned toward Jim, staring wonderingly into his eyes as Jim fed him the porridge, absently opening his mouth when Jim bumped the spoon against his lips. 

“I’m glad you’re finally paying attention to me, but I gotta say this staring into my eyes thing is a little intense,” said Jim. It just felt better when he made conversation. He could make himself believe Spock was in there, somewhere. A big part of him was starting to believe Spock's mind had been completely wiped. None of his infinite store of knowledge, their history together, everything Jim had told him. His curiosity suggested that he could learn again, but at that point it would be a whole new Spock. His memories were what he was. 

Jim shook his head to dismiss those thoughts. He had no prognosis. It had only been a few hours. Maybe Spock was just stunned and would be fine in the morning. Jim cleared his throat. “Finally a chance to get even with you for all those dinners you made me eat. Here comes the airplane.”

Spock’s hand came up, brushing Jim’s hair off his forehead. Jim shivered. Spock’s fingers trailed down the side of his face, along his jaw, and up the other side. As if finding out the borders of it. He touched Jim’s mouth, tracing the tense downward curve, explored the shape of his nose. 

Jim breathed carefully. He had wanted Spock to touch him—he still wanted it—but not like this. Spock’s fingers moved toward his eyes next, and Jim flinched. “Not the eyeballs, please.” But Spock only traced around his eye before dropping his hand. Opening his mouth like a baby bird, he waited for more porridge.

Jim got the entire pot of porridge into Spock before starting on his own. It tasted like almonds, kind of, but very bland. Oh well. He forced down about half of his. “If you want me to finish this, you’re gonna have to speak up,” he tried. But Spock was investigating the gold braid on his own shirt cuff. Jim sighed. “Time for bed, I think.”

He tried patting the mattress, but Spock didn’t look up. He couldn’t very well carry Spock to bed; Vulcans were built densely. Fortunately, taking his hand and leading him over worked. He guided Spock to lie down and took off both their boots before sprawling out beside him. “I really wish M’Benga were here with some little scanner to tell me what is happening in that head of yours.”

Spock lay on his side to stare at Jim again. 

“I’m gonna have to figure out something else for you to stare at. If you keep looking into my eyes like that, I’m gonna get the idea you’re in love with me.”

Spock blinked.

With a sigh, Jim rolled over. He couldn’t sleep with those big brown eyes staring into his so questioningly. Like he thought Jim had all the answers. But of the two of them, Jim was the one who was going to have to come up with them. Spock was in no condition to do it. If Jim didn’t figure things out, they were screwed.

Jim woke up badly needing to pee, and yet something heavy was draped over him. Spock. Everything came rushing back to him. Spock wasn’t Spock anymore, they were deep in a hole underground, and they had no way to talk to anybody.

And apparently, Baby Spock was a cuddler.

Jim turned around in Spock’s arms. Spock visibly brightened on seeing him and reached up to pet his hair. “I really don’t know if I should be letting you do that,” said Jim. Spock took no notice. “I mean, it’s really nice, but what happens when Actual Spock gets back and finds out I took advantage of his helpless state?”

Spock’s hand drifted down to his shoulder and he pulled Jim even closer.

“Especially given how things are between us,” said Jim into his shoulder. “I was such a jerk to you and you’re being so nice to me, but it’s not real and I don’t deserve it.” Spock only gave a contented sigh, and Jim reluctantly let his body relax. Spock might be lonely in this place, or scared. He might need a hug. Jim sure did.

Eventually he needed the bathroom badly enough to wiggle out of Spock’s arms and get to his feet. What in the world they’d do when Spock needed to go, he had no idea. But Vulcans had camel bladders, Amanda had told him, so they had a couple days. Anything could happen in a couple of days. 

The toilet was perfectly circular and under a foot high, but it functioned how it should. Jim washed his hands in the low sink and drank some water out of the faucet. When he got back, Spock was sitting up and examining the seam of his shirt.

Jim sat down across from him. He badly wanted to talk to the real Spock, an actual present and responsive Spock, but he had decided to take what he could get. Get these thoughts off his chest, if he couldn't actually get them to Spock. “I'm realizing I owe you an apology. I mean—I knew I did but now I really know, you know?”

Spock noticed him and started tracing Jim’s ear with his fingers. Jim removed his hand and held it in both of his instead. “I shouldn't have lashed out at you that time after Safehold. It was just me getting defensive again, how I do. You didn't do anything wrong, I did, okay?”

Spock took Jim's hand and examined that next, running his fingers along the creases in his palm. It was distracting, but Jim let him. Maybe the secret to making his brain work again was looking at and touching as many things as he could. 

“Fact is, it's terrifying to let people in. To let you help me. I'm usually on the other side of things. When I'm helping other people, I'm in control, I'm the strong one. And people usually let me be that person. My mom did, Sam did, Bones did, at least at first. Letting you help me meant admitting I didn't have my shit together, and you were the last person I wanted to admit that to.”

Spock's fingers reached the tips of his and lingered there, moving slowly in tiny circles. It made the hair on the back of his neck rise. 

“But hey, you probably aren't listening, so I may as well be honest. I don't have my shit together. I don't know how to do this job and I'm terrified the crew will find out. I'm leaning on you way too much and it scares me. Every night when I'm trying to sleep I think about Earth and I want to cry, but I don't. I wish I could fall asleep on your shoulder like I did at your parents’ house. If I weren't scared of being weak, I'd be in your room every night, begging you to let me sleep in your bed, like I used to do with Sam when I was three. I hate being alone, but with you I feel like everything's going to be okay.” Or he had, when Spock was Spock.

Spock picked up Jim's hand and nuzzled into his palm. Suddenly Jim couldn’t take it anymore. “What is wrong with you?” he snapped, less angry than scared. Spock did not look up, did not even twitch. “Can you even hear me?” he asked in a smaller voice, his stomach clenching. No response. 

Jim pulled his hand away and stood up. He wanted to let Spock have whatever he wanted, but he couldn’t handle it right now. It made him want to lean in and try kissing him, but he couldn’t, not when Spock wasn’t genuinely there. And he knew that he wasn’t there, because the real Spock would never have done that. Spock had boundaries a mile high. Getting a hug from him had been an enormous deal, and it had only happened once.

Spock watched him with big sad eyes. Or maybe Jim was projecting. Eventually Spock’s gaze dropped down to inspect his own socks. His head swayed slightly back and forth, like he was trying to get different perspectives on his foot. Jim chewed his lip guiltily. Maybe he should have put up with Spock touching him. It felt like a rock and a hard place—take away something that was comforting Spock in a hard time, or take liberties with his friend who would almost certainly be mad about it later?

There was a sound at the door, and in came one of the aliens with a tray bearing two bowls of different colored cubes. He—or was it she? they had no visible sex characteristics—flashed slowly and deliberately, as if Jim would be able to understand if the colors went by slowly enough.

Thanks, he signed, and the alien mimicked the gesture. Hey, it was a start. The alien left and Jim sat down again to feed Spock. A few cubes in, Spock appeared to grasp the concept and started eating, picking around the brown cubes to eat the pink ones instead. “Hey, feeding yourself. That's progress! Maybe next we can work on fixing your hair. Not that it's not adorable messy, but it just . . . you don't look like you.” He brushed through it with his fingers, trying to make the silky stands all go down into their usual bowl shape.

It was such a bitter irony. In any other circumstance he would have loved to wake up with Spock, to hand feed him, to see him all messy. Now every part of it only worried him.

Still, he never thought twice about doing it. He understood Spock’s way of taking care of him a little better now. Obviously Spock hadn't been counting the cost, thinking less of him, with all his careful ministrations. He had just seen that Jim needed something and felt compelled to provide it. Just like Jim felt about him now.

Jim’s fingers brushed Spock's ear and Spock shuddered, leaning into his hand. Jim's breath caught. “You need to get better,” he said softly, pulling his hand away and putting it in his lap. “I want to try that on you when you're yourself. If you’d let me.”

Chapter Text

Spock was confused. His mind was full of constant noise, different pitches layered on one another, always changing. Meanwhile everything he saw seemed to be trying to tell him something he couldn't quite grasp. No matter how hard he focused, he could make no sense of the messages. 

But the other person with him was neither frightening nor confusing. He simply was. His colors were familiar, though he did not remember why. The more Spock looked at him, the more he touched, the less important it seemed that the world around him was always shouting. His top half was the color of reluctance and his bottom half the color of negation, but Spock knew those colors were lying. The shape of the person's face, when he felt it with his fingers, was familiar. The colors were not important.

But when he was not touching that person it became difficult. It was too loud to focus or to think. Something was tangled inside his mind, something important. He was not supposed to be here. He was not supposed to feel this way. 

He paced anxiously back and forth across the tiny room. At least the walls and floor were white, or he would have had difficulty placing his feet.

The other person with him moved on the edges of his vision, but he did not look up. It was taking all his focus to track his own feet, in socks that seemed to be arguing with him.

Finally the person stood in his way and grasped his wrists. His mouth moved. His mouth was so often moving. Spock knew this was important but was able to derive no information from it. He lifted one hand and put it against the person's lips to see if it made more sense this way, but instead the lips stilled. He brushed them lightly with his fingertips. They felt slightly rough, but soft underneath. He liked them. 

His hand was moved down again. The person kept doing that. Spock allowed himself to be moved. The person's colors were a lie and what he wanted to say instead was unclear, but his touch could be trusted. 

Perhaps Spock could touch the person with his lips instead. The idea was appealing, and he leaned forward. But instead he was pulled to the side again, made to sit down. 

The person's mouth began moving again. It was very beautiful, the way that face shifted, looking different moment to moment, while saying nothing different than it had before. The colors were nonsense, but a beautiful nonsense. He tried once more to touch it but his hands were gently restrained yet again. 

Instead the person leaned forward and wrapped arms around him. The pressure of this touch was reassuring. As though he could be safely held still no matter how confused he became. He held the person and buried his face in the space between neck and shoulder. He smelled very pleasant. Spock was gripped with a terrible longing he did not understand.

He tried to say so, but nothing happened. He could not remember what he was doing wrong.

The doctor returned for another visit later in the day. At least, Jim thought it was the doctor. It was hard to tell these guys apart, given none of them had a consistent color. But he thought he recognized this one’s little pot belly.

The alien came up to Spock, flashing at him. Spock faced him, looking more attentive than usual, eyes following the streaming colors. 

The doctor poked at Spock a little, picking up his hand and dropping it, trying to get Spock to track his finger. Spock took no notice of any of this. But when the colors started up again, he reached out and poked the doctor’s purple left hand, and then a green splotch rocketing across his chest. 

The doctor got really excited, flashing again, but more slowly. Spock touched several of the colors as they went by. 

Jim watched with growing alarm. Spock couldn't talk. He took no notice of speech. But he was understanding something of the color language. 

Was it even Spock? Or had the two switched minds in the meld? Had he been cuddling and feeding an alien, while Spock was alone and confused in the other room, in a body that couldn't speak or hear? 

The doctor bloomed dark green and left the room. A minute later he came back with the alien Spock had melded with. Jim could tell because they were dull gray, displaying no colors at all. He chewed his lip. If Spock were trapped in an alien’s body, he wouldn't know how to do the colors. He’d have no way to communicate at all.

Spock—the one that looked like Spock—inspected the alien, who stared back at him. He reached out to try touching them, but they shied away, obviously nervous. Spock sighed slightly, dropped his hands, and turned away. The alien glanced dully around the room, taking no particular notice of Jim. “Spock?” Jim asked, leaning into the alien’s field of vision. “Is that you in there, Commander?”

The alien scanned past him as if he weren't there, settling back on the doctor. They took the doctor's hand and pulled lightly on it. The doctor bloomed bright blue and led the alien away again.

“I don't think that was you,” Jim said, sitting back down on the mattresses. “I don't want to sound like I have a big head or anything, but you usually pay more attention to me than that.” There was also the way Spock held his shoulders back, the way he emoted with his eyebrows. The alien’s body language had been different, un-Spocklike.

As if to prove the point, Spock sat down to stare at him again, reaching out to touch him. Jim sighed and let him slide a hand up his arm, cup his neck. It was a kind of torture, being touched like this when Spock wasn't all there. But still, it was proof it was Spock, right? Spock remembered him. Maybe it was comforting to have one familiar person with him. 

Jim took a deep breath, trying not to get either aroused or upset. Spock just needed to touch somebody, and he was going to be here for it. If it was what Spock needed.

Spock’s fingers slid over his cheek, and there was an odd zap as they brushed a spot beside his nose. Jim suddenly straightened. “You’re not handsy,” he exclaimed. “You’re trying to mind meld with me, but you can’t remember how!”

Spock trailed over the same spot, back and forth. Zap. Zap. Was it safe to let him? Almost certainly not. A meld was how they got into this mess. And Spock obviously was less in control of himself now than he had been then.

But what other choice did they have? Spock couldn’t talk, couldn’t seem to hear, and though he did see, he seemed to have trouble making sense of what he looked at. A mind meld would cut through all that and reveal if he was aware at all, what he planned to do.

The risk, of course, was that whatever Spock had was catching. That Jim would be in the same state, and there would be two of them that didn’t know how to use a spoon. They’d be in an even bigger mess, and there was no guarantee that it would be reversible, even if they did get found.

But there was a chance it would help Spock, and Jim had already made up his mind. He took Spock’s fingers, guiding them into the best approximation of a mind meld he could. Forefinger beside his nose. Zap. Thumb just below and to the side of his mouth. A stronger zap. He couldn’t remember where the other fingers went, so he slid them along his forehead until they zapped too.

The zap strengthened, until it was like a widening doorway. Spock was there.

And it was definitely him. Jim could feel him like a hot tendril, with an unmistakable Spock taste, searching through his mind. Like he was rifling through the cabinets, looking for something. Jim sat very still and let him look.

Each place Spock searched brought forth images. A storm coming in across the plains, casting a shadow on the ground. Sweet corn popping between his teeth. A tiny pink flower that grew on Tarsus, before it all went bad. His mother’s voice, Are you sure you’ll be okay, Jimmy? Peaches. San Francisco rain. The Pleiades.

None of these were what Spock was looking for, and he rifled deeper. Jim heard his mouth saying words, outside the meld. “Chrysoprase. Interoception. Phlebotomist.” Deeper. “Truck. Purple. Mama.”

There was a sudden rush of light, sound, color, as if Spock was emptying out the whole cabinet, grabbing what he needed, and then he was gone. Jim sat blinking, breathing hard.

Spock was shaking his head and blinking his eyes. After a moment he stilled, sitting up straight. He snapped his fingers beside one ear, then the other.

Jim raised his eyes to Spock’s. He had his old expression, serious, concerned. Jim’s breath caught. “Are you all right?” 

“Yes,” said Spock slowly. “I . . . think so. The noise has stopped.” He put his hands carefully in his lap, and Jim had a faint pang for how it had been. That was all over now. It wasn’t possible to have both Spock’s mind and his affection at the same time.

But at least he was all right. That was what mattered. “There was noise before?”

“Yes. I could not hear you. I was . . . trying to hear your colors but they made no sense.”

“What happened to you?’

Spock looked frustrated. “I . . . the mind tries to . . . I am blue, Jim. Sorry. I am sorry, Jim. I am still . . .”

“You’re not all the way better yet.” It was a little heartbreaking, hearing him struggle to put basic words together instead of pouring out genius ideas as fast as his mouth could get them out like he used to. But he was here, unquestionably. He was talking. That meant he could surely recover the rest of the way, with time.

Spock nodded. “But I can think now, at least. I am still . . . trying to put the words in the right places. It may be some time.” 

“But the meld helped. All this time you've been trying to meld with me?”

Spock looked confused, and then slightly embarrassed. “No. I was not. But thank you for doing so.”

Jim considered this. For a minute, the thought that Spock hadn't been addicted to touching him had been reassuring. If it didn't mean anything, then he didn't have to think any more about it.

But if it wasn't just to meld with him, it did mean some part of Spock liked touching him. And Jim would be lying awake for a lot of nights trying to figure out what that meant.

Spock looked around the room. “Are we prisoners here?”

Jim shrugged. “Sort of. This is a hospital, not a jail, but the door is locked and I haven’t been able to convince them to let us go. Not sure if they don’t understand or they just don’t want to. What do you remember?”

Spock’s eyebrows drew down. “Some. It is . . . confusing.”

“You seemed to understand the color thing. You were poking at the doctor.”

“Yes. I do remember that.”

“The next time they come in, you’ve got to try that again. See if you can find out why they’ve locked us in here and ask them to let us go.”

“What about the other one? The . . . the gray one.”

“The alien who’s like you were? I think they’re next door.”

“I might be able to fix her.”

Jim took a slow breath. “Let’s wait on that, okay? You’re clearly not back to one hundred percent yet and the last time you melded with her, you fried both your brains.”

“I did not fry—”

“Anyway,” Jim interrupted, “priority number one is getting out of here before the crew figures out where we are and takes a battering ram to the front door. It’s going to really screw up our first contact here if our first real interaction is a fight.”

Spock nodded. “Yes, Captain.”

Jim felt cold. Of course. As Spock came back to himself, he was remembering to keep those professional boundaries up. “All right, Commander,” he said. “Nothing to do but wait. Would a nap help, do you think?”

“No, but I can . . .” He searched for the word for several seconds. “Meditate,” he finished at last.

“Go for it,” said Jim, gesturing vaguely around the room. “I’ll be quiet.” He flopped on his back on the mattress. Spock was back, that was the most important thing. As far as Jim could tell, his mind was fine, it was only speech that was the difficulty, but there was no certain way of knowing without neurological testing. But Jim would feel a lot better once Spock was talking like Spock again.

Even if every step he took toward recovery was a step away from Jim. At least he would be okay.

Spock’s meditation was challenging. He was flooded with many emotions that had been dislodged by his mental disorder, chief of which was shame. He remembered a great deal more than he cared to admit of his time here. He had heard nothing but constant incomprehensible noise—almost certainly his mind’s attempt to process visual data through his auditory centers. But he had seen Jim’s face. He had not remembered Jim, but his face had been the object of considerable obsession. Without his higher functions to suppress base reactions, he had found that face uncomplicatedly beautiful.

Which, of course, it was and remained. More beautiful, in fact, without the confusing synesthetic response that had garbled his visual intake. But it had not been appropriate to put his hands all over Jim so much. He had been like an affectionate sehlat, touching him incessantly, even wrapping around him in sleep. It was embarrassing to face those memories with his higher functions intact again. He would never have behaved that way in his right mind.

And yet already he regretted that he could no longer do so. He remembered the feel of Jim’s hair on his fingers, slightly coarse, a little bit curled in the humid air. Jim’s lips, soft but flaky on the side where he liked to chew on them. The line of his jaw.

He tried to attribute the emotions these sensations inspired in him to mental imbalance, but he could not. While it was true that he had been unusually desirous of tactile engagement with his environment, his disordered mind’s fixation on Jim was only how he felt normally, unrestrained by his normal discipline. That discipline would be difficult to restore in light of the vivid memories of how it had felt to touch him.

Kaiidth. It was not as though he had been unaware of his attraction. He would simply have to proceed as he had been.

He descended into a deeper level of meditation. Now that he had the clarity to attain it, his brain would reorganize itself at a much faster rate. He was eager to regain his previous vocabulary. Many of his thoughts could not be expressed without it.

He had not nearly finished when one of the life forms returned to take away the breakfast dishes. They looked at Spock nervously, noticing his different attitude, and flashed a series of colors.

It would be inaccurate to say that Spock had learned their language. An entire language was more than could be absorbed from a single meld. But he had caught a number of color associations, during the time his mind had been disorganized, so he was capable of grasping at least some of what the life form had to say.

“They want to know if I am feeling better yet and whether to bring the doctor,” he reported.

“Well, can you find a way to tell them yes?”

Spock frowned slightly to conceal his embarrassment, but tentatively pointed to the olive swirl on the life form’s abdomen that he believed meant doctor. The language was ingenious; it seemed the verbs moved up one arm, the mode of movement describing tense, while the subject of the sentence was on the chest and the object was on the abdomen. A rising yellow bloom up the being’s side indicated it was a question. In this way, the entire sentence could be displayed at once. Nyota would be ecstatic to work on this.

The being left, returning shortly thereafter with the doctor. Conversing took a great deal of back and forth, but the doctor was surpassingly patient with him. “As far as I can tell,” Spock told Jim, “we are not actually captives. They do not fully trust us, hence the lock on the door, but we were brought here for our own safety. I cannot tell what the danger was from which they rescued us, but it seems that it has passed now.”

“So we’re free to go?”

Spock touched a spot of crimson on the doctor’s arm and raised his eyebrows in question. The doctor did not make eye contact, which in retrospect was no surprise. Eyes were used to watch for the other person’s colors. Emotional overtones were included in those colors, so there was no need for gestures or expressions. This was exceedingly clever except for the fact that it made it nearly impossible for a human to communicate with them.

But it seemed the doctor did understand, because he went to the door and summoned several others. After much discussion, they were led outside.

At last they reached the surface. Spock and Jim had to crawl to make it out of the exit, but they emerged into a fairly bright, if still foggy, day.

“Captain!” shouted a voice. “Spock!”

Nyota came running, reporting into her communicator as she came. When she reached them, she paused, panting, to take in the two of them and their four alien companions. “Are you both okay?”

“We’re fine, Uhura,” said Jim. “Still having trouble understanding what’s going on, but as far as we can tell they weren’t meaning to hold us captive. They were trying to keep us safe from some kind of danger.”

“We found the danger,” Nyota said grimly. “Some really nasty predators. We had to kill one to get the rest to scatter.”

“Anyone hurt?”

“Not badly.” She looked up into Spock’s face. “What about you?”

“I am fine, Nyota,” he said carefully. Words were still difficult to summon, but less than they had been. “However, we have unfinished business here. The alien with whom I melded has not yet recovered, and I believe I may be able to help her.”

“Not so fast, Mister,” said Jim. “You are getting a brain scan and you’re getting it now.”

Spock realized there was no way out of it. He turned to the aliens with him and knelt down to better communicate. The doctor made it simpler by asking a series of questions and leaving a patch of black and a patch of pale yellow on his shoulder to say no and yes, respectively. Yes, they would be leaving now. Yes, they intended to come back. No, they did not need anything. No, Spock did not believe he was still ill. He waited to see if the doctor would mention the other sufferer, but as he did not, there was no reassurance he could give in that direction.

Reluctantly, he followed Jim to the clearing to beam up.

Chapter Text

Jim crossed his arms over his chest while M’Benga ran a scanner over Spock’s head. “Well, there’s no physical damage,” M’Benga ventured. “To see any more, I’ll need to take a longer scan to track if everything’s lighting up the way it should.”

“Very well,” said Spock, reluctantly lying down on the biobed. “May I continue my debrief?”

“That would be ideal. I’d like a good scan of what’s happening as you produce speech. Because I can definitely hear some disfluency compared to your baseline.”

Spock’s lips thinned. He clearly didn’t like being told he wasn’t operating at full capacity. M’Benga moved to the other side of the bed and set up the scanner, which arched over the upper part of Spock’s head.

“You said you knew what had happened,” Jim prompted. “Do you think you can explain it now?”

“I know I can,” said Spock. “Normally, within a meld, the minds of the subjects naturally . . .” He struggled a moment to retrieve the word. “Harmonize, in order to exchange information. This causes minor ph . . . physiological changes at times, such as a change in blood pressure, as well as mild mental changes. A person who commonly thinks in pictures may become able to think in words for the duration of a meld, or vice versa. Otherwise, obviously, the thought patterns would be so . . . disparate as to make communication impossible.”

Jim nodded. “So your mind tried to work like one of their minds? For a little bit I thought you’d been body swapped or something.”

Spock’s mouth twitched in amusement. “No. However, the mind of the life form with whom I melded was . . . structured quite differently from the usual humanoid pattern. Their speech centers process visual data, and their visual centers include a certain amount of . . . communicative ability as well. My mind, in attempting to harmonize with hers, attempted to mimic her brain pattern, which unfortunately was incompatible with mine. I was unable to hear, and my vision was distorted with a kind of emotional syn—synesthesia. In addition, the disorder of my mind dampened my higher functions. I could not remember who or where I was.”

“That must have been terrifying.”

“Yes.” Spock did not elaborate.

“So how did melding with me fix it, instead of messing me up like you?”

“Within the meld, I had somewhat more coherence than I had had before. Your thoughts were arranged in a more familiar way, bringing me closer to baseline. Then I was able to reorganize my mind more fully by copying the arrangement of your speech and visual centers.”

Jim paused. “You can just do that?”

“Imperfectly,” said Spock with a little twitch of his eyebrow. “Humans and Vulcans have the same sensory pathways and mode of speech. Some confusion still remains. This scanner, for instance, appears to be saying hello to me.”

It was blinking a red light in Spock’s face. Jim smirked. “That’s the one thing I had managed to figure out. Red means hello.”

“As soon as the doctor is finished, I would like to convene with Lieutenant Uhura and pass on what I can remember of their language. As the synesthesia wears off, it may become more difficult to recall.”

M’Benga turned the scanner off. “I’ve got what I need. Your speech centers are definitely inhibited, but I could see recovery over just the course of this conversation. I’ll want you back tomorrow, but so far I don’t see a reason to hold you here.”

Without thinking, Jim grasped Spock’s forearm to help him up. But Spock didn’t pull away. That was something.

Once they had reached the hall, Spock said in a low voice. “I owe you an apology for my behavior while I was incapacitated.”

“Psh,” said Jim dismissively. “Nobody’s responsible for their behavior when they’re out of their head.”

“I behaved quite inappropriately,” Spock insisted. “I do remember that much. I was inappropriately tactile. Without my higher functions, I forgot the normal boundaries of social intercourse.”

Jim suppressed a snicker at the use of the word intercourse. He was a captain now, not twelve. Even if he felt twelve sometimes. “It makes sense. If you couldn’t see right and you couldn’t hear at all, touch would be the one thing you could count on.”

They entered the lift. “I did not remember who you were,” Spock said softly as the doors closed. “I only felt certain you were trustworthy.”

Twist the knife, why didn’t he. Jim picked at his thumb. “Spock, I— Well, I owe you an apology too. Since apparently you didn’t hear the other one.”

Spock tipped his head inquisitively. “For what did you need to apologize?”

“Snapping at you a couple weeks ago. Jumping down your throat just because you were trying to help. I . . .” It was hard to verbalize any of the same things he had before, now that Spock was actually listening. “It just felt bad always taking from you, when I never had anything to give back.”

“Reciprocity.” Spock raised both eyebrows. “The human desire for reciprocity extends even to that?”

Jim blinked a few times. Favors, presents. That damn bone knitter. Yeah, he guessed it was kind of the same thing. Anything that made him feel less. Anything that made him feel like the more vulnerable one. “Yeah. Though, uh, given all this, it’s kind of a moot point now.”

The lift arrived and they both stepped out. “You mean, given the care you took of me while I was incapacitated?”

Jim nodded. “Don’t worry about it though. I didn’t mind. I mean, I owe you—”

A hand grasped his elbow. “Captain—Jim. I believe this is the type of thing friends do for one another. I do not resent it.”

Jim’s breath went out in a huff. “So we're friends again?”

There was a reflective pause. “I . . . would like to be.”

“Me too. Sorry I haven’t exactly acted like that lately.”

“I assumed you wished to restore our relationship to its initial professionalism.”

Jim shook his head emphatically. “Never. I’m just no good at apologizing. It’s hard to admit I fucked up.”

“I do not believe lashing out under the influence of severe trauma is any more of a fuckup than having poor boundaries while mentally damaged.”

Jim stopped just before reaching the door of the communications office. “Did you just say ‘fuckup’?”

“That is what you called it,” Spock said, a note of defensiveness in his voice.

Hands raised, Jim shook his head. “It’s not a criticism. Fact is, I’m just glad to hear you talking again.”

Spock’s eyes softened. “Thanks to you, Jim.” He turned and went in, and Jim stood in the hall smiling. Spock was back. His friend Spock was back. It was going to be okay.

Chapter Text

The senior staff meeting the next morning was a circus. “I need at least a week to study their language,” Uhura insisted. “Even the basic accidental-first-contact package takes some knowledge of the language to translate!”

“You couldn’t talk to them properly anyway,” Jim insisted. “It’s not like you can paint a picture. The colors move, that’s part of the language.”

“I have a solution for that,” she said, lifting her chin. “Mr. Scott?”

Scotty looked sheepish, but he pushed over a padd. “Just a little thing I sketched out for her. But I could knock it out in a coupla days. It’s a light suit, you program in the colors and patterns and the suit changes colors how you want.”

Spock shook his head. “I am afraid even that may not be sufficient. Their eyes are more discriminating even than ours, and they extend to a larger spectrum. This is part of why I found the world so incomprehensible during my indisposition.”

“Special goggles?” Uhura ventured. “Or if I had the time, I could adapt the UT to accept visual inputs. A couple of weeks, if Spock helped me.”

Jim held his hands out in a quelling gesture. “Look, I would love to give you guys a year to study these people. The publications on it would be amazing. But the fact is, they’re pre-warp. The less we deal with them, the happier Command will be. Even if we can’t explain a thing.”

“I promised I would return,” said Spock firmly.

“And we will. We’ll fix your friend and say thank you as best we can, and then we’ll go home. One day.”

“I volunteer for that landing party sir,” Uhura blurted in a rush.

“Of course you’ll be on the team,” Jim soothed. “I sure wished you were down there with us before, that’s for sure. I recommend taking a small video recorder to gather as much data as you possibly can. It’ll give linguists something to talk about for years. Spock, do you think it would be safe for Eona to come?”

Eona was the second Deltan aboard, Ayati’s wife and one of the lead anthropologists. “I believe Deltan telepathy does not involve mental harmonization,” said Spock, “but I can discuss it with her.”

“All right. You, me, Uhura, Eona, and Sh’relin. I owe her some planetary time, with both of the previous planets being a bust.”

Spock looked thoughtful. “Sh’relin will give the impression of being mildly apologetic, or perhaps embarrassed.”

“So long as it’s not a horrible insult,” said Jim. “That reminds me. We should probably forgo uniforms and all wear red. Red means hello.”

“Pure red,” Spock put in. “F F zero-zero-zero-zero. The security shirts are slightly muted and blue-shifted. I believe they confused the natives of the planet.”

“The security officers were saying hi, but in a terrible accent?”

“Essentially.”

Gaila sighed. “I guess I’m programming the clothes fabricator today.”

Spock could tell immediately that the aliens were pleased to see them return, because of the pink blush on all their faces as their bodies swirled with sentences. They were also very curious about Sh’relin and wanted to touch her antennae.

“Should I let them, sir?” she asked nervously.

“Not if you don’t want to,” the captain assured her. “I don’t think they’re planning to yank on them, but you never know.”

“Their minds are not upsetting to my own,” said Eona. “I cannot read them as clearly as other species, but it is evident that they are sincere in their welcome.”

“I am uncertain if they can lie,” said Spock. “The emotionally-driven colors are semi-involuntary. Similar to humans’ facial expressions, but much more obvious.”

Nyota flipped through the small book of colors they had printed. It contained all the colors Spock could remember the meanings of—mostly emotional tones, but with a few nouns and verbs he had picked up during his attempts to converse with the doctor. She held out the page for go, a crimson spot, somewhat attenuated in an attempt to show it should be moving. A video screen would be clearer, but it would have involved demonstrating a technology the aliens did not possess.

The aliens turned an attentive shade of yellow, and Nyota flipped to the green splotch which Spock believed meant other, or perhaps other person.

A broken swirl of confusion. One asked a question, other sick person? Spock believed, and he had Nyota flip to the light yellow meaning yes.

They were led once more within the underground habitat. It was clearly more of a city than a house in its size, though it was full of branching hallways instead of open streets. “Be sure to obtain footage of the artwork,” Spock advised Nyota, and she turned her head so the recorder hidden in her barrette would capture the images.

“Is it artwork, or an essay?” Nyota whispered, forgetting that sound was undetectable here.

“Both, in effect. The colors must be chosen both for harmony and for meaning, though I confess I cannot make out the meaning very well. The message of this one seems to be something about peace and friendship.”

They reached the hospital area, and the doctor greeted them with pleasure. He swirled rapidly through a large number of sentences, which Spock caught only a very little of. “I think,” he said slowly, “that they have brought in an interpreter they believe will speak with us. Or else, perhaps, a tool of some kind? But whatever it is, it has not been successful with the other patient.” No matter what they had brought, Spock suspected it would make no difference. If the other patient’s speech centers were dedicated to receiving sound, and she had no sound organ, nothing would work—not without retraining her brain in as difficult a process as learning language the first time had been.

Only Spock and Nyota were allowed into the tiny room, likely because they had been the ones to communicate. The other patient sat on her bed, gray and looking forlorn, while an individual whose colors were oddly muddled gestured at her.

“Sign language,” said Nyota, delighted. “If we learn this, we’ll be capable of conversing much more easily.”

“Yes,” said Spock. “I believe the interpreter lacks chromatophore control. The sign language is an adaptation for disability, as among humans.”

Getting permission to do another meld, when the previous one had been so disastrous, involved a tedious negotiation. Spock could express little that the doctor did not display first, which greatly limited what he was capable of explaining. The patient, as before, seemed afraid of him.

“Do it on me,” Nyota said abruptly. “If you do it to me and it’s fine, maybe she’ll see it won’t hurt her.”

The idea had merit. Demonstrations did not require the same level of linguistic interpretation. Hopefully the meaning would be evident. Spock positioned them within her line of sight and began.

Nyota’s mind, as always, was labyrinthine in its complexity and impenetrability. It was not that she intended to hide herself so much as that she naturally possessed a private mind, full of layer beyond layer that she opened to different people. Spock had never reached very far within it, and he did not attempt to do so now. He skimmed its sparkling, intricate surface, communicating only his admiration of her ability and gratitude that she was here.

It’s nice to know you still like me, she told him. I always wonder if you’re just forcing yourself to be civil.

When have you ever known me to be genuinely civil to someone I disliked?

Amusement sparkled over her mind. Okay, fair.

He ended the meld. The injured alien watched them with her large, dark eyes—more visible with her color so uniform.

Nyota flipped to a pine green, safe, and the doctor turned pale lemon in agreement. He laid a hand on the patient’s arm to reassure her.

The patient hesitated, but then took Spock’s hand and pulled it toward her face. It was the clearest consent she could have given. He arranged his fingers correctly and edged carefully into her mind, mindful to keep their minds from harmonizing.

It was indeed highly disordered, but not overwhelming the way his had been. She was receiving only visual data, having no sound organ, and that visual data was stripped of its linguistic meaning. She was frightened and terribly lonely.

Spock called to mind the organization of her mind which had been so unpleasantly imposed on him and began rearranging her inputs accordingly. It was more difficult than it had been to simply mirror Jim’s mental structure, but he could tell he had succeeded when her mind seemed to settle and light up once again.

A series of her thoughts poured into his mind, wordless as they had to be.

[meaning well? not intending to hurt?]

[never meaning hurt], Spock replied. [accident.]

An image of himself yesterday, in the other hospital room. [you harmed also?]

[yes. have recovered.]

[gratitude for better state now]

[warning: time required for full recovery. myself still recovering]

[unconcern. improvement already apparent. your mind very different. communicate in a different way?]

[yes. cannot demonstrate because your mind not suitable.]

[amusement. please do not demonstrate. well understand that my mind not suitable.]

There was a swirl of other thoughts—her mind mulling over her situation, not particularly intending to communicate with him. But it gave him some level of insight on her people. She had several mates she was eager to rejoin. They would be very happy to see her colorful again. The storm would have passed off and it would be safe once more to gather food outdoors, with the predators no longer roaming. She hoped a certain nut would be ripe.

He left the meld carefully. When he opened his eyes, she was brilliantly colored once more, flashing sentences too quickly to follow. Spock withdrew from the room to reduce the crowding within.

“That easy?” asked Jim.

“It was fairly difficult,” Spock objected. “But she is well now. I believe I would be able to meld with one of her kind again, now that I understand their mental structure.”

“Let’s not,” said Jim.

Spock’s mouth twitched. “It will not be necessary. I have understood from her mind that the message she originally wished to communicate was that it was dangerous to stand outside and we should seek shelter with them. The predators hunt by sight, and we were standing in full view in bright colors. A storm was approaching, which I believe is what confused my tricorder, and this is the weather in which the predator prefers to hunt. Clearly we should have simply followed them.”

“I hope you apologized to her. What’s her name?”

Spock frowned slightly. “A gentle curve of rose shading to violet, I believe.”

Jim chuckled. “Never mind.”

The landing party was reluctant to hurry home, and the aliens were just as reluctant to let them go, so Jim conceded to lunch as well. It took place around a long table in a large room—the kind of dining hall that would have been uproariously loud in a group of humans. Instead, there was only the sound of the silverware and the humans’ voices. Every time Jim spoke, he felt like he was out of turn somehow.

The food was much better than what they’d had in the hospital: fruits, nuts, some kind of stuffed bird the size of Jim’s fist. He passed on those, but there was a nutty flatbread he liked.

Spock was on Jim’s left, with Sh’relin beyond, and Uhura on Jim’s right, with Eona to her own right. Jim realized before the drinks were even poured that this had been a strategic mistake. Spock and Uhura kept talking across him. “Eona is dying to know their system of government but I can’t construct so much as a guess for the word ‘leader’ out of what we’ve got,” said Uhura, leaning half across Jim so that her camera barrette smacked him in the nose. That would be some interesting footage.

Spock leaned only a little, pressing his shoulder into Jim’s. “I have not the faintest idea, but everything I have gathered suggests they do not possess leaders. It appears a remarkably egalitarian society. The spokesperson, each time we have talked with them, has been someone different.”

“I can’t tell them apart,” complained Sh’relin. “There’s no color cues when their color is always changing.”

Spock sat upright again, leaving Jim’s shoulder cold. “On beginning a conversation, they tend to display their name here, where your right ear would be.”

Jim smiled weakly at the alien across from him. If Spock was right, their name was “many-pointed starburst in medium green surrounded by pale green points,” which was going to be hard to remember. The alien imitated his smile, not by smiling with their mouth, but by displaying a smile-shaped curve on their chin. “Close enough,” said Jim.

The interpreter was sitting across from Uhura, attempting to teach their sign language. Uhura mimicked them flawlessly. It looked like the sign language was a kind of imitation of the color language, given the way the interpreter gestured to their arms and chest with fingers held in various patterns.

The alien across from Spock had something like a small seismograph, with which he recorded the vibrations from the humans’ voices. A needle drew a jagged line, and the alien looked at it in fascination.

“They are aware of how we communicate, it seems,” said Spock. “Clearly, without hearing, a device to measure sound must have been an important invention.”

“You would think sound would be vital protection against predators,” said Jim.

“The predators cannot hear either,” said Spock. “I believe the entire mechanism did not evolve on this planet. Sound does not carry well in this atmosphere. Additionally, just because something is useful does not mean it will necessarily evolve. Your species, for instance, lacks the telepathic sense, even though its uses are manifold.”

Jim smiled. “It’s nice to see your vocabulary coming back.”

Spock raised a teasing eyebrow. “That is a non sequitur.”

“Do it again.”

“I remain agnostic as to the manifestation you are endeavoring to induce me to replicate,” said Spock, his eyes twinkling.

Without thinking about it, Jim affectionately squeezed Spock’s knee under the table. “I missed you.”

Spock looked thoughtful, as if trying to decide whether to point out that Jim could not have missed him when they had not been separated, or to say something heartfelt for once. In the end he only tipped his head in a Vulcan shrug.

Chapter Text

“Well, another planet that ain’t it,” Jim commented as they broke orbit. “Sorry we couldn’t stay longer.”

“That’s okay,” said Uhura. “I got two hours of footage of forty-seven different individuals. Unlike an audio language, we can and will distinguish them all in the recording. It’s possible we’ll be able to figure out a lot more about their society once we decode it.”

Jim breathed a happy sigh and settled himself deeper into the center seat. Finally a mission that hadn’t been a screaming disaster, that he could leave with a good taste in his mouth. Command wouldn’t be happy about their premature contact, but given the storm particles that masked lifesigns and the aliens’ tendency to build underground, they could hardly blame him for it. Meanwhile, the aliens were friendly, nobody had died, and Spock had his astounding mind back. All in all, a success.

Spock got up and crawled under his console to mess with it. Jim smiled to himself. He doubted a day’s absence would have messed up the calibration that much, but Spock liked to settle back in with some good tinkering.

There was a tiny spark and then Spock’s voice came distinctly from under the console, saying, “Shit.”

Jim blinked. “Mr. Spock?”

“Your pardon, sir. That was unintentional.”

“Did you get hurt? I can get somebody up here to look at it.” His hand hovered over his console. Whatever injury was bad enough to make Spock cuss, it was surely pretty bad.

But Spock said only, “A first-degree burn, Captain. It is trivial and does not require medical attention.”

Still, Jim couldn’t help but worry. When Spock crawled out from under his console, Jim came over and snatched his hand to look at it. The tip of his forefinger was very faintly green. “As I told you, Captain,” said Spock, gently withdrawing his hand, “I am fine.”

Uhura’s eyes were wide, watching all of this. Jim would have to ask her later if she’d ever heard Spock cuss before. Jim certainly hadn’t.

Jim sat in his office, trying to look as nonthreatening as possible for the shy human science officer in front of him. It was weird to think anybody could be intimidated by him, when last spring he’d been a cadet like her.

Spring, he thought. How long would they still keep time by Earth’s calendar? Stardates were one thing, but even Starfleet officers usually kept track of what season it was back home, what holidays were happening. The leaves would be changing now, if there had been leaves, if there had been any axis to tilt to make them change.

He blinked sharply to get his attention back. Ensign Ramirez seemed to have finally come around to her point. “Regulation 1067 says any officer who is capable of reproduction must be on the applicable birth control, as prescribed by the medical staff.”

“Sure,” said Jim. 

“But the captain can waive that if they deem it reasonable in the situation.”

“Yeah, but they usually don’t. A starship is no place for babies. Way out here, far from ho— anywhere, knowing a Klingon ship could decloak in front of us at any time.”

“You were born on a starship,” she pointed out.

“No, I was born on an evacuation shuttle because, as I said, space isn’t exactly safe. Part of why they wrote that reg.” It was a bit of a sore point.

Ramirez quailed a little, and Jim fixed his face. He wasn’t trying to scare her. It wasn’t her fault his personal history was common knowledge to strangers. “So you’re asking me for permission to try for a baby? Is that it?”

“Yeah,” she said in her quiet voice. “Dave and I—Ensign Harrison I mean—we’ve been together since we started at the Academy. Never meant to have kids, I mean nobody joins Starfleet to have a cozy home life. But with Earth gone, it just feels like . . . there are so few of us. We have no family except each other, either of us. It would mean a lot to start growing one. And it’s not like we can take leave back home for a couple years to try.”

It did make sense, Jim had to admit. Of course people were going to want babies all of a sudden. “We don’t have anywhere to raise one,” he pointed out. “We haven’t found a new home. Doesn’t it make sense to find a place first, and then start filling it up?”

“At this point,” said Ramirez, “the Enterprise is the closest thing either of us has to home. Even if we find a planet, it won’t feel like home like the ship does. She’s an Earth ship. I can’t help but feel it’s where our family should start.”

“It’s not safe,” Jim protested, but he knew he was losing this one. Because Joanna was onboard already, and Benji. Couldn’t very well say there were no kids allowed when two kids obviously were.

“Nowhere is safe, Captain,” she said, her voice firmer now. “Earth was the safe place to raise a family. A new colony isn’t that safe till it’s well established. Sometimes you have to accept that this is as good as it gets.”

Jim leaned back in his chair and sighed. “Well,” he said, “it’s not a deep-space mission. We’re due back on Vulcan in six months. So if it did get complicated we could drop you off.”

She nodded eagerly. “And my health is excellent, Dr. McCoy says my odds of complications are very low.”

Jim straightened. “Dr. McCoy said that, did he?” Typical Bones, trying to be a country doctor onboard a starship, encouraging people to have babies. They’d have to have a talk.

“I asked.”

He pulled a padd out of his desk, called up the form in question. He was going to put Ensigns Ramirez and Harrison in the name blank, but then he hesitated. In for a penny, in for a pound.

Shipwide, he wrote, and submitted it into the log. He turned it around to show her. “I’ll announce it tomorrow.”

“Oh— thank you, Captain, this means so much. Maybe we’ll name it after you!”

“Just as soon you didn’t,” said Jim. “Good luck.”

“Well, what was I gonna do, Jim?” Bones demanded, as he poured out the drinks for their evening meeting slash bitching session. “After all of that on that planet, after talking to Reba here, it doesn’t feel great sticking people with contraceptive hypos they don’t want!”

“The people on this ship are Starfleet officers,” Jim reminded him. “They consented to the rules when they came aboard, and they can get out of them by leaving the service.”

“Sure, in theory. In practice, they’ve got nowhere to go and you know it.”

“That was her argument. Did you feed that to her?”

“No! I checked over her health and told her about the captain’s privilege to waive the reg. If she talked your head around, that’s on you.”

“I don’t want to be responsible for a baby,” Jim said pitifully. “Even if it’s not my baby. It’s a hell of a weight to put on a person, deciding whether or not somebody else is allowed to have a kid.”

“You put that weight down,” Bones pointed out. “You gave that decision back to the crew. And for what it’s worth, I think you did the right thing.”

“I sure hope so,” said Jim. “I’m picturing the corridors echoing with crying babies by this time next year.”

“If we haven’t staked out a colony by this time next year, I’ll hang up my medical license and go tend sheep on Deneva. I’ve been in space long enough already.”

“Ah, but you’d miss me.”

“I’d finally sleep through the night without waking up in a cold sweat worrying what you’ll get up to next,” said Bones. “I’m getting excited just thinking about it.”

In the microscope’s viewer, the samples from 61 Cygni grew larger as Spock adjusted the dial. Sh’relin had managed to gather quite a few, both plant life from the surface and some subtle swabs from various surfaces underground. They had nothing of the native sapients, but as all life on a given planet was related, there was much to discover about the common cell structure and enzymatic profile of the biosphere.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed, as he expanded the view of a bryophyte’s cell wall.

Sh’relin, on the other side of the lab bench, made a small noise of surprise. “I did not know you practiced Earth religions.”

Spock looked up, his eyes readjusting to a more distant focus. “I do not.”

“You said the name of an Earth philosopher, in an exclamatory way. This is something I have observed that humans do.”

Spock replayed the last several seconds of his memory. Indeed he had, though it had not been done with any forethought. It was somewhat concerning.

He lowered his face once more to the eyepiece. “I appear to be picking up bad habits from the human members of the crew.”

The topic worried him somewhat for the rest of the morning. This was his fifth noted usage of profanity since returning from 61 Cygni, and not one of them had been intentional. Research on Tourette’s Syndrome suggested it was unlikely it would onset in such a sudden manner. After his shift, he decided he would do further research on the psychological and physiological roots of profanity in the human mind in the hopes of understanding what drove such a behavior, and whether it was similarly involuntary among humans.

With that decided, he put the topic from his mind and went to lunch. In the mess, as usual, he sat with Jim, choosing to tolerate the presence of Dr. McCoy, who was already there.

“How are the circuits, Mr. Spock?” asked McCoy. “Did they reboot you properly, or are you still on a loading screen?”

“Bones,” Jim hissed, demonstrating unnecessary defensiveness. Spock was not offended by such utterances. If McCoy intended to offend him, his ignorance of Spock’s weaknesses was undermining his effort. But Spock was beginning to suspect that the entire thing was an elaborate act, for reasons he had not yet determined. True antipathy would have manifested differently.

Spock set his tray down. “I see that you are back on your bullshit, Doctor,” he said evenly, and took a seat.

McCoy’s mouth gaped, giving him the appearance of a Terran fish. Jim jolted forward in his seat. “Okay, that’s it, Spock, I’m taking you back to M’Benga. You’re starting to freak me out.”

“You refer to the profanity,” Spock said, somewhat embarrassed.

“Yes, I damn well am.”

“Is it not hypocritical for you to criticize?”

“I’m not criticizing,” said Jim. “I’m worried. You get your speech centers scrambled and just as you put them back, you’re using words you never did before? Back me up, Bones.”

McCoy shrugged. “I think it’s an improvement. Boy could stand to loosen up.”

“I assure you, that has never been my intent.”

“Course not,” said the doctor sourly.

Jim’s face only became more concerned. “You’re not doing it on purpose?”

“No. I would not describe it as compulsive, simply . . . without deliberation. As if these words were commonly part of my idiolect, although they never have been before.”

“You need another brain scan.”

“I assure you, the word ‘fuck’ will not appear on a brain scan.”

McCoy snickered and then concealed it in a counterfeit coughing spasm. When it had passed, he said, “Jim, people expand their vocabulary all the time. I can’t imagine a way it could be flagging something serious. He’s probably picking it up from you.”

Now that inspired a hypothesis. Spock asked, “Jim, have any of the ejaculations I have used been foreign to your normal usage?”

Both the other men choked. “Please don’t call them ejaculations, Spock,” Jim pleaded, when he got his breath. “Literally anything else.”

“Interjections,” Spock allowed.

“Well, what have you said so far? I’ve only heard three.”

“Bullshit, Jesus Christ, batshit, fuckup, ass, and shit used independently. Not counting fuck just now; that was deliberate.”

Jim smothered a laugh. “Nope, those are all things I say. Why do you ask?”

“I speculate that perhaps, when attempting to mirror the structure of your speech centers, I may have also adopted some of your vocabulary. If so, a focused effort to avoid them should make the problem disappear in time.”

“You don’t have to try to stop, if it’s not a problem,” said Jim.

“I would prefer to. Profanity as used by me is surprising to my associates and causes undue jocularity. For instance, when I said ‘fuck’—”

McCoy laughed heartily. Jim joined in.

Spock raised an eyebrow. “You are illustrating my point.”

Chapter Text

Spock was standing in the middle of a dusty road. On either side, thick green rows of crops blocked out the horizon. A bird chirped repetitively, and he knew without having to think about it that it was a chickadee. There was a steady wind blowing, smelling like rain. The storm would be here by evening.

He was dreaming. It was not uncommon for him to dream from time to time, but it was not usually this vivid—or this separate from his own experiences. Normally, his dreams contained things he had seen. Vulcans were not normally imaginative.

His distraction shifted the dream, and now his feet were struggling to keep their balance on shaking pavement. The air was hot and humid; an insect rattled loudly with a mechanical drone. Ahead of him was a crowd of schoolchildren. Someone screamed. The whole dream rippled with emotion: fear, panic, grief, loss, love, isolation, despair.

Spock sat bolt upright, the imagery of the dream dissolving. His heart was fluttering as if he had been running for his life, and his breath was irregular. He had never woken up from a dream in such a disturbed state in his life. 

This was not his dream. Furthermore, he knew whose dream it was.

Without pausing to put on his slippers, he passed through the restroom and into Jim’s cabin. The light of a digital clock softened the darkness enough for him to see Jim lying on his stomach, arms clutching his pillow. Spock put a hand gently on his shoulder. “Jim.”

Jim rolled over, came sleepily upright. “Spock. Wha’s going on?” His words were distorted by a yawn.

“I had a dream,” Spock began.

Jim visibly relaxed. “Oh. Okay. You wanna tell me about it, or . . . I could shove over and you could sleep here, if you wanted.”

“You were not dreaming?”

Jim rumpled his hair with his hand. Where usually it was artfully mussed, now it stuck up and down entirely at random, a look which was more charming than it ought to have been. “I guess I was. I think I was reporting to Pike? But he was one of the rainbow aliens. And I had forgotten my padd and couldn’t remember what I was supposed to be reporting about.”

Spock was puzzled. He had assumed Jim had been having a nightmare so severe he had managed somehow to project it. This had never happened before, but he did not have access to Jim’s psi testing results. It was not impossible that it might happen. Otherwise, why would Spock have dreamed a memory that could belong to no one but Jim?

Jim took his hand in his own warm, soft ones. “Spock, you’re shaking.”

“Some adrenaline release is normal during intense dreams.”

Jim moved over in bed and lifted the side of the blanket. “Come on. You don’t have to stay the night. Just lie down and warm up. Your hands are cold.”

In his current state, the offer was too appealing to resist, and he slipped underneath the covers. The bed was warmed by Jim’s body heat and he could feel the adrenaline starting to leave his system.

“You wanna talk about it?” Jim asked. He lay on his side, covers bunched under his chin. Their noses were centimeters apart across the pillow.

Spock did, but he did not believe it would be helpful to Jim to mention a traumatic moment from his own life. “No.”

“I used to do this with Sam, when I was a kid,” Jim confided. “I had lots of nightmares. I’d come into his room and beg him to let me sleep with him. He’d always say no, but in the end he always gave in.”

“Not your mother?” Spock asked.

“She wouldn’t have given in.” Jim’s tone did not invite further comment. “What about you? Did you ever get nightmares?”

“My dreams are normally only the replaying of memories I encountered during the day,” said Spock.

“Lucky.”

“I did not say they were never upsetting,” said Spock. “But I was very young when I stopped waking my parents for them. I felt a Vulcan should be able to cope on his own.” During the period in his life when the other children used to taunt him, his dreams had been very vivid. He had lain in bed awake for hours, no more willing to tell his mother of the dream than he had been to tell her of the reality. It was a secret his father had kept for him, and they both knew why. Amanda had never wanted to cause her son grief, simply by being his mother. And he would never have her know what the other children said about her.

“In that case, I’m honored you came to me,” said Jim softly. “I know you could handle it on your own. But I’d rather you didn’t have to.”

Spock’s breath caught in his throat. A statement so profound, said so simply. “Then you understand why the care I gave you, when you were in my parents’ house, was not a favor I did for you. It was a compliment to me that you allowed it.”

Jim blinked twice. In the low light, his eyes were not blue, only dark shadows with a faint shine. “I couldn’t have coped alone,” he confessed. “That was why I felt so bad about it. I didn’t want to need you. Or anybody. I’ve never needed anybody before.”

“You never had anyone, in your times of need. That is not entirely the same thing.”

Jim was quiet, his breath a soft huff that brushed against Spock’s face. “I’m scared to get used to it. To start needing you.”

“There is no need for concern, as I will still be here regardless. You will not have to worry whether you will still be able to manage without me. The occasion to do so will not arise.” Spock felt his heart beat faster at this confession. It was too much. It would be unwanted.

But Jim only reached across and squeezed Spock’s wrist. “Because we’re friends?”

That, and much more besides. “Yes.” 

“I don’t deserve such good friends.”

There was nothing in the universe Jim did not deserve. “My mother says that if one is willing to be a friend, one deserves to have a friend.”

“Your mom is a smart woman.” Jim yawned. “If you ever need anything—anything at all—you know I’m good for it.”

“Yes, Jim,” said Spock. “I do know.”

When Jim woke up, Spock was gone. Had been for some time, it seemed, because Jim had rolled into the center of the bed sometime during the night.

But that was okay. Spock had come to him. Spock had known that he could. They’d grown past favors at some point, Jim wasn’t even sure when. They were friends. There was no obligation or ulterior motivation, it seemed. For the first time in a long time, maybe ever, Jim genuinely believed he wasn’t going to have to pay for anything. Spock wouldn’t hold it over him. Spock wouldn’t say he had been too much.

The part of his mind whose job it was to protect him from things like that blared its alarms as usual. Nothing is free, you’re on your own, if anyone finds out you’re not strong all the time they’ll make you pay for it. Jim ruthlessly silenced it. You were right before, but not this time. Not about Spock.

Nyota came over to Spock's quarters several nights a week to play music. With culture nights repeating monthly, they were always in the process of learning something. Her taste in music, like her taste in languages, was impressively broad. 

Most enjoyable, however, was the time of the evening when Spock hung up his harp, got her a cup of tea, and they talked. Nyota knew almost everything that happened on the ship, which was crucial for remaining up-to-date on possible morale concerns. (“You just like gossip, you don't have to pretend,” Nyota had replied to this explanation.)

They were at this point one evening, and Nyota was enthusing about her progress on the 61 Cygni color language. “It took me a while, but I figured out how they do compound or complex sentences. The transition color bleeds down the left arm, and while that color remains, the next clause blooms into place. We’ve spotted 19 examples of it.”

“Ingenious,” said Spock. “Is it only one transition color?”

“No, and that’s the amazing thing. Shades of black and gray suggest some kind of contrasting meaning, yellow for additional meaning, and we’ve seen several others we haven’t interpreted yet.”

“So the same color that means no in an individual context means but when placed in the zone for conjunctions?”

“Everything they do is like that!” she said eagerly. “We worked out that a shade of orange means use or maybe pick up, but the same shade of orange in a noun space signifies a tool of some kind, depending on the shape. Green tones are for calm or passive words, but up the side of the torso, where certain kinds of adverbs go, they signify the end of an utterance, like a paragraph break.”

“So the other knows to begin talking?”

“Oh, they talk simultaneously,” said Nyota, rolling her eyes. “This is going to be murder to ever try to speak in. Guess it’s just as well they’re far from warp, it’ll take us a century to really get it down.”

“Even before we are able to contact them again, this knowledge will be useful,” said Spock. “Adapting the universal translator to visual speech will open it up to at least twelve existing languages it cannot currently handle.”

“That’s more Gaila’s line,” she answered. “And her team, of course. Um.” She hesitated, which was notable in her, a person who rarely opened her mouth until she had planned out everything she meant to say. All at once she blurted, “Is it weird if I ask you for relationship advice?”

“Extremely,” he replied. “I am far from an expert on the topic. But it will not make me uncomfortable.”

She laughed. “It's Gaila. I'm starting to really like her. And we've—that is, she definitely likes me too. But she's made it clear to me she doesn't do exclusive relationships, and I'm not sure I can handle that.”

Spock considered that. “I am uncertain. Vulcans are not typically prone to jealousy—”

“Uh, run that by me again, it sounded like you said Vulcans aren't jealous. Don't you remember how incredibly huffy you got when I came back from that conference going on and on about Dr. M’Benga? You were convinced I liked him better than you.”

“It was a reasonable concern,” Spock said stiffly. “His field is also in the xenosciences, and you share a common cultural background.”

Nyota snorted. “Neither of us got into the xenosciences because we liked sticking with the familiar.”

“I understand that now,” said Spock. “At the time, I was uncertain where I stood with you, which caused me to speculate about your other options. Bonded couples, of course, are not jealous. They are certain of one another’s exclusive affection through the bond.”

“Well, I haven't got that,” she said, putting her stockinged feet on the chair opposite hers. “She says I'm the most important person to her emotionally, but that she can't stand the idea of her sexuality being owned by anybody but herself. And that's how she sees monogamy.”

Spock steepled his fingers reflectively. “I suppose the only questions you must answer are, do you fear her being intimate with other people per se, or because of what you believe that would say about your priority in her life? And, if the latter, what would make it possible for you to feel confident in her commitment to you besides sexual exclusivity?”

“You really have a way of cutting through the bullshit,” said Nyota affectionately. “I'm gonna think about it. Because I think it's the second thing, but I don't know how to answer your second question. Funny that I'm a xenolinguist and I'm thrown by a cultural difference like that.”

“I believe it was you who told me that you do not want to be a xenolinguist in your relationships. You should not compromise anything that is truly important to you.”

She smiled. “You're a great friend, Spock.”

He inclined his head in thanks.

Chapter Text

Spock’s midnight visit to Jim’s room had opened the floodgates. If it was okay to go barging in at all hours, Jim was going to do it too. Instead of only popping in before midnight, when he was relatively sure Spock would be awake, he came in at any time. Sometimes Spock was just meditating, and Jim would sprawl on his bed and watch him until he got sleepy again. Sometimes Spock was asleep, and Jim would slip under the covers. Spock would wake up enough to move over, and that would be all. In the morning, Jim would find Spock had already left for his shift. It was like, once the lights were on, it hadn’t happened at all.

And Spock never held it over his head, not once. He did not call Jim a whiny baby, like Sam sometimes used to. He didn’t complain, like Bones always had if Jim’s restlessness woke him up. He simply ensured Jim was comfortable and went right back to sleep, as if nothing was unusual about this at all.

Secretly, though, Jim couldn’t help but keep score. He couldn’t do it two nights in a row, or more than twice a week. He couldn't do it unless he absolutely couldn't sleep. Friends sleep over sometimes. If he slept over all the time, Spock would start to wonder if he really needed it or was taking advantage. 

Jim wondered that himself. He was doing so much better now, and even at Spock's house he'd been able to entertain himself till morning, at least. He didn't wake up Spock then. So he couldn't possibly need it now.

But he slept better than he had since the Academy—maybe longer. Bones commented that he had stopped looking like a “hollow-eyed ghoul.” He had an easier time paying attention in boring staff meetings and around the seventh hour of alpha shift, when the viewscreen started to shimmer in his eyes.

So what did it matter if Jim secretly wanted to roll a little closer, slip a leg between Spock's, and kiss him? He wasn't going to do it. So it was fine. 

Probably.

Spock did not dream about Earth's last minutes again. But he did dream. He dreamed about fog on the California coast, somewhere that wasn't the Bay. He dreamed about picking dandelions and blowing off the seeds so they made a floating cloud he could run through. He dreamed about the Big Dipper, following the front of the cup to find Polaris. He dreamed about wind in his hair, speeding in an antique car. Swingsets, sunsets, white Christmases.

Spock suspected the dreams came from the same place the profanity had. He had not been fully in control during the meld with Jim; he had not remembered where to look for what he needed. So he had simply searched for—everything. And it had felt easy, inside Jim's mind. A shelter from the chaos of his own. Warm. Dynamic. 

He had not ceased craving to return there since.

“I have a confession to make,” he told Jim one evening after finishing the day’s reports. Jim had not even asked before setting up the chessboard.

“You? Did you forget to dot an i somewhere?”

Spock cast his eyes down into his lap. “When we melded,” he said. “On 61 Cygni, at the hospital.”

Jim looked slightly distant, remembering. “Sure.”

“It seems I did not only acquire some of your vocabulary. I . . . I think I have been dreaming some of your memories.”

Spock had assumed that Jim would brush the incident off as he had with the profanity. Instead he paled. “You—that night you came into my room—”

“I had thought you were projecting it from your own mind, so I came in to wake you.”

“Which one was it?”

Spock tipped his head in confusion. “Which of what?”

“My nightmares.”

Of course. Jim had many more than that one, didn’t he? Far too many. “I dreamed of the time you beamed down to rescue Joanna,” he said carefully.

“Spock, I’m so sorry.” Jim looked devastated now, and Spock finally understood. He had been afraid of his memories being frightening.

“It is of no consequence,” said Spock. “I was able to wake myself, and none of the subsequent dreams have been negative in nature. I only thought it was incumbent on me to tell you.”

Jim leaned his elbow on his desk and his head in his hand, ruffling the hair. “You’re sure? Because there’s a lot of bad shit in there. I don’t—I’ve shared enough with you at this point that I don’t mind you knowing. But I never wanted you to see it. To feel what it was like.”

Spock did not know how to reassure him. He could say that it was different to be exposed to an emotion than to have it arise from within; that he had the mental discipline to exit any dream he wanted; that in any event he was in control of his emotions. But these things seemed dismissive.

“Last night I learned that one can play with a maple samara,” he said instead. “You called them helicopters.”

Jim’s mouth twisted a little. “Yeah. Everybody calls them that.”

“The mourning dove sounds slightly different on cloudy mornings. But the sound of robins at dusk is so distinctive one could tell time by it.”

“They’re telling each other to go to bed,” said Jim, his voice tight.

“Perhaps I should not tell you this. I only wished to illustrate that the experience has been largely positive.”

“No, you should.” Jim’s eyes were bright. “I want you to.”

Spock told him the contents of each of the dreams. It was true, they had all been about Earth, every one. Jammed into the same corner of his mind, behind Earth’s destruction. When Jim tried to think of them, he thought of that day first, and he never wanted to go past it.

So Spock told him of stolen, sour apples; the way light shifts between the leaves of an elm tree; cold creek water and hard stones beneath his feet; snow sifting down from the sky, each flake seeming to fall at its own unique rate. When he finished, Jim had his hands over his face to conceal that he was crying, though Spock could smell the salt of his tears.

“I am sorry,” said Spock, reaching out halfway across the desk before hesitating and setting his hand down, within Jim’s reach. “I have distressed you.”

“It’s probably good for me,” said Jim, muffled. “I try not to think about that stuff too much because, well. But somebody needs to remember it. If we all hide from it, then it’ll be like it never was.” He collected himself, rubbing his eyes with the ends of his sleeves, blowing out a breath. “I’m sorry. I never used to be like this.”

“You do not owe me an apology.”

Jim reached out, rested his hand on top of Spock’s. “Well, thank you, then. Thanks for helping me remember. You’re sure you’re okay with it?” He stroked Spock’s hand lightly with his thumbs before letting it go.

Spock swallowed. “I am fine, Jim. The fault is mine. It was a very undisciplined meld. You are lucky I did not do you any damage.”

“It was my idea,” said Jim. “I was willing to take my chances. Whereas I’m not sure you knew what was happening at all.”

“Not until I was already within your mind. Which . . . should not have happened. It normally takes effort to initiate a meld. The mind does not naturally accept a foreign presence. But yours opened for me immediately.”

“Uh-oh,” said Jim, turning to levity for protection as usual. “Are you saying my mouth’s hanging open and my brain’s gonna fall out? My grandma used to say that.”

“No,” said Spock. “You may remember all I said about harmonization. It takes time and often a degree of effort. To meld without doing so, as I did when I cured Curve-of-Rose-Shading-to-Violet, is even more difficult—like shouting across a wide gap. But with your mind, no harmonization was necessary. It was like moving from one area to another within my own mind.”

“Is that a thing that happens a lot? Minds on the same wavelength?”

“I have never experienced it,” said Spock. 

“Well, you’re welcome to try again if you ever want to,” said Jim, finally moving his first pawn. “See if it works the same way when you’re not half out of your mind. For science.”

“Perhaps,” said Spock. He was having a number of thoughts at once—it would perhaps be an overstatement to call them epiphanies. Things he had not paid close attention to before.

Vulcans did not approach their telepathy like a science as often as perhaps they should. It was cloaked with a certain amount of mysticism. Spock felt an instinctive disapproval of the idea of melding with Jim for science.

Likewise, he had not approached that strange meld with Jim under the aspect of science until this conversation. It was too emotionally weighted; he was still struggling to silence those emotions. He had not thought of harmonization, he had only thought that it was so easy. Effortless. Natural. Like finding a room in his house that had not previously been there. Or like remembering something he had forgotten.

But Jim had said minds on the same wavelength, and it had reminded him of old stories where one mind was entirely united between two individuals. He had assumed it was an intense form of meld or bond, something no longer practiced by Vulcans. But what if instead it was something like this—minds so similar they seemed cut from the same material?

There was no logic to it though. A harmony like this, if possible at all, should only be possible between close relatives. He and Jim were not even the same species. And his mind did not display the tidy order of a Vulcan mind—it was like his mother’s garden, chaotic, vibrant with color, somehow cohering into a balanced whole despite the dissimilarity of its parts.

It was only that it felt like home.

“You’re quiet,” said Jim. “And I know it’s not because you’re focusing on the game; I’ll have you to mate in four.”

“My apologies.” Spock tipped over his king. “In any event the hour is somewhat late. I will return to my cabin and begin my meditation.”

Jim did not come to him that night. Which was good, because it meant he was sleeping well. Any disappointment Spock felt was illogical.

“Gaila,” said Jim into a faceful of red hair, “get out of my lap. I’m the captain now, you’re supposed to show some respect.”

She cuddled into his neck a little closer. “This is how Orions show respect.”

“No, it damn well isn’t, you can’t play these tricks on me.” He gave her a little shove and she reluctantly got up to sit in the chair on the other side of his desk.

“I feel like I’m shouting at you across a vast, empty space,” she said forlornly.

“Is this official, or personal?” Jim asked.

“Personal.”

“All right,” he said, “we can sit on the couch, if it makes you happy. Each of us with their butt on the couch.”

She accepted the compromise, though she pulled her feet out of her boots and put them in his lap. Jim rubbed her ankles absently. Orions were touchy, it didn’t necessarily mean anything. He’d touched her a lot more places than that, which also hadn’t meant much.

“It’s Nyota,” said Gaila tragically. “I made a terrible mistake, making a move on her.”

“What, why?”

“I thought we could have some fun together, because she’s hot. Now I’m pretty sure I’m in love with her and I don’t know what to do.”

“She doesn’t love you back?”

“I think she does,” Gaila lamented. “So she asked to be exclusive.”

“Ohhh,” said Jim. “I get it now.”

“I can’t, Jim. I just can’t. I don’t need to be actually having sex with people all the time, you know that. But I can’t be told I’m not allowed to. That part of me has to be one hundred percent mine and one hundred percent free. It’s non-negotiable.”

“What did she say to that?”

“She got big sad eyes and said she’d have to think about it.”

“Shit.”

“I know.” Gaila leaned her head back against the arm of the couch and stared up at the ceiling. “This is the first time I ever really felt like settling down and committing. She’s something special, Jim.”

“She really is,” said Jim. “And I’m not just saying that because I never had a snowball’s chance in hell with her.”

Gaila tilted her head. “Humans say the funniest things. Hell’s hot, right? It would melt?”

“Instantly.”

“Maybe that’s her and me, too.”

“If she likes you, and you like her, I have to think your chances are better than that.”

“Oh, she likes me,” said Gaila with a wicked smile. “She likes the things I can do with my tongue.”

“You really didn’t need to tell me that.”

“Look, if you won’t have sex with me anymore, the least I can do is brag about the sex I am getting. Who are you sleeping with now, that’s keeping you too busy for me?”

“Nobody,” said Jim, staring fixedly at her green ankles.

“Nobody? Jim, I know you.”

“A guy can change.”

“Yeah. A guy can be changed, if bad enough stuff happens to him. Doesn’t mean it’s for the better.”

“I’m doing better, Gaila, I swear. Lots better. I gained three kilos. Bones says my blood pressure is finally down.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “Then you’re definitely having sex. I know you.”

“I’m not. Now back to you and my comms officer. You like her. She likes you. She wants to be exclusive, you don’t.”

“It’s unsolvable.”

“But she didn’t say no. Trust me, that woman knows how to say no if she wants to. She’s probably brainstorming a solution that will knock your socks off.”

She looked down at her fuzzy yellow ankle socks. “Is that good or bad?”

“Usually good.”

“Well, she’s not the only genius around. You and I are also pretty smart.”

“I think the duo that hacked the Academy computers are more than pretty smart,” Jim interrupted.

“Right? So what would you do?”

Jim thought about it. “Humans are usually sexually monogamous because it’s a clear way of demarcating one thing we don’t do with anybody but our partner, making them the person we’re most intimate with.”

“I definitely want to be the most intimate with her. I’ve told her stuff I don’t tell people.”

Jim flickered a smile at that. They were alike that way—they measured intimacy not in what they did, but what they revealed. It was the most vulnerable thing in the world to admit to some of things they’d been through, much more than getting naked could ever be. “What else? Is there anything else you only want to do with her?”

Gaila thought about it. “You know how I never spend the night,” she said after a minute.

“By which you mean you never let me spend the night.”

“I just can’t fall asleep unless I trust who I’m with absolutely. But the other night, I fell asleep in her bed.”

“Does she know you don’t do that with other people?”

“In a general sense, sure. But maybe I should tell her that. That I won’t sleep with anybody but her. I already want to move in with her. If she knows I’ll be in bed with her every night, no matter what happens, maybe she’d think that was as good as being monogamous.”

“Can’t hurt to ask her.”

“I will,” she said decidedly. “Thanks, Jim, you’re the best.” She bounced to her feet, gave him a wet kiss on the neck, and headed out.

Jim sat there thinking that he, too, had a person he told all his secrets to and could fall asleep next to at night. They’d never so much as kissed, and yet Jim hadn’t had a relationship more intimate than that in his life.

Chapter Text

Their next stop was Starbase 6, for a few crew transfers and a day of leave. Spock made a schedule ensuring everyone would have one duty shift, one sleep shift, and one leave shift before they left the vicinity.

Except, of course, the captain and first officer. They had a great deal to do while at the station, so the conn would be left in the capable hands of Mr. Scott, and Mr. Sulu, and Lieutenant Commander Prrk.

Jim bumped shoulders with him as they left the starbase transport pad and made their way into the station proper. Even if it was unintentional, Spock was still warmed by it. It still meant that Jim’s preferred formation to walk with him was a very close one.

“Where to first?” asked Jim, looking around him at the sparkling mercantile zone. “Real food? Arboretum?”

Spock placed a padd into his hand. “Requisitions.”

“Aw, man,” said Jim, more for form’s sake than anything else. “Why are you the enemy of fun?”

Spock looked at his own list. “Many of these items have been specifically requested by Lieutenant Commander Ayoti, in the interests of hosting cultural events with what she calls ‘real food,’ even though replicated food is by no means illusory.”

As intended, Jim brightened. It was like the sun coming out every time he did. “Well in that case, lead on, Mr. Spock! Business before pleasure!”

The list brought them to many shops on the concourse as well as Starfleet supply offices. Deliveries were scheduled with a minimum of difficulty. Two officers were certainly not needed for this task, and Spock had intended to have them split up for the sake of efficiency. But when the captain combined their lists and led the way, Spock found he was incapable of any protest.

“Almost through,” said Jim cheerfully, several hours later. “All we need is some stem bolts and . . . catnip, really? Are we in the business of drugging our crew?”

“Caitian ‘nip’ is more analogous to alcohol than to harder drugs,” Spock argued. “And if we provide small quantities of alcohol at cultural events, we should also provide the traditional light intoxicants favored by other species.”

“Very inclusive, Spock, I approve. So is there something that will get you a little buzzed? Because if so we should get some.”

“No.”

“No, we shouldn’t get some, or no, there isn’t one?”

“No,” he repeated firmly.

Jim laughed loudly, drawing the attention of many on the concourse. It was not so crowded that a single individual could not be noticed. Especially an individual as radiant as his captain, striding confidently in his command golds.

“Perhaps we should not have come in uniform,” Spock muttered.

“What, why not?” Jim looked around, noticing for the first time how much attention they were garnering. “I wasn’t trying to go incognito. No point anyway. These baby blues are famous all over the quadrant, no matter what I’m wearing.”

“Have you noticed,” said Spock, keeping his eyes in front of him, “that the only non-humans we have seen during our time here have been members of our own crew?”

“Huh. You’re right. I wonder if it’s always been that way, or . . .”

“It has not,” said Spock. “I have been here before. I estimate some twenty percent of the full-time residents were non-human, and a larger percentage of those who passed through.”

Jim chewed his lip. “I guess the Starfleet personnel probably left to go join their home fleets.”

“Perhaps,” said Spock. “But there used to be a dispensary just on the left here, run by a Denobulan, where we could have found the herb Commander Ayoti requested. Now, it has become a human liquor store.”

Spock watched Jim out of the corner of his eye as he processed this. He hoped Jim would understand his point, that the place made him somewhat uncomfortable and he would prefer a low profile.

Instead Jim burst out, “I didn’t do shit.”

“Captain?”

“I tried to save Starfleet from this exact fate and here we are. A humans-only club. We said we were going to seek out new life forms and now we won’t even stick with the ones we already know.”

“I did not intend to distress you.”

Jim sighed and shook his head. “Not your fault. At least the Enterprise is still how I remember.”

Spock leaned in and pressed his shoulder lightly against Jim’s. “Thanks to you.”

Jim’s comm chimed and he flipped it open. “Kirk here.”

“Captain, there’s been an incident on the station,” came Commander Prrk’s voice. “I can’t get clarity on what it was, but Lieutenant Sh’relin was beamed directly to sickbay and everyone else involved is in the station security office.”

“Is she okay?”

“I don’t know, sir. All I know is what I am telling you. Station security seemed to feel they were doing more than enough by informing me it had happened at all.”

“All right. Commander Spock and I are going straight to the security office to sort this out.”

“I . . .” Prrk’s low voice was hesitant. “You may prefer to go alone.”

Jim exchanged a troubled glance with Spock. Spock attempted to communicate his desire to accompany him, which seemed to be understood. “I hear what you’re trying to tell me, Commander, but I’m taking Spock. Kirk out.”

“What was she attempting to tell you?” Spock asked as they changed course toward the security office.

“Tipping me off somebody in security here is a massive racist who is going to give you a hard time,” said Jim. “I refuse to cater to people’s xenophobia, and I know you always prefer to rub people’s noses in it.”

“If I were to alter my behavior to avoid the disapprobation of others,” Spock said dispassionately, “it would severely limit the scope of my life. I learned quite young to care very little what such people think.” And to defend himself, he added silently, when not caring was insufficient. But with Jim at his side, he felt certain the worst danger was having to listen to a tedious person try and fail to hurt his feelings.

Jim grinned. “Let’s go not care what some security guy thinks, okay?”

In the security office, a couple civilians and several Enterprise crew sat on benches against the walls. Uhura, Gaila, Reba, and Sulu all stood as Jim came in. Two young men, arms folded, remained sitting against the opposite wall. 

The security chief sat behind a desk at the far end of the room, looked up at Jim and Spock. “So it's true what they say about the Enterprise, huh?”

“Commander Patterson,” said Jim evenly. “What do they say about the Enterprise?”

“That it's basically a floating zoo.” The commander smirked, sandy eyebrows rising in amusement.

“Commander, I have an officer in sickbay and have gotten no information on how this happened. I do not have time for your little quips.”

“She had a reaction to a drink,” said Patterson, with a dismissive shrug. “She’ll probably be fine. But then her friends here grabbed these two civilians here, roughed them up, and called security on them. So it’s assault charges for a couple of them, and the rest refuse to leave unless I charge the civilians for reckless endangerment.”

“Hm,” said Jim, turning away. He felt pretty sure that was less than half the story. “Lieutenant Uhura, report.”

Uhura straightened. “We were just out for drinks, sir, at a bar called Freddy’s. Sulu said it was supposed to be the best bar at the starbase. We’d all had about one round when these guys approached us.” She gestured to the two young men, whose eyes remained fixed on the floor. “The dark haired one offered Sh’relin a drink, and she said no thank you. But he said that it was true, then, that Andorians couldn’t hold their liquor. She was offended and said that they could drink more than humans could. He went to the bar and ordered a drink, came back, and dared her to drink it.”

“Could he have put anything in it?”

“I don’t think so, sir. He wasn’t out of sight, just out of hearing. I didn’t hear the name of the drink. Anyway, I told her not to let him get to her, but she wanted to prove her point so she knocked it back all at once. The guy was just smirking the whole time, like he had proved something, so I started to get worried. Then Sh’relin put her hand over her heart,” Uhura demonstrated placing her hand over the center of her sternum, where the Andorian heart was, “and said she didn’t feel right. Then she collapsed and started seizing on the ground. I called for emergency transport immediately.”

Jim nodded, frowning. There were a couple different explanations, and it made all the difference in the world which it had been. And maybe it was just the conversation he’d just been having with Spock that made him suspect the worst. “All right, Lieutenant. M’Benga’s on shift so I’m sure he’ll take good care of her. What happened next?”

“Sulu picked up the glass off the ground and sniffed it. He said it smelled like coffee. So he grabbed the guy and said he was taking him to Security.”

Jim nodded. Of course. Humans were almost unique in the galaxy in their ability to metabolize caffeine. To almost every other species, it was a known toxin. A very widely known toxin. The civilian would have a hard time proving it hadn’t been on purpose. Jim felt certain already, but he couldn’t prove it yet.

“His friend there jumped in and tried to get Sulu off, at which point Gaila socked him in the gut. I was busy at that point calling sickbay to update them that it was caffeine poisoning. A minute later, the bouncer split us all up and called security.” 

Jim nodded. “Okay. Anybody else got anything to add?”

“Am I in trouble?” asked Reba in a small voice.

“No,” Jim said gently. “You’re here as a witness, okay? And as an acting yeoman of my ship, you’re under my jurisdiction. They can’t hurt you.” He looked up at Patterson. “Seems to me my crew was attempting to carry out a citizen’s arrest, which was appropriate given the suspicion of deliberate assault. If the instigator had agreed to go along to Security with them, nobody else would have gotten hurt.”

“Your crew didn’t know it wasn’t an accident,” maintained Patterson. “And neither do you.”

“Have you questioned the civilians?”

“Don’t have to. I know them. They wouldn’t do something like that.”

Anger rose in Jim, tensing his muscles. Spock subtly brushed his arm, and he forced himself to relax. Spock was right, he couldn’t fight his way out of this situation. “That’s not procedure and you know it,” he said harshly. “I’m calling it compromise. You say you know them, that proves you can’t be unbiased. So we can take this two ways. Either you let me question them, or we can call your superior and she can do it.”

“The station commander is off shift,” said Patterson.

“Option one, great.” Jim rubbed his hands. “I’ll take the one who started it first. Show me to your back room, I think this’ll go better without an audience.”

“Regs say you have to have a second person in there with you,” blurted Patterson, sounding oddly anxious.

“Mr. Spock, with me.”

The back room wasn’t an interrogation room, just a break room. Starbases weren’t hotbeds of crime, just occasional thefts in the mercantile zone and barfights from posturing off-duty officers. Jim directed the dark-haired boy to sit in one of the chairs, while he remained standing, leaning back against the wall. “What’s your name?”

“Andy,” said the kid.

“Andy who?”

A pause. “Patterson.”

Ahh, it was all coming together. Racist dad had a racist kid, and was pulling all possible strings to keep that kid from ever seeing any consequences. “So that’s your dad?” Nod. “You have a job here on the station?” Headshake. “What drink did you give my officer?”

“A Flying Frenchman.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to prove humans can hold their drinks better.”

“No, I mean why that drink? Why not straight vodka or something? Hell, Andorian ale is 150 proof, you could have ordered that.”

“I just . . . I like them,” said Andy.

Spock, keeping up in the background as always, showed Jim his padd, displaying the recipe for a Flying Frenchman. 

“One point five ounces absinthe, one point five ounces coffee liquor, two ounces espresso,” Jim read. “Really, Andy? That’s your usual drink? If I call Freddy’s, are they gonna say that’s your usual drink?”

“I didn’t say it was my usual drink,” said Andy quickly. “I just like them. I was in the mood for one. I thought she wasn’t gonna drink it and I could have it myself.”

“Did you know it had coffee in it?”

A pause. “Sure, I mean that’s kind of the point of it.”

“Did you know caffeine was toxic to Andorians?”

Another pause. His eyes flicked over Jim’s face and then back to the floor. “No.”

“They teach you that in school, Andy. Are you a high school dropout?”

“I must’ve missed that day,” said Andy.

“Here’s how I see it,” said Jim. “You’re a young guy, what, twenty?”

“Twenty-two,” he corrected.

“Twenty-two. You’re probably having a rough time right now, we all are. And you thought playing a little prank on an alien would make you feel better. Youthful high spirits. You thought it would make her extra buzzed or something, maybe throw up, like it might do to a Vulcan or a Deltan. You didn’t know it could kill her. You didn’t expect a murder charge.”

Andy’s head jerked up. “Murder?”

“Andorians’ metabolisms are so fast the whole dose would have hit her system at once. That’s incredibly dangerous. If she dies, you’ll be charged with murder,” said Jim calmly. “And, I hate to bring this up, but there are no Terran prisons just now. We’d have to let another planet host you. Maybe Andoria. It’s pretty cold there this time of year.”

“I swear I didn’t know that,” said Andy. “She’s gonna be okay, though, right?”

“I don’t know,” said Jim. “I haven’t heard back from my med staff. How about this. You write out a confession saying what you actually intended to do, you get charged with that, and hopefully they won’t go for the murder charge because you didn’t know it could go that far.”

“I didn’t intend to do anything,” Andy insisted.

Jim looked over his shoulder at Spock. “My first officer here is a telepath,” Jim said. “He’s not court ordered to tell me whether you’re lying, just yet. But rest assured, he does know.”

Andy paled. “Can I have a padd, please?”

Jim went out into the hall, Spock on his heels. “You lied,” said Spock softly.

“I don’t think I did. You knew he was lying, didn’t you? Don’t need to be a telepath for that.”

“I . . . strongly suspected. But how could you be sure he didn’t intend to murder Sh’relin?”

“Just had a feeling,” said Jim. “His shock at hearing she might die was definitely genuine, the kid can’t act for shit. Anyway, with immediate care, they should be able to clear it from her system. It would have hit her hard, but we have caffeine antagonists in sickbay for just this reason.” He took out his comm anyway to check in.

Nurse Chapel answered. “Doctor M’Benga had to put her in a medical coma while he purged the toxin,” she explained. “She’s gonna be all right, but I don’t think she’ll be awake till sometime tonight.”

“Thanks, Chapel,” said Jim. “When M’Benga’s free, have him write up a detailed report. Might be a criminal case.”

“Someone dosed her on purpose?” Chapel exclaimed.

“Looks like it. I’ll check in again when I’m through here. Kirk out.”

When they emerged, Patterson was furious. “You ship captains, you think you own the entire quadrant,” he hissed. “Walking in, taking over security on my station—”

“You weren’t even going to tell me he was your son,” Jim interrupted. “If you’d handled this yourself, you’d almost certainly have lost your job over it. I did you a favor.”

“He’s having a hard time,” Patterson pleaded. “He lost his mother when it happened. Only pure luck he was here with me at the time. You can’t ruin his life over—”

“His life isn’t ruined,” said Jim. “Be a lot better if you’d raised him better. But my officer will live, so the charges will top out at attempted bodily harm.”

Andy emerged from the back and handed Jim’s padd over. Jim witnessed his statement and submitted it to the station record. “Because he’s your son, sentencing is up to the station commandant,” said Jim. “I’ll talk to her about in the morning. In the meantime, no reason everyone can’t be free to go.”

“The man and the green one committed assault!” Patterson protested.

“And they’re under my jurisdiction. I’m taking them home.”

They arrived back in transporter room one. “Are we in trouble?” Gaila said in a small voice.

“Absolutely not,” said Jim. “He could’ve killed her. And I’m proud of all of you. It scares me how a few elements are making this about humans versus everyone else. But not on my ship. Not with my crew. You stuck together and that’s exactly what I wanted you to do.”

“I am not sure it was justified to punch the poisoner’s accomplice,” Spock objected mildly.

“He had his hands on Hikaru.” Gaila’s expression was stubborn. “He deserved worse, but my fists are only so strong.”

“Not a jury in the world,” said Jim. At her confused glance, he clarified, “Whatever the law says, you did the right thing and you’re not in trouble. It’s late for this shift, might want to turn in. Unless anybody wants to go catch one last drink?”

“No thanks,” said Uhura. She grasped Gaila’s hand, weaving their fingers together. “We’re going to bed.”

Everyone made themselves scarce, and Jim walked Spock back to his quarters, lingering in the hallway to put off saying goodbye. “Why is it always like this?” he asked softly. “Can’t even go to a starbase without someone getting hurt.”

“Lieutenant Sh’relin will be fine, thanks to your crew’s swift action,” Spock argued. “There was nothing you could have done to provide a better outcome.”

“I know, it’s just . . . the universe seems so terrifying lately. And I can’t go home.” He sighed, turned away. “I’m sorry. I need to go to bed.”

“You may stay with me,” said Spock. “I will need to meditate, but there is no reason you cannot sleep in my bed.”

Jim hesitated. It wasn’t an emergency. But Spock was offering. And Jim knew perfectly well he wouldn’t sleep if he went back to his own cabin. “All right.”

He fell asleep quickly, gazing at the flickering light of Spock’s firepot and the long shadows of him it cast around the room. He did not wake up when Spock joined him in bed.

A Southern accent over the comm woke Jim out of a sound sleep. “Hey, Spock, I hate to bother you at this hour. But I can't get Jim on the comm or in his room, do you know where he is?”

It was Bones. Without thinking Jim reached across Spock and punched the button. “‘Sokay, Bones, I'm here.”

A pause. “Well, you told us to page you when Sh’relin woke up,” Bones said, a little defensively. 

“Thanks, Bones. There in five.”

Spock, gorgeously tousled, propped himself up on his elbows. “Shall I come also?”

“Better wait till I see her condition. Don't want to overwhelm her.”

Jim dragged himself to his feet, suppressing the urge to tuck Spock back in and kiss his forehead. “I'll let you know how it goes,” he said instead, and went through to his own cabin to get dressed. 

Sh’relin was already sitting up in bed, looking embarrassed, antennae curling forward among her white bangs. “I know, Captain. It was a stupid thing to do.”

“You think I came here to scold you?” Jim dragged a stool over and sat down.

“I deserve it. Taking a human dare as a challenge of honor, drinking things when I don’t know what they are. All this time I thought coffee tasted good, I thought that was why you guys were so obsessed with it. It smells fine.”

Jim grinned. “It’s an acquired taste. Which, luckily, you’ll recognize if you ever taste it again. But I’m not blaming you. A human gave it to you, and you had no reason to think it would be unsafe to drink.”

“Still. I knew he was a racist quin’dar. I thought I was showing him up. I should’ve steered clear of a person like that.”

“I’ll need a statement from you about it. He’s getting sentenced in the morning, and your opinion about what he intended will probably carry the most weight.”

“It was definitely on purpose,” she said flatly. “I could tell from the smirk. Before I even started to feel sick, I knew I’d made a mistake drinking it, by the look on his face.”

“Okay, you write that down when you get a chance and send it to me. Meanwhile, I . . . I feel like I owe you an apology, on behalf of Terrans everywhere. We shouldn’t let these things happen.”

“It’s not your fault,” Sh’relin said, eyes wide and antennae stretching upward. “I know plenty of Terrans. You’ve all been very brave. You don’t behave that way, even though not every planet has been welcoming to your people.”

“Thanks, Sh’relin,” said Jim, squeezing her shoulder warmly. “You just rest up, and when the doctor decides you’re ready for visitors, I know your friends are dying to see you.”

He got up and made as if to leave sickbay, but as he expected, Bones yanked him into his office instead.

“Spock's room. Spock's room?!” Bones hissed.

“Sure.”

“At three o’clock in the morning?”

“You know I'm a bad sleeper.”

“I also know what you sound like when you've just woken up. You're sleeping with that department-store manikin and you didn't even tell me!”

“I'm not,” Jim protested. “Okay, I am, but not like that. I just sleep over at his when I wake up at night. I've done it to you.”

“Yeah, and I put up with it only in the most dire circumstances because you're a blanket hog. How often is this happening, if you just happened to be there tonight?”

“Twice a week.”

“Exactly twice a week?”

“Yeah I . . . decided more than that would be inappropriate, so I stick it out the other nights.”

Bones shook his head. “Oh, I think you passed inappropriate a while back, Jim. What happens when the next call that finds you there is from the bridge, and the whole gamma bridge crew hears you waking up in Spock's bed?”

Jim shrugged. “Not my fault if people jump to conclusions.” Anyway he had thought of a plan for that. Spock would say he might be in the shower and pretend to go knock on the bathroom door. Easy. That is, if he could find a way to convince Spock it wasn't really lying.

He turned to go, but Bones caught his arm. “Jim . . . be careful, okay? You're gonna break your heart when you find out he hasn't got one.”

He does, and I've felt it beating a couple times didn't seem the right response. “Since when do I play for hearts?” he asked with a grin, letting the office door close just in time to keep Bones from answering.

Chapter Text

The station commandant pronounced Andy Patterson guilty of reckless endangerment and assigned him one thousand hours of community service. Sh’relin was satisfied. “He may as well make himself useful on that station,” was her comment. 

Jim was more disappointed to learn that the security chief had received only a reprimand for his behavior instead of being sent off to the ass-end of the quadrant to monitor a listening post all by himself. But the commandant pointed out that they were a little short on staff at the moment. The man was due to be rotated out, but they’d just have to wait until someone else was available to rotate in. Till then, she promised to keep a close eye on him.

They had been in orbit around DX Cancri III for a week now, and Jim was getting the feeling you have when you’re touring a really nice apartment with a great view, trying not to get attached till you find out the price tag and whether there’s water damage in the bathroom. It was a gorgeous planet: blue sky, gravity just right, nice weather. The foliage was purple, but Jim could get used to that.

The other shoe dropped at their weekly staff meeting. Spock reported, “Temperature and precipitation are both optimal; large fauna absent; no significant dangers found on detailed surveys planetwide. However, the soil is poor in magnesium and potassium throughout the planet. Terran agriculture could not take place without large quantities of imported soil amendments. I recommend rating it C, acceptable for human habitation but a low priority for long-term settlement.”

“What about the local flora?” Jim asked. “If push came to shove, could humans eat anything that grows there?”

“No, the foundational starches of the phytosphere are indigestible to humans.”

Jim pressed his lips together. “I’m rating it D. I don’t think this place even works as a last resort, not if there’s no backup plan if the crops fail.” Like on Tarsus, he thought but didn’t say.

“Very well, Captain,” said Spock, making a note on his padd. But under the table, his knee pressed against Jim’s. It was almost eerie, the way Spock always seemed to know his mental state, how he always moved to touch him in some way when Jim was upset.

Vulcans don’t like touching—bullshit! It was what they said at the Academy, but Jim had never seen a sign of it. Sarek and Amanda touched their fingers together so often that Jim suspected them of having sneaky telepathic conversations that way. Spock readily touched his mother. Even in public, he’d seen families brushing shoulders, grasping wrists. Jim suspected Vulcans loved touching, they were just fussy about with whom, because of their telepathy.

And, the entirety of Vulcan culture aside, Spock fucking loved touching. When they’d been in that hospital, Spock had been all over him. Cuddles and hugs and touching his face and trying to kiss him. With the rational part of his mind confused, his basest desire was to rub all over Jim like a needy cat. 

Well, Jim was perfectly willing to oblige him. The question was always how far he could go without hitting the wall of Vulcan reserve. So far, he hadn’t. He’d take it even farther, but he was afraid of pushing his luck. They’d only recently gotten back to being friends, and it was hard to imagine he wasn’t already making a nuisance of himself.

He gently squeezed Spock’s knee under the table. “Bones, how’s your department?”

“Aside from malingerers, gossipping nurses, biobed twelve still on the fritz, and all the good alcohol somehow disappearing from my locked office? It’s fine.”

“So, as usual, then.”

“I do have one announcement, though. Lieutenant Commander Prrk is showing signs of heat. We’ve got, oh, three days or so to prepare. You know the procedure?”

“Helped a gal out with one of those in my Academy days.” Jim smirked. “Good times.”

“Perhaps a serious overview of the procedure would be helpful, Doctor,” said Spock, a little snippily.

“Well, since Prrk’s happy to go through it, it’s not that complicated. She’s taking signups till she gets five or six willing mates, and then we’ll need to give them all leave to hang out in Prrk’s quarters and—handle it,” said Bones. “The door will be secured, but we’ll need overrides for emergencies. The usual way is just to commlink them straight to the security station, so somebody can come let any of the mates out without Prrk getting out.”

Commander Ayoti’s eyes widened. “Is it dangerous, Doctor?”

“No, not at all, we just don’t want Prrk to go wandering the halls yowling and propositioning the crew at random,” said Bones. “She’ll need to stay in there for two or three days, and then we’ll have a few tired officers who will need another day to rehydrate and rest.”

Jim nodded. “That’s fine, then. When Prrk’s got her list, we’ll work on the shift schedule to account for it.”

Spock still looked slightly alarmed. “What if she cannot find sufficient mates?”

Jim waved a hand. “I guarantee you, she’ll have no trouble. A lot of humans have a real thing for Caitians.” He glanced around the table at his department heads. “I think we’re about done here, unless there’s anything else?” There wasn’t, and the senior staff filed out.

Spock lingered. “I apologize for not considering the inedible plant life, Captain.”

Jim shrugged. “You were following the rubric. It’s not far from everywhere else, we could theoretically import things indefinitely. I just can’t imagine, if we put all our eggs in that basket, and something happened . . .”

“I believe your judgment is correct.” Spock paused, hands behind his back. “Will you be taking leave this week, Captain?”

Jim frowned. “Why would I?”

“For Commander Prrk.”

“No, of course not!” Jim gave an amused grimace. “First off, I’m not making you cover for me for the better part of a week. Not to have a big head or anything but I’m generally considered essential personnel. And second, it’ll hardly help my command persona if five or six people have seen my bare ass. It’s hard enough to convince everyone I’m responsible enough to do this job as it is.”

Spock straightened slightly. “I believe you have earned the full confidence of the crew, Captain. You may be inexperienced, but you have demonstrated your capability over the course of our mission so far.”

“That’s nice of you to say.” Jim rubbed the back of his neck. “Still feel like I’m a kid stomping around in their dad’s boots. All I can do is hope it doesn’t show.”

Spock was walking down the deck five corridor toward his quarters when he stopped short. Instead of the usual gray and white, the wall of the corridor held a mural of a Terran oak tree. Leaves spread upward, onto the ceiling, and a cardinal perched in a low branch. Halfway down the trunk, a squirrel peered out of a botanically-improbable hole.

He walked on, and past the curve he discovered Yeoman Savannah Hatfield and Ensign Stephen Harrison hard at work on the wall, surrounded by pots of paint. Spock stopped to watch them, and they both came to attention. “We have permission from the captain, sir,” Ensign Harrison blurted.

“Obviously,” said Spock. “Otherwise I believe you would have selected a more covert location for your graffiti.”

“It was my idea,” said the yeoman. “In preschool, we had murals everywhere, just to make it interesting and pretty for the kids. But here, it’s all the more important. We’re all homesick. Don’t you think it makes sense to have some sights of nature around us, so it doesn’t feel so sterile?”

Spock thought the artistry of the paintings was only average and the botanical accuracy was worse, but he could not argue with the concept itself. “There is some logic in the idea,” he said. “As you were.”

As he walked away, he heard Yeoman Hatfield hiss, “Does that mean he hates it?” Ensign Harrison, who had worked with him somewhat more closely, whispered back, “No, it’s almost a compliment, coming from him.”

Spock’s mouth twitched. Humans always underestimated the sensitivity of his hearing.

It was characteristic of Jim to allow this. Morale was important to him; he was not one of those captains who felt low morale only became a problem if it led to a significant drop in efficiency. Jim would make sure his crew was as happy as possible.

Spock had long since ceased to fight his emotional attachment to his captain. It was impossible, for one thing; and for another, he believed it made him exceptional in his ability to care for the captain, which was his duty. 

He had meant to wait until Jim had finished mourning for his planet to take any further step. It was now clear that Jim would never be finished. It would be unreasonable to expect it. But he was no longer deep in the throes of grief. He had regained his lost weight; his ebullient temperament was back; he enjoyed teasing the crew.

It could be an opportune time to make a move. On the other hand, the signs were not positive, when it came to analyzing his potential interest. He clearly remembered trying to kiss Jim more than once on 61 Cygni and being rebuffed each time. And Jim seemed perfectly comfortable sleeping beside him platonically, comfortably touching him without any hesitation. Whereas when Nyota had been attempting to win him over, every time they touched had been emotionally freighted. It had clearly meant something to her.

But it was not hopeless, either. Jim came to him often. He was first in Jim's trust. And every time they touched, Spock could feel the warmth of his affection—difficult, at times, to unravel from what he felt himself. 

He was uncertain as to his next course. He had never before courted anyone. T'Pring had been chosen for him, and Nyota had pursued him herself. One evening, after he had walked her home from a concert they had attended together, she had stopped outside her dormitory, tipped her head up, and said, “You can kiss me good night if you want, Spock.” He had, and that had been that. 

He could not imagine either Jim or himself enacting such a move. 

He should simply ask, but what could he possibly say? Jim, my mind reaches out to yours, asleep or awake; your welfare matters to me beyond any other consideration; I yearn to touch you, mind and body. No words seemed sufficient.

Humans, of course, would simply want to be told I love you. Spock had never been able to say it to Nyota; it was likely a major cause of her dissatisfaction with their relationship. He tried to show it with his actions, because of course he had loved her. He still did. 

But if what he felt for Nyota was love, what he felt for Jim was something entirely different, something beyond. The word was insufficient. All words, in any language, were insufficient. It was staggering how his feelings had grown and grown, with every touch, every conversation, every night they spent together, till they had become this massive, unshakable thing. A certainty that his own life was meaningless unless it belonged entirely to Jim.

The thought of going about this like a human courtship, “asking him out,” dating for some time, waiting till the right time to “pop the question,” all seemed absurd. All his Vulcan instincts were telling him to fall at Jim's feet, pledge his life, shed his blood. Take up arms for him, forget his people and his father's house.

What words could he say that would express that to Jim?

And how could he survive if Jim did not want that of him?

Jim sat down beside Spock in the mess, opened up his hamburger, and started picking everything off it. No pickles. No lettuce. No tomato either, thank you. Just beef, cheese, sauces, and white bread. 

Spock watched him with one eyebrow raised. “If you prefer your sandwich plain, why do you not order it that way from the replicator?”

“Because Bones tracks my diet card,” said Jim. “Shit, here he comes. Quick, put these on your plate so he doesn't catch me.”

Spock pulled his plate away slightly. “I do not wish to eat lettuce smeared with mayonnaise.”

“You don't have to eat it, you just have to—oh hi Bones.”

“Trying to put yourself in the hospital, I see,” said Bones, putting his plate down with a heavier-than-necessary clank. “Don't try to make Spock cover for you. Put those back on your burger. You'll barely taste them.”

“It's the texture I hate,” said Jim mournfully.

“Why won't you ever eat anything healthy?”

“You know what's healthy, Bones?” Jim picked up his burger and took a pointed bite of it. “Not starving to death. All of the vibrant health I enjoy today, I owe to not starving to death.”

“I have never once tried to restrict your calories, Jim, so stop giving me that. I just want you to eat a damn vegetable.”

“He ate vegetables at my mother's house,” Spock volunteered, as if it was any kind of his business. 

“That's because I wasn't paying attention to them,” said Jim. “And besides, your mom can cook. The replicator is just squirting out cellulose in lettuce shape.”

“It is more complex than that,” said Spock. “Though I will admit it is an imperfect simulacrum.”

“That’s enough airtime wasted on what I eat,” said Jim decidedly. “What’s the latest in sickbay, Bones?”

Spock left the meal feeling thoughtful. He spent some time researching human recommended daily intakes for a wide variety of nutrients. He made a chart of everything he recollected seeing Jim eat in the past week. 

None of it fit into the category of foods humans generally considered healthy. It consisted mainly of hamburgers, hot dogs, chicken nuggets, chips, french fries, pancakes (with syrup, without fruit), a filled pastry inexplicably called a “twinkie,” cheese, and ice cream. 

The sole unprocessed plant he had eaten in Spock's presence had been the strawberries in the ice cream. So Dr. McCoy was correct that Jim was not receiving the nutrition he should be.

But there was certainly a pattern. Not one of these foods would ever have been available in a colony experiencing a famine. Jim liked high-calorie, high-flavor foods with very little texture. Now that his appetite had returned, due to improved mental health, those were what he wanted to eat.

He thought for a while longer, and then he composed a letter to his mother.

The project required a number of steps: consulting Dr. McCoy; sourcing supplies from both Commander Ayoti and the hydroponics team; several hours of programming; several hours in the back room of the mess; and finally, the selection of the ideal time and place. 

He chose Thursday evening, after alpha shift, which was when Jim met with Dr. McCoy in Jim's quarters to go over the sick and restricted-duty lists. First, it was near a mealtime, and second, Dr. McCoy was, in this matter at least, a reliable ally.

Neither of them looked up when Spock came in. “Ensign Chin isn't sick,” McCoy was saying firmly. “She does this at least once a week. Comes in complaining of a tummyache or a headache or brain fog or a funny feeling in her heart but there's never a damn thing wrong with her. I don't think she's consciously malingering, but she's mistaking stress for dying and I have told her so. But she keeps missing hours out of her shifts because she's sure I'm wrong this time.”

“Stress is bad enough,” said Jim. “I know the regs, but we're not a regular ship. What if you just let her lie down for a couple hours and see if she feels better? She's probably sad about Earth and doesn't feel like she can just say that as an excuse.”

“If ‘sad about Earth’ is a valid reason to miss shifts, you'll have nobody left to staff this ship.”

“I'm not saying everybody sad should stay home, but I do want you to be generous excusing absences for mental health. We might be understaffed, but we can afford that much.” Jim's head suddenly came up from his padd. “Spock? What are you doing?”

Spock raised an eyebrow as he set a plate down at Jim's elbow. “I should think it was obvious.”

Jim's eyes narrowed. “I have a yeoman.”

“I wished to bring dinner for both of you so that we all might eat together without truncating your meeting,” said Spock innocently. He went back to his own room to fetch the third plate. He set it down on the short edge of the desk and pulled up a chair. “Do not allow me to interrupt.”

Jim looked at the plate. It had a burger, a pile of fried plomeek slices, and a selection of vegetable puffs. “What is this?”

“I am attempting to, in the Terran phrase, ‘get the doctor off your back’ without you having to eat anything you do not like,” Spock explained. “The recipes are my mother’s. She occasionally becomes tired of Vulcan food and produces items which taste more Terran while being made of ingredients she can access there.”

Jim tentatively poked one of the puffs. “I remember these.”

“She mentioned that you had not seemed to mind them.”

“So she sent you a replicator file?”

Spock hesitated. It was one of those times when he was torn between his duty to the truth and his knowledge that Jim might not like the answer. “No. You do not like the texture of replicated food. Some of the ingredients are replicated, for instance the mashed legumes inside the sandwich, because the texture is created in the cooking process. I sourced the rest from Morale and from Hydroponics.”

Jim pushed the plate away. “I didn’t approve that. This is a waste of ship’s resources. And your time.”

Spock stared down at his plate. This had, of course, been one of the potential outcomes. He had hoped for better.

Dr. McCoy spoke up. “Jim, don’t be an ass.”

“Were you in on this?”

“Is it a crime to care about you? Because sometimes you make it feel like the only thing that will suit you is being shoved out an airlock.”

“You both peck at me incessantly!” Jim insisted. “I already have a mother!”

McCoy worked his mouth for a moment. “She ain’t here,” he said at last. “So you’re stuck with us. You know? Your friends?”

“I didn’t become friends with either of you to make you take care of me.”

McCoy put a hand on Jim’s forearm. “Jim, you look out for everyone. You do it constantly. You finish a shift on the bridge and then you spend the next shift wandering the ship and making sure every single person on it is okay. You let them make art in the halls and miss shifts to cry. I don't think it's lost on Spock any more than it is on me that neither of us would be on this ship unless you had busted your butt to make Command allow it.”

“I needed the best people,” said Jim stubbornly, but Spock could see his resistance waning. McCoy, it seemed, knew the arguments that worked best on him.

“Then trust the best people, now that you've got ‘em. Eat your damn burger.”

Jim sighed and picked it up. “I swear, sometimes I wonder if I'm even captain of this ship. Seems suspiciously like I don't even make the decisions around here.” He ventured a bite. His eyes widened as he chewed. Mouth still full, he turned to Spock. “This is actually good!”

Spock restrained a smile. “I would not have served it to you otherwise.”

Jim ate everything, his mood restored, talking about ship’s business and ship’s gossip in equal quantities. Spock passed him a few data cards with replicator recipes his mother considered acceptable, and Jim tucked them into his card rack. “You've gotta thank her for me, Spock,” he said. “She's really too nice to me.”

“I can if you wish, though I know she would appreciate a subspace call from you personally.”

Jim blinked, as if startled that Amanda even remembered him. “Sure. I mean, I guess. I don't even call my own mom, but if she wants me to, I will.”

Dr. McCoy helped him clear away the plates. On the way back to the mess hall with the dishes, he commented, “You must be some kind of miracle worker, Spock. I never thought I'd see the day he'd eat a bean burger without whining.”

“He did not react very positively,” said Spock. It was always a difficult balance between what Jim needed and what he would allow. And though Spock had carried his point, he worried he had taken it too far. 

Bones shook his head. “He did, Spock. Don’t let him fool you. He will fight like a cat in a bathtub against anything that smacks of people being nice to him, but he secretly loves it. You think I’d be on his case this much if he genuinely hated it? Not a lot of people have ever cared what he ate or when he came home. I can’t be his dad, but—well, I can make him eat an apple now and again, and that’s how he knows I care about him.”

“I hope you are right,” said Spock. “His welfare is of paramount importance. To the ship,” he added quickly.

McCoy did not appear fooled. “I can't believe I ever let you convince me you didn't have feelings.”

“There is no need to be insulting, Doctor.”

“I don't know what he did to win you over, but I'm glad he has you, that's all.”

Chapter Text

Jim was having another nightmare. 

Spock had been awakened by Jim's twitching, upsetting the blanket over both of them. Even without touching him, Spock could feel the emotions emanating from him. Fear, rage, guilt, disgust. Tarsus, Spock thought, but he could not be sure. 

This did not normally happen. It was the nightmares that brought Jim to his room. After, he usually slept well enough. If he did wake, it was unobtrusive. This . . . was not. 

Jim's body tensed, a strangled shout trying to come out of his closed mouth. Then he suddenly relaxed, panting. Awake now. 

Spock wrapped an arm around him to still his trembling. “It is all right,” he said. “You were dreaming.”

Jim made a small sound and curled toward Spock, shaking. Spock drew him closer, gently stroking his back, unsure what, if anything, he ought to say. Jim took several shaky breaths. “I’m okay,” he said, and then with sudden coldness, “Spock. Let go of me.”

Startled, Spock untangled himself and moved away. He was beginning to understand the shape of Jim’s occasional rejection, knowing it was not about him, not really. But that did not provide him the knowledge of a correct response. He said nothing.

Jim sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing his face. “We can’t keep doing this,” he said, low and flat. “I can’t keep doing this.”

“You would have done the same for me,” said Spock. “I thought we were past this.”

Jim got to his feet and glanced back at Spock. “So did I.”

He would leave. He would leave and they would never do this again, all because Jim could not bear to be seen like this, even though he would suffer worse alone. Spock sat up in bed. “Jim,” he pleaded. “You have held me when I was frightened, too. I remember.”

“And that was just as bad as now!” Jim burst out. “You’re so—so innocent and gentle and good, holding me just because you care, and I’m—I can’t just take that as it is! I can’t just appreciate it! I’ve got to be—I’m ruining it all. I can’t do it anymore.”

“I do not understand.”

“Good,” said Jim shortly. He walked over to the bathroom door and punched the release. Soft blue light spilled out of the bathroom, illuminating his silhouette in the undershirt and shorts he slept in.

Spock stood and reached out, stopping just short of Jim’s arm. If he touched Jim and Jim shook him off, it would hurt too much. “Jim. I am your friend.”

Jim shied away. “Maybe I don’t want to be friends.”

Spock’s hand dropped. He knew his devastation showed on his face and there was nothing, nothing at all he could do about it.

Jim stared at him, his expression of stubbornness and anger fading into guilt. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” He took a breath, squared his shoulders. “I don’t want to be just friends. I’m sorry, I can’t help it and I’ll try not to let it ruin everything. But this level of closeness—I just can’t take it, not if it’s you.”

Spock repeated numbly, “You don’t want to be just friends.” He looked up. “You are in love with me.”

Jim shrugged. “You’re just a little too nice. It can’t be helped. I’ll try not to make it your problem.”

Spock stepped closer and grasped Jim's wrist, sensing frustration, distress, arousal. He had no plan, but he knew he could not let Jim leave like this. “It is not a problem,” he said, low. 

Jim jerked at his wrist, and Spock loosened his hold enough to slide his fingers down Jim's palm and off. “Nothing is ever a problem for you,” Jim said bitterly. “You'd do anything I asked, wouldn't you?”

“Yes,” said Spock. 

“Because I saved your life? Get you beamed out one time and now you're my chew toy forever?” He was getting more distressed, not less.

“You do not understand,” said Spock. “You are the reason I still exist in this universe. This creates a relationship between you and me, not an obligation, not as you understand it. I do not owe you anything—I wish to give you everything.”

“Oh,” said Jim, still sounding confused. 

“But that is not why it is not a problem,” said Spock. He touched the door release, shutting the door and leaving them both in darkness. Here, in the dark, with his own friend, anything seemed possible. He brought a hand up and stroked Jim's cheek with the back of his knuckles, feeling the scratch of tonight’s stubble. Trailing the hand down to Jim's chin, he tilted it up and placed his lips gently on Jim's, as he had wanted to do for so long. 

A broken breath escaped Jim, but he did not move, even though elation was breaking through the distress in his mind. When Spock drew away, Jim murmured, “Why isn't it a problem, Spock?”

Spock fought a battle within himself. The level of emotional transparency required for a human relationship had always been more than he could achieve, and yet he did not want to leave Jim in any doubt.

“You may be assured,” Spock answered, running his thumb across Jim's lips, “that it is entirely selfish on my part.”

“Yeah?” prompted Jim.

Spock rested his forehead on Jim’s. There was a sudden reassurance in knowing that Jim could and would demand what he needed. Even if it was difficult for Spock to provide.

“I confess that I have been seeking out your company for its own sake since before we left Vulcan,” Spock admitted. “On 61 Cygni, I did not remember myself, but I remembered you. Your mind—it felt like coming home to me, Jim; I am unable to explain it otherwise. I understand you have your own concerns, that regardless of your feelings you did not choose to act on this, but—”

Jim’s hand slipped around his neck, and Jim’s lips stole what he was going to say next. Spock pushed him back against the door to kiss him harder. Jim moaned into his mouth, parting his lips, and Spock slid his tongue inside without a second thought. It was as easy as falling into Jim’s mind. He belonged there.

He grasped Jim’s hips to pin him firmly in place, while one of Jim’s hands slid up his chest. Soft noises hummed in Jim’s throat. Jim’s mouth was his whole world for the moment; the universe he had come out here to explore.

It seemed implausible that he was allowed to do such a thing. That he had pushed on the boundary between them and found nothing there at all. That, after all his longing, Jim wanted this so intensely. Under his skin, Jim’s thoughts murmured like a river, soft wordless impulses like yes and more and want.

Spock moved a hand inward to rest it lightly on the front of Jim’s shorts, feeling the hard shape within. Jim ground into his hand immediately, releasing his lips to moan, “Spock. Yes.”

Spock moved his mouth down Jim’s jawline, nuzzled into the hollow below his ear, scenting his salty night sweat.

“Spock, you have no idea,” Jim said breathlessly. “I’ve been in love with you since that night in the garden. I could’ve sworn you wanted to kiss me.”

Spock paused. “I did kiss you.” He trailed two fingers down Jim’s hand, where it rested on his chest. “This is how Vulcans kiss.”

Jim laughed in disbelief. “You’ve kissed me a lot of times then.”

“Yes. You are . . . difficult to resist.”

Jim captured his mouth again, lightly biting the lower lip. Spock lunged against him, grinding their bodies together. He had not planned to do so, but now he could not stop, feeling Jim’s erection rubbing against his through two thin layers of clothing. Jim seemed as lost to it as he was, pulling on Spock’s hips to keep them flush together, breathing in little pants. Pleasure rocketed through Spock’s body. He had never felt this way before.

But it was frightening, the way his body assaulted him with its demands, the way he had surrendered to it without even thinking of resistance. Spock pulled back, fighting against something frantic and feral within himself. He needed to stay in control. It had never before been this difficult. He took a deep breath to slow his heartrate again and focused on pleasing Jim.

He slid his hand down Jim’s shorts and rubbed a thumb against the velvety skin inside. Jim made an incoherent sound. His mind seemed even closer to the surface now. Spock wanted it, wanted to plunge himself into it, to stay there forever. His free hand ghosted over Jim’s face, brushing his psi points. His fingers tingled with that strange outflow of psionic energy he always felt from Jim. As if their minds could not even wait for a meld, would fling themselves at one another regardless.

Which made it all the more dangerous. Bonded couples might meld in a sexual context, but it could be dangerous to do so otherwise. The meld would be uncontrolled and therefore risky. That information had never mattered before, because he had never experienced such a temptation before. Now it flooded him even more than his physical desire. And he would not even have to try to enter Jim’s mind; he could fall into it by sheer accident.

He scraped his teeth against Jim’s neck and forced his hand away, into Jim’s hair instead. His other hand still cradled Jim’s erection. He gave it a light squeeze and was rewarded with another needy sound. “Jim,” Spock murmured. “I want—”

“What do you want, Spock?” Jim gasped. His hand moved to the waist of Spock’s sleeping pants. “You can have anything.”

Anything? No. He could not—he should not. Spock dropped immediately to his knees. Here, he could not easily reach Jim’s face. He would be safe from that temptation, at least. He rubbed his cheek against the thin cloth of Jim’s shorts, smelling the musk of him. “Please?” he asked, looking up. His voice cracked shamefully on the word.

But Jim was transfixed. He dug a hand into Spock’s hair. “If that’s what you want.”

Spock freed Jim’s erection and ran his fingers along it. He was hungry for it, hungry for the pleasure he could give Jim. A bead of fluid gathered on the tip and he licked it away.

Jim braced himself more firmly against the bathroom door. Spock rested his hands against Jim’s thighs and slowly slid his mouth onto Jim’s erection.

“Jesus,” breathed Jim, head thumping back against the door.

Spock took this as encouragement, and set himself to seriously pleasing him. He wrapped a hand around the base to steady it and began to move his head. Spock liked it best when he pulled almost all the way off to swirl his tongue about the head, but there was also something oddly satisfying about letting his mouth be completely filled. It was all intoxicating.

Jim’s finger traced the edge of his ear, lingering on the point, and Spock faltered, leaning into the touch. His heart was pounding; he had lost control of his vascular system at some point. He could not even remember when.

“You liked me touching your ears before,” said Jim. “You couldn’t hear me, I guess, but what I said was that I hoped you’d let me try it on you when you were better.”

Spock had many things he could have said to this, but his mouth was too full, so he attempted to express them in a slide of his tongue along Jim’s frenulum and under the ridge.

Jim threw his head back again, words spilling out of his mouth. “Jesus, Spock. You’re so— fuck, you’re so good at this. So beautiful like that too. I want to—I’m going to—fuck, Spock!”

His climax overtook his power of speech, and Spock swallowed around Jim’s erection as the aftershock of Jim’s pleasure hit him in waves. He let it fall from his lips and rose to his feet. Jim’s eyes were still closed, and he sagged bonelessly against the door. It had been satisfactory, then. 

He leaned his forehead against Jim’s, steadying his breath. When Jim opened his eyes, he asked, “Have I sufficiently convinced you to stay the rest of the night?”

Jim blinked, as if he had forgotten how this entire exchange had begun. “I’ll stay as many nights as you’ll let me, Spock.”

“Every night then,” said Spock. “Please.” He pressed Jim’s hand to his lips and then stepped back, pulling Jim toward the bed.

Jim was restless at first, wanting to continue, but Spock resisted. If he had been so lost in desire from only what they had done, how could he allow anything further? He pulled Jim’s back against his chest, pressing small kisses to the back of his neck, until Jim surrendered to sleep.

Spock lay awake for longer, considering all he now possessed. Jim was in love with him, he had said it in so many words. Now Spock was permitted to hold him, to kiss him, to please him. It was enough.

Tomorrow, he would rise early to meditate and hopefully regain control of himself. Jim was intoxicating, it was true, but a Vulcan should be able to engage in sexual activities while maintaining complete command of himself.

Even given Jim's wide-open mind, the way it called to him, the way his emotions bled into Spock almost as if they were bonded already. The way it tasted of golden sun and a swift sharpness; its dynamism and its fire. Even though it was everything Spock wanted.

He buried his nose in the hair at the nape of Jim's neck. If they bonded, someday, there would be no need to hold back. He only had to be patient.

Chapter Text

Jim awoke alone in Spock’s bed, as he often had before. For a minute he wondered if the whole thing had been a dream. But no, it was far too detailed. He remembered the huff of Spock’s breath against his cock, the silkiness of that straight black hair when he tangled his fingers in it. He had come so hard he had passed out soon after coming to bed, which was kind of an asshole move given Spock hadn’t gotten off yet. He’d tried, but Spock had only seemed to want to cuddle.

Odd. Because Spock had wanted him; Jim didn’t think he was wrong about that. He had begged, even.

Well. Jim would just have to find a way to get him back today. Before shift if possible. In a stalled turbolift if he had to. He wanted to see Spock come apart under his hands. To find out what his face looked like when he came.

The door to the bathroom shushed open, and there was Spock, naked and flushed from the sonic. Jim stared at him for a moment, taking in his powerful arms, his slim waist and hips, the trail of hair down his chest and belly. His cock was not in evidence—Vulcans being one of the species that sensibly protected theirs inside when they weren’t in use—but Jim let his eyes linger on Spock’s crotch anyway.

“Jim,” Spock breathed, and then he was crossing the room, falling into bed on top of him. Their lips found each other. Jim cupped Spock’s firm, bare ass in his hands, startled but not complaining.

Spock pulled back slightly and propped himself on his elbow. “Apologies,” he said softly. “I had not meant to miss you waking up.”

“That’s okay, I only panicked that I’d dreamed the whole thing for, like, a second,” said Jim.

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Is that something you often dream about?”

“All the damn time,” said Jim. “I just don’t come to you with those. It’s always a good night when I dream of you.”

“You will come to me with those now,” said Spock, his tone somewhere between certainty and command.

“I’ll be in your bed already.” Jim pushed at Spock to roll him over and straddle him. He took the opportunity to shed his shirt, and Spock seemed suitably impressed, eyes and hands roving over his chest.

“You are very . . . aesthetically pleasing, Jim,” said Spock, averting his eyes in an embarrassed look.

“You can say hot, I won’t tell anyone.” Jim bent to kiss him. God, Spock could kiss. He gave it his whole attention, like he did to anything he set his mind to. Jim slid his tongue into Spock’s mouth, encountering no resistance. Spock’s breath caught and his hips bucked under Jim’s.

Jim started grinding slowly against him as they kissed. Spock’s body rocked under him, and he choked out, “Jim.”

“Yeah?” Jim groped around with one hand, found Spock’s, and covered it with his, palm to palm. Spock’s fingers adjusted, aligning their fingertips together, and there it was again, that strange electric spark he’d felt when Spock touched his face. That must be why Vulcans did it, to align their psi points.

Spock’s back arched, pressing upward. His eyes were tightly closed, a little line between his eyebrows. Jim adjusted himself to slide a hand down, finding Spock’s slit only slightly open. He ran a finger up it. It was slick and Jim could feel the bulge of his cock ready to come out. More slowly, he glided his finger back down, pressing it between the sides of the slit to brush the cock within.

Spock’s breath stuttered. His other hand came up and stroked Jim’s face, sparking more zaps. It felt amazing, like a faint echo of the meld they’d had, and Jim leaned into Spock’s hand.

Suddenly, Spock jerked his hand away, his eyes snapping open. Jim paused. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

“I . . . apologize,” said Spock. “I am not in as much control of myself as I should be.”

“There isn’t much self-control in sex,” Jim countered. “Thought that was a given.”

“Vulcans must control ourselves. It is not so simple for us.”

Jim took a deep breath, trying not to feel frustrated, and rolled off him. This was Spock. The important thing was that they were together, not what they did. “Why not?”

“I do not want to hurt you, Jim,” he said softly. “Which I could do, especially if I melded with you when I was not fully in control.”

“Then let’s not meld,” said Jim. “Can’t we just have sex without it?”

“It is instinctual,” said Spock. “And when I slacken my control, I—” He turned his face away. “I am sorry.”

“It’s okay,” said Jim, reaching for his hand. “We’ll figure something out.”

Spock pulled their hands close to kiss Jim’s fingertips. “I only want to please you.”

“You do, Spock. Promise.”

Spock was quiet for a moment, playing with Jim’s fingers. “Do you not feel it, Jim? Our minds calling to each other?”

“You mean the thing where I feel like I need to be touching you all the time? Or the telepathic zaps? Those always make me want more.”

“That is resonance from our minds brushing.”

“Does that always happen?”

“It has never happened to me before.”

Jim turned on his side, nestling against Spock’s shoulder. “I’ve never felt like this before either.” He traced his fingers idly over Spock’s chest. “I don’t know if I’ve exactly been in love before at all. Not very seriously. Definitely not like this.”

“What exists between us is . . . unique,” said Spock. “I will have to do further research to understand what it is.”

“Research? Spock, you just said it was unique. Pretty sure love can't be quantified.”

“It can,” said Spock. “Vulcans do.”

Jim laughed, nuzzling against Spock's neck. “Of course you do. Well, I hope your research says you're wrong about . . . all this. I really want to touch you more and I'm pretty sure you want that too.”

“I do,” Spock said fervently. 

“You know, I don't have that irresistible temptation. I can't meld, and not being a telepath I guess I don't feel it exactly the same way. Do you think maybe . . . would you trust me to keep your hands busy, so you couldn't? It's not like you're not in control of your hands at all, right? It's that you get carried away and forget that you're not supposed to.”

Spock looked thoughtful. “I suppose that might be acceptable. I still . . .” His voice lowered. “It is very shameful to have to ask you to have control for me.”

“Spock,” said Jim, “has it occurred to you that I take it as a compliment?” He kicked off his shorts, now as bare as Spock was. Spock rolled to face him, eyes scanning down his body hungrily. Jim's cock, which had lost interest during all the discussion, perked back up. 

Jim took one of Spock's hands and put it on his dick. When those long fingers wrapped around him, he let out a moan. “God, Spock, do you know how much I've wanted you?”

“I believe so,” said Spock solemnly.

Jim held Spock's other hand in his, interlacing the fingers. “Okay?”

By way of answer, Spock began to stroke his cock, slowly, his thumb gently brushing over the head from time to time. Jim reached down with his free hand and touched Spock's slit again. It hadn’t closed any while they'd been talking. Jim slid a finger inside.

Spock's eyes lost their focus immediately. It was the only visible sign of his pleasure, but under Jim's hand, the slit was parting. He moved his finger, probing inside the sheath, and now Spock's breath hitched. His wet cock slipped out into Jim's hand. 

Jim adjusted Spock's hand to hold both cocks against each other and wrapped his hand over the top of Spock's. “Good?” he whispered. 

“Yes, Jim,” said Spock, the soft husk in his voice sending a fresh wave of lust through Jim's body. Their hands moved together, setting a steady rhythm. Jim would have moved faster, himself, but Spock was right to make it last. The urgency of his lust was one thing, but this was important. Special. Worth taking some time.

Jim stared into Spock's eyes, warm and brown and blown wide. He felt like he could fall into those eyes. He wanted to get closer, somehow. He wanted to be one. 

Spock's left hand suddenly loosened in Jim's, pulling upward. Jim tightened his hold. “We're not doing that, remember?”

“Yes,” Spock whispered, relief in his voice. He pressed his forehead against Jim's. “But I want to.”

“I know.”

“Your mind calls to me, Jim.” Spock's voice wobbled slightly. 

He needed to give that hand something to do. Jim pulled Spock's hand to his mouth and ran his tongue over the fingertips. Spock's breath huffed out. Jim took two fingers in his mouth and sucked. 

Spock made a soft choking sound, and his hand on their cocks moved faster. “Jim, I— Jim!”  

Something opened wide in Jim's mind. He felt like he was on one side of a thin screen and there, right there, right on the other side, was Spock's mind. Vast and intricate and tantalizing. Sparking with thoughts too fast to follow, and beneath that a steady pulse of deep emotion. It was him, really him, and Jim wanted to break through that screen more than anything. 

He had the overwhelming urge to let go of Spock's hand, to pull it toward his face like he had in the hospital. He could feel how badly Spock wanted it too. But no. He had promised. He bit down a little on Spock's fingers, just enough to keep him in place, whimpering desperately around them.

Spock's hand tightened on their cocks, and then they were coming, hard, together. Time seemed to stand still, so that Jim could feel each individual throb of their cocks against each other, each individual drop of Spock's cum spattering his belly. His body felt electric, vibrating on a different plane.

When he came back to earth they were both shaking. He burrowed against Spock's chest, letting those strong arms surround him. For a long minute neither of them could speak.

“Are you well, Jim?”

Jim took a deep breath in and out. “That was—”

“Intense,” said Spock, and Jim wasn’t sure if Spock was speaking for himself or pulling the rest of the sentence out of Jim’s mind. The edges of their minds still seemed fuzzy.

“It seems I was wrong about not being tempted to meld.”

Spock's mouth twitched. “I noticed that.”

“Did we meld?” he asked doubtfully.

“Not quite,” said Spock, “but we came much closer to it than I believed possible in such a scenario.”

“If we could accidentally meld even without your hands on my face, then . . .” Jim didn’t want to finish the sentence. That had been too good not to repeat, but at the same time he knew just how close they had gotten. If it really was that dangerous, they couldn’t keep tempting fate. 

He’d learned that lesson the first time he’d messed around with a girlfriend, thinking it was okay neither of them was on anything yet because they weren’t going to go all the way. It was the kind of resolution it was easy to make sober, and impossible to stick to later with your brain addled with sex hormones. The body wanted what it wanted and would have its way sooner or later.

But with the girlfriend, it had been simple, after that first close call, to go get their contraceptive hypos and then have blissful sex in her dad’s barn every day after school, until she had dumped him to get with a farm kid with shoulders like an ox. This was different. No amount of protection could stop this from happening, not if it tried to happen despite all their control. And the one-sided thing from last night wasn’t going to be enough. Jim was viscerally repelled by the idea of not returning the favor, ever. It was just the kind of thing that triggered all of his feelings of being too needy, taking too much, giving too little. He couldn’t do it even if Spock wanted to.

Spock interrupted his spiraling thoughts with a kiss. “I will look into possibilities in my research today. Perhaps there is some solution. Meanwhile, however, it is zero seven forty-one.”

“It's what?” demanded Jim. “Shit, I'm on alpha. And I need to shower. And coffee. Not that I'm complaining, but last night was pretty light on sleep.”

“I will bring you coffee on the bridge,” said Spock, searching through the blankets for Jim's clothes. 

Neither of them said I love you. It seemed a little superfluous at this point. Jim knew what he’d felt from Spock. And Spock couldn’t possibly have missed how Jim felt, either. But Jim lingered on a slow kiss before heading back to his room. He had wanted to do it so many times; he had a lot to make up for.

Chapter Text

“Sorry to interrupt your planetary survey with yet another diversion,” said Pike, on Jim’s office console.

“Really not a problem,” said Jim. “As you can see from our reports, we’ve had kind of bad luck with the planetary survey so far.”

“Nature of the beast,” said Pike. “If you’re looking for strange new worlds, they’re a dime a dozen. If you want a place people can live, you’re going to be looking for a while.” He pulled a padd in front of him. “What do you know about Delta Pavonis II?”

Jim racked his mind. “Wasn’t that contested between Vulcan and Andoria for like a century, before the Federation?”

“Got it in one. They both claimed it, they couldn’t agree, so finally they made a treaty that nobody would be allowed to settle there. A treaty that was promptly ignored by enterprising individuals on both sides.”

“Now that they’re allies, can’t they just share it?”

“Theoretically, sure. But now that it’s inhabited, whoever’s currently there has some kind of squatters’ rights, at least. They’ve been there over a hundred years. Allegedly. Subspace contact from both homeworlds has been consistently rejected for at least fifty. They’re not out of contact with the rest of the galaxy, so we know there are definitely people there, or were as recently as five years ago. But we don’t know who’s in charge there, what they want, or why they’re not phoning home.”

“Prodigal children,” said Jim.

“That, or a Romeo and Juliet affair—they’re getting along great with each other, but want nothing to do with their parents. No way to tell without going there, and neither Vulcan nor Andoria wanted to spare a ship to do it till recently. Now, with the Romulan threat getting worse, they’d really like to either get that planet under the umbrella of Vulcan or Andor or get it to join the Federation on its own account. At the very least, make some kind of treaty.”

“Feels like they should send an ambassador,” said Jim.

“They really should. Unfortunately, a lot of ambassadors were lost with Earth and there are a lot of urgent treaties to work out first. Beyond that, ambassadors deal with governments and we’re not sure they even have one. Your job is to find out the will of the people, as best you can, and that means both Vulcan and Andorian settlers. If they’re in a state of conflict, I don’t expect you to solve it, but we need to know. Whatever kind of leaders they have, check in on them, rate them on the Federation Government Scale, and talk to them about maybe calling home.”

“That’s a lot of possibilities,” said Jim.

“It sure is, and that’s why we’re sending you. I argued that, as a human, you’ll be neutral in the fight, and as Jim Kirk, you’ll be able to think on your feet regardless of what you find there. Some of these older captains need their mission spelled out for them. I’m pretty sure you don’t.”

Jim swallowed. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, sir.”

Pike raised his eyebrows. “If you don't think your crew is up to it—”

“They are,” Jim interrupted, flashing the trademark Jim Kirk grin, the one that made everyone believe he knew what he was talking about, whether or not he did. “And so am I. I'll keep you posted.”

Jim called a briefing and got there early, in the hopes that Spock would be early too and they could catch a moment alone. Instead, Gaila bounced in only a minute after him. She sniffed the air. “Heyyy, congrats!” she said. “I was beginning to wonder about you two.”

Jim sniffed himself. “I showered and everything,” he said, dismayed.

“Vulcan pheromones are very penetrating,” she said. “You’ll be sweating him out for days.” 

“Don't tell the whole ship, okay? It's new and I really need to check with Pike before we go public with it.”

“You know I'm not a snitch,” said Gaila. “Now if you want some sex advice—”

“Managing just fine, thank you!” Jim interrupted. 

“Edging,” said Gaila anyway. “Vulcans fucking love it. The longer you make them wait, the longer and harder they come.”

“Kinda surprised you know that. I thought Vulcans weren't much for casual sex.”

“You'd think that, wouldn't you? But no, after a childhood being lectured on absolute control at all times, they are only too happy to leave logic at the door.”

Uhura had come in in the middle of the sentence. “Who leaves logic at the door?”

“Vulcans,” said Gaila. “At least the ones at the embassy I used to bang.”

Uhura sighed. “Spock has the zeal of a convert when it comes to the Vulcan way. He's convinced he's got to follow every letter he was taught, and meanwhile the full Vulcans pick and choose.”

“Really,” said Jim. “So you'd say he doesn't need to be as careful as he thinks he does?”

“The world will never know,” she said, sliding into a seat. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason.” He exchanged a glance with Gaila, hopefully communicating no, don’t even tell your girlfriend.

Scotty came in next, and the talk switched to engines until it was time to start the meeting. Spock walked in with four seconds to spare, which was exactly the amount of time he needed to get to his chair and be seated by 1300.

Busy researching, Jim hoped. Finding the lost text of Surak that said actually, you should meld during sex every time, it's good for the neurons.

“Delta Pavonis,” Jim declared. “Sorry to the science team, but we’re being sent into a diplomatic situation before we can proceed to Procyon III for the next survey.”

“I’ve heard of it,” said Sulu. “Isn’t it almost as reclusive as Safehold?”

“They trade with a lot of planets outside the Federation,” said Jim. “They just really hate us, or at least their parent planets. We should be prepared for some amount of hostility.”

“Great,” muttered Bones.

“On the other hand, it’s an opportunity to see a unique culture that’s been developing for a century,” Jim pointed out. “Eona, your department will definitely be called on, and if it goes well you might get a lot of research done.”

The bald woman nodded, looking pleased. 

Sh’relin ventured, “Perhaps it would be better for Spock and me to stay in the background for this one?”

“Do you think your safety will be at risk?” Jim asked.

She shook her head, somewhat hesitantly. “I just worry you’ll lower your chances of a positive diplomatic result if you bring people from their parent planets.”

Jim shook his head. “We may as well be honest from the outset about who we are. It’s not like the Enterprise and her crew aren’t pretty well publicized. They’d find out even if we tried to hide it. And honestly, as a Federation ship, I think we’re well enough connected to Vulcan and Andoria that they’d hate us anyway.”

He passed out reading materials and assigned preparatory tasks, and after a bit more discussion the meeting broke up. Spock leaned in slightly, his hand resting on Jim’s thigh under the table. “My research has been quite involved,” he murmured, low. “If I am quite busy over the next few days, be assured it is on that account.”

Jim felt himself flushing, even though the words had been innocuous. “Take all the time you need, Mr. Spock. I think it’s a priority over your other work.”

Spock left, to Jim’s distress, before the room was even half empty. No time for even a kiss. But he was right; his research took priority. Kinda hot that he didn’t want to lose a minute.

Bones lingered after everyone else had left. “Didn’t see you at breakfast this morning.”

“I, uh, overslept.” Jim glanced down, biting his lip. Bones was his best friend; he should know. “Actually that’s a lie, Spock and I are dating now.”

“Oh really? I’ll tell him he’s not allowed to let you miss breakfast.”

“You don’t sound surprised.”

“Jim. The most stone-cold ‘I have no feelings’ Vulcan of them all has been following you around and making you dinner. It wasn’t hard to figure out. At first, I was worried it was all on your side, and you were going to get hurt, but once I stopped believing his bullshit about not having feelings, I could see it was only a matter of time.”

Jim tried to frown. “You might have told me.”

“And deprive you of the growth experience called actually confessing your own feelings?”

“Bold assumption that I ever voluntarily did that.”

Bones rolled his eyes. “Anyway I’m not just here to nag you about breakfast, I’ve got news. Keep this under your hat, mind, as captain you need to know as soon as possible and she agreed with me about that, but she’s not ready to tell anyone else yet.”

“Ensign Ramirez is pregnant?” Jim asked eagerly. Not that he wanted babies on the ship, exactly, but she had made her case pretty well that she ought to have one.

“No such luck,” said Bones. “It’s Prrk.”

“What?” said Jim. “I thought it was pretty easy to avoid, if they didn’t want to. Or— does she want to?”

“She didn’t,” said Bones. “There was a bit of a miscommunication between her and her mates about what they were and weren’t supposed to do to her, and . . . yeah, now there’s four guys who might be the dad. Plus one gal who’s actually responsible because she was a little too good at her job and triggered ovulation.”

“Do I want to know how?”

“Probably not, but I need to share the misery. It was a dildo with spines. The woman did enough research to know Caitians love the hell out of spines, and not enough to know why they love them, evolutionarily.”

Jim crossed his legs involuntarily. “So what’s Prrk want to do?”

“She’s not sure. She didn’t want to have a kid off-planet, away from her support network, and she’s a little worried a mixed-species kid is going to feel out of place. At the same time, she did want to have a kid eventually so she’s kind of getting into the idea.”

“As far as support networks go, she could do worse than the Enterprise. Especially if Ramirez ends up having a baby too. We could set up a whole daycare at this rate.”

“I’ll tell her she’s got your support. Which she’ll need in a hurry, by the way. Caitian pregnancy is only five months by our clock.”

Jim let his head fall backward in frustration. “I sure hope we find a planet soon, Bones.”

“You and me both. When Benji came aboard, for a while Joanna was no trouble at all. Now they’re both running me ragged. We’re doing our best, but they need to run around outside at some point.”

“Well, if we have any luck on Delta Pavonis, we might be able to arrange for some shore leave for everybody. Just depends how friendly these guys are.”

“With our luck,” said Bones, “they’ll shoot us on sight.”

Jim lay on his bunk, reading on his padd. He was on attachment four out of nine Spock had sent him this evening. I have not yet found the answer, the cover message read, but I have gathered some required reading for anyone attempting a relationship with a Vulcan.

It was, admittedly, interesting stuff. About bonds, how they were formed, and how they worked. If they bonded, they would be able to support each other emotionally, feeling each other’s love from any distance. They would be aware if the other was in danger and receive a burst of adrenaline to resolve the situation. Vulcans believed the bond persisted after death.

A priestess would have to establish it for them, which might be difficult given he was a human, but Spock’s parents had eventually been able to accomplish it.

The next article was about pon farr and Jim’s eyes steadily widened as he read it. If he’d thought a Caitian heat was hardcore, this one was life and death, and if he bonded with Spock, he would be the only one who could do it.

Not that Jim didn’t want to do it. He thought it would be pretty hot, especially because melding during sex was required during pon farr. He wondered what the difference was.

Then there was a sex-ed text given to Vulcan teenagers, which was as stiff and judgmental as anything Jim had read from a Terran church. Though . . . from a very different angle.

Sexual activity can be pleasurable and it is not illogical to partake of that pleasure. However, the mind must be master of the body at all times, including this time. One who has achieved true mastery of the mind and body should be able to detach from the sexual instinct entirely, such that one can stop at any time, even moments before climax, walk away, and begin a deep meditation without difficulty. Until you have mastered this ability on your own, you are insufficiently mature to experiment with another.

Well, that explained Spock’s hangups pretty well. From Gaila’s comments, other Vulcans took this about as seriously as human teenagers took abstinence pamphlets, but it seemed Spock had internalized it entirely.

And he had said he’d never had trouble with it before. Jim smirked a little. So Spock was in total control of himself normally, it was just Jim that threatened it. Not so bad for his ego.

Casual sexual activity is a useful outlet for the body’s tensions provided all proper safety measures have been enacted as described in chapter three. However, control must be maintained at all times. A lack of control may lead to a triggering of the melding instinct. This is very dangerous, as melding in such a disturbed state risks the uncontrolled formation of a bond.

Jim stopped. Blinked. That was the danger? Accidentally bonding? Bonding was what Jim obviously wanted to do. Didn’t Spock? Or it was just moving too fast for him? Surely the latter, given the reams of required reading. But he would have thought Spock would have told him.

It is normal to strongly desire to complete the bond with your betrothed. However, it is vital to receive your parents’ confirmation of your maturity first, as well as to have the bond properly formed by a professional. Bonds formed unintentionally may be weak, unstable, or unbalanced between the mates.

Jim relaxed a little. If Spock wanted to have this thing done right, that was fine. They’d be back on Vulcan in a few more months for resupply. Given the intensity of his craving for Spock’s mind—which hadn’t entirely gone away—a few months felt like forever. But at least there was a defined endpoint. Especially given the next paragraph:

The mental stimulation of melded sexual activity is reserved to bondmates. It is without risk in this case and strengthens their bond. After bonding, it is wise to engage in this activity frequently. No matter how absorbing your work or studies, do not let a week go by without suggesting it to your mate.

Jim liked the sound of that. The warning in the last sentence was entirely unnecessary.

The bathroom door shushed open, and Spock poked his head in, already in his pajamas. “You are not in my bed,” he said accusingly.

“It was lonely without you. You done researching for the day?” He got to his feet to follow Spock into his room.

“Yes. My results have not been promising. I cannot find information in any of the open databases about such a thing happening before at all. Not two minds as harmonious as ours; not this overpowering urge to meld; and not this bleedover of emotions without having bonded. My current hypothesis is that it has something to do with the uncontrolled meld we experienced previously. However, it is also possible that it has something to do with your human mind. Very few humans have so much as melded with Vulcan.”

“Maybe it’s your brain,” said Jim, a little sulkily. 

“If so, it is something that has arisen exclusively upon contact with yours.”

“I still like the idea that it’s because my brain is just that sexy.”

“It is, Jim,” said Spock, his voice provocatively dropping half an octave. “But I believe there must be more to it than that.”

Jim was already dressed for bed, and he burrowed under Spock’s covers. “No sex tonight, I guess.”

“I do not believe it would be safe. However, I would be perfectly willing to attend to your needs in this matter.”

“Absolutely not,” said Jim. “You know how I feel about stuff like that.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Your desire for reciprocity extends that far? I assure you I would enjoy it.”

“You know what I think you’d enjoy?” said Jim. “Getting cuddled. I have a theory that you love the hell out of being touched, and I’m willing to test it.”

Spock crawled into bed beside Jim immediately. “What types of touch are you looking to test?”

Jim pretended to think about it. “Well, first I thought I’d pet you like a cat. Then maybe some deep massage. I might lie all over you if I can do it without driving myself too crazy. By then I’m hoping you’ll be nice and sleepy, and I can just wrap myself around you all night.”

Spock’s eyes widened throughout this description, and at the end his nostrils flared. “You may proceed.”

“Now I’m not trying to torture you, so if anything I do gets you too horny, let me know.” Jim started small, petting Spock’s hair, fine as silk and heavy enough to fall straight down no matter how he pushed it around. He dug his fingertips into Spock’s scalp, massaging it firmly, and Spock’s eyes fluttered shut.

Encouraged, Jim sat upright, folding his legs in front of him, and rolled Spock onto his stomach. He stroked from Spock’s shoulderblade down to his waist over his pajama shirt. Spock arched slightly into his hand like an eager cat.

“You’ve been starving for this, haven’t you,” Jim breathed, returning to the nape of Spock’s neck to pet him again. “Nobody on this ship touches you but me.”

“And you have never touched me enough,” said Spock.

“Oh?” said Jim, raising his eyebrows. “I see I’ll have to up my game.”

Spock did not answer. The yes was implied.

Jim moved on to the massage, rolling his knuckles gently on either side of Spock’s cervical vertebrae. Spock buried his face in his pillow. It was too bad he wasn’t noisier about his feedback, but Jim could feel it anyway, feel a languorous pleasure spreading through Spock’s body like honey.

“Your shoulders are so tense.”

“I have good muscle tone,” said Spock.

“So it makes no difference if I go like this?” He rolled the side of his hand over the knots, and Spock heavily exhaled.

“I did not say that.”

“Mmm.” The shoulders took a good few minutes, and then he moved down, gently pressing at the bottom of Spock’s trapezius, where it attached to his spine. “Here it’s not so bad. You have such good posture.”

“I am pleased that it . . . meets with your approval,” said Spock drowsily.

Jim slowly moved down either side of Spock’s backbone, feeling the muscles relax under his hands. The two hollows just above his waist, on either side of his spine, looked like a good angle to get at Spock’s lumbar muscles. He made his hands into fists and dug them in.

Spock tensed instantly, everywhere, all Jim’s work undone in a second. “I’m sorry—I’m so sorry,” Jim blurted, stroking the area lightly. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You did not—hurt me,” Spock ground out.

“Spock, you acted like I’d electrocuted you.”

“In Vulcans, that is the location of the testicles,” said Spock, and Jim snatched his hand away. “I was merely . . . not prepared for a stimulation of that magnitude.”

Jim groaned. “I was trying to do the opposite of that!”

Spock turned over, gazing up at Jim with warm, liquid eyes. “Your touch arouses me wherever you put your hands, Jim. There is no helping that.”

“Should I stop then?”

“You know I am well capable of enduring arousal without release.”

“Sucks for you, though.”

“It does not,” said Spock. “If you are torturing me, it is a most exquisite torture.”

Jim flushed. Now he was getting hard. But he took a deep breath. If Spock wanted this, he would get it. Jim began working down Spock’s front: the hinge of the jaw, the front of the shoulders, Spock’s lean but solid biceps. Spock’s eyelids lowered to slits, like a contented cat.

Jim circled Spock’s forearm with his hands and rubbed downward, feeling the radius and ulna shift with his touch. “Should I skip your hands?”

“You should not,” Spock murmured, mouth barely moving.

Jim began on Spock’s hands. The major erogenous zone was the fingertips, where the psi points were. He’d figured that part out already. But when he dug his thumbs into Spock’s palm, the arch of Spock’s neck showed it was certainly doing something to him. He smoothed the muscle between Spock’s palm and thumb, massaging carefully to avoid pinching anything. Spock’s long fingers draped languidly over Jim’s wrist, but his toes were curling a little bit. Damn, when they could have sex again he’d be using this knowledge. A lot.

He laid that arm down and took up the other one, repeating the movements. Spock watched him from under heavy eyelids. Jim couldn’t help but notice the front of Spock’s pajama pants was bulging a bit and visibly damp. If it were Jim, he would demand to either stop or have sex right away, but Spock simply drank it in.

Jim kneaded Spock’s powerful thighs, his lean calves, his sharp anklebones. His feet, it seemed, weren’t sensitive like his hands, but when Jim dug his thumbs into the arches, he could see Spock’s whole body relax even more heavily down into the mattress. Jim smiled smugly to himself.

When he was finished, he draped himself diagonally across Spock, head on his shoulder, chest to chest, groins carefully not touching. He wanted so much for them to be touching he wanted to cry, but that was all right. This was foreplay, even if it might end up lasting for months, till they got to Vulcan. If Gaila knew what she was talking about, maybe Spock would like that.

Spock’s hand slid up Jim’s shirt and splayed on his lower back. His fingers were warm. Jim could feel Spock’s contentment seeping into him, crowding out his own lust and frustration. Spock’s mind was warm, replete, with arousal stirring throughout like a hot thread, but not urgent. Instead it felt like only part of a larger whole, a whole that was dark and rich with love and affection and comfort and happiness. Spock had created this feeling, he realized, encouraging those he wanted and banking down the ones he did not. But Jim had also created it, because most of what Spock felt right now was the joy of being loved. Of finally, finally being touched enough.

The call of Spock’s mind pulled at Jim, whispering of what it would be like to be inside that contentment, obliterating that ache of longing Spock still felt. But he hung on and let the feeling wash over him. He would answer that call when it was time. Until then, he would simply listen to it.

Chapter Text

Spock awoke with Jim wrapped around him like an octopus. It was only 0500 hours, his usual time to wake up, but Jim would need more sleep than that. Carefully, he began to extract himself.

Jim tightened his arms sleepily, nose rubbing against the back of Spock’s neck. Spock had an intense temptation to stay where he was. Perhaps he no longer needed sleep, but he did need Jim’s touch, to feel the faint susurrus of Jim’s thoughts under his skin.

But Spock was at his most efficient when he kept to his daily schedule, so he untwined Jim’s arm from around his chest, turning onto his back.

“Don’t go,” Jim mumbled, his eyes still shut.

“Jim, I have many tasks to perform, as well as my morning meditation.”

Jim’s eyes opened a little. “Cuddling is very meditative.”

“I have research yet to accomplish,” Spock protested.

This seemed to be a convincing argument for Jim. He leaned in, lips brushing Spock’s ear. “Anything that gets me closer to fucking you,” he mumured, kissed the tip of the ear, and rolled away.

Spock sighed. He had awakened slightly aroused, chenesi aching with the seminal fluid they had produced last night, and Jim’s words made the situation worse. It was an underhanded strategy, and like so many of his strategies, highly effective. As always, if he could not win fairly, he would cheat.

Spock could see he would have to develop a new schedule soon. Denying Jim anything he wanted was simply not feasible in the long term.

But this morning, there genuinely was work to be done, so he arose, tucked the blankets back around Jim, and kissed his cheek. 

Spock’s research kept encountering dead ends. Nothing in the records he had access to quite fit. The closest parallel was if they had had some kind of preliminary bond. It would account for their intense desire to meld. And, if they did have a properly formed preliminary bond, it could be completed on their own without danger. 

If Jim, of course, wanted any such thing. He had read everything Spock had sent him, but he had said nothing about whether a Vulcan bond appealed to him. Nyota had been reluctant, saying that humans expected a longer courtship before committing entirely to anything. She had also worried about the trauma to Spock if they had to break it, a situation she seemed to consider a real possibility. But she had tentatively agreed that after a few years together, it might be acceptable.

But Jim was different, he had known that from the beginning. Jim was like a ray of golden light, like a desert falcon. Would it even be right to tie him down with a bond? Especially to someone like himself: steady, serious, widely considered boring. Mental harmony or not, it hardly seemed a fair match for Jim.

In any event, it could not be a preliminary bond, because that was something voluntarily established by a third party. It was sometimes challenging to form. The meld setting up his preliminary bond with T’Pring had taken 47 minutes. How could a rushed meld involving mainly the speech centers have an effect like that?

And even if it had, that did nothing to explain the harmony of their minds, which Spock could not help but find important. Perhaps it was nothing, of course—a hallucination due to the disturbed state of his mind; a mistaken impression. But he had never intended to meld at all, and a meld had taken place; this was fact. Jim had certainly not initiated it; he would not have known how even if he had had the ability.

With minds so open to one another, it would almost be impossible to keep them apart. If Spock meant to do so, he would have to leave the ship. The struggle would wear him down otherwise. His control was excellent, but even he had moments of weakness, especially when it came to Jim.

The question Spock needed to answer was whether it spoke positively to their compatibility or would involve some danger to either of them. The lack of control he had over it was worrisome. He could not even suggest the notion unless he could guarantee its safety.

So far Spock had collected one vague poem and 19 citations that were not very useful. But that was from the public databases. Vulcans could never resist the impulse to be secretive, especially in matters like this. The most relevant data would be hidden away.

He had two options: attempt to hack into the VSA mainframe, or call his father.

Fortunately, he had an expired login at the VSA from when he had applied. That would be a useful start.

After six hours getting into the VSA digital library and an hour trying a variety of queries, Spock realized that he was being highly illogical. This was the sort of question which, if answerable, a living Vulcan could answer best. If his father did not know the answer, he would surely be able to connect him to someone who did.

It was only that, after years out of contact, he had learned to treasure the freedom that came from his father knowing zero point zero percent of his personal business.

Kaiidth. He would do it for Jim.

He calculated the time on Vulcan and opened a connection. Sarek answered immediately, as Spock had known he would. He was always in his study at this time of day. “Live long and prosper, Father,” said Spock, raising the ta’al.

“Peace and long life, my son,” said Sarek on the other end of the connection. “What do you need?”

Spock repressed amusement. Of course Sarek knew there was no reason he would ever call on Sarek’s private commline unless he wanted something. If he had wanted to chat, he would have called the kitchen line and spoken with Amanda. “I have a question about telepathic harmonization,” he asked. “Is it possible for two people to require no harmonization at all within a meld?”

“After decades of being bonded, certainly,” said Sarek. “Minds tend to harmonize over time.”

“I mean upon a first meld,” Spock clarified. “These persons would not have any reason for their minds to already be harmonized.”

Sarek looked at Spock impassively for a moment. “I remember a case last century. It was within our family, or I likely would not have heard of it. It was a t’hy’la bond.”

Spock raised an eyebrow in surprise. “I thought those were mythical. A mind at one between two bodies.”

“They are quite real, albeit rare,” said Sarek. “It speaks of high compatibility for bonding. Perhaps better to say, for the bond that they will have. It is impossible that they would not bond. Their compatibility would drive them to it. I imagine the desire to do so would be irresistible.”

“I believed it was irresponsible to bond without the assistance of a priestess,” said Spock. “That it might form improperly, or damage one or both of their minds.”

“Not in such a case. The bond is entirely natural to them; it would be more difficult not to form it.”

“And it works as a normal mating bond?”

“I believe it far surpasses what a mating bond normally entails,” said Sarek. “It is a mating bond, but the connection would be deeper and stronger. It could not be broken.”

“I see,” said Spock. “Thank you, Father.”

“Give my regards to Captain Kirk when you see him,” said Sarek.

Spock’s eyebrow shot up, a tell his father would pick up in an instant. Unfortunate. “I will do so. Live long and prosper.”

He closed the connection and returned to the VSA library. T’hy’la, he typed in the query box.

Jim came into Spock’s quarters the minute he was done with his evening lap around the ship. The one he told Bones was a healthy and relaxing walk for his mental health, but which actually hit up every department on the ship so he could check in on everybody. It was funny how a few months ago, he’d been quizzing himself on their names, and now he knew everyone’s favorite dinner orders, deceased relatives’ names, and current relationship status. Stuff you couldn’t get by scheduling more meetings.

Spock looked up from his computer when Jim came in. His face softened, and Jim found himself beaming back, purely by reflex. Spock made him so happy.

He draped himself over Spock’s shoulders, glancing at the computer screen before pressing a kiss into his neck. “Did you hack into the VSA?”

“I have a valid login,” Spock said defensively. “. . . That expired six point four years ago. In any event this is information we need.”

“I’m not criticizing, Spock, I’d be a real hypocrite if I looked down on hacking. I think it shows initiative.”

Spock flashed his judgiest eyebrow before returning his eyes to the screen. “I believe I now know why we are so irresistible to each other.”

“Please don’t tell me it’s pheromones or mind control or something,” said Jim. “I need this to be real.”

“No, it is quite real. Though I previously believed it was a myth. The harmony of our minds means that we are t’hy’la. One soul in two bodies. If we were to bond, it would be very deep and unbreakable.”

Jim leaned forward for a better look at Spock’s face. “Why do you look worried about that?”

“I believe that if we meld a second time, we will immediately bond. I suspect, though I cannot be sure, that a nascent bond may have already been formed from our brief contact before. It would explain why we are so driven to its completion.”

Jim waited. Spock didn’t continue. “I still don’t see the problem.”

“Jim, we have not been together for even forty-eight hours,” said Spock. “I am aware of the usual human relationship timelines.”

“A normal Vulcan relationship timeline is to get engaged at seven,” said Jim. “I think we’re special either way.”

Spock sighed, lifting Jim’s arms off his shoulders so he could turn his chair around. “I do not want to bind you to me permanently until you have had a chance to consider it. To understand all it entails.”

Jim climbed into his lap, resting his hands on Spock’s shoulders. He’d been snarking back, in his usual self-protective way, but he needed to try being honest instead. “Spock,” he said softly, “I lost everything.”

“That is another consideration,” said Spock.

Jim shook his head. “I lost everything and you were there. You didn’t try to fix me or push me to work through it. You waited, and when I was ready to talk you were there too. And this whole time as my first officer, you’ve been there. Never undermining the way I wanted to do things, but always filling in the gaps of what I didn’t know or couldn’t get to. When I tried that meld on you, it was with the understanding that it could have destroyed my mind. I needed you back, whatever the risk.”

Spock bowed his head. “I am uncertain if I was worth the risk.”

“You were to me,” said Jim. “You always are to me.” He kissed Spock, slow and savoring. “So. That's why I want to bond. Do you want to?”

“The connection between our minds is something that happens once in a generation, if that,” said Spock. “It would be illogical not to—”

Jim cut him off. “No, without reference to that. I don't want to feel like you're doing this because you just happened to find a brain that makes your brain light up.”

“I believe love could well be defined as ‘finding a brain that makes your brain light up.’”

“Sure, but you said you liked me before you even knew about that, before we'd melded at all. Did you want to bond with me then?”

“Of course,” said Spock easily. “I came to respect you during our first mission together. I realized your insubordinate attitude concealed a brilliant mind and unparalleled courage. You refused to admit defeat, even after it had already taken place. That resolve allowed you to do things no one else even considered.”

“So that's why you took me home with you?”

Spock tipped his head to the side. “I was concerned about you. Also, my alternate self urged me to take care of you.”

Jim stared, and then he started to laugh. “Oh my god. That old man set us up!”

“I assumed you had an important role in history.”

“I'm pretty sure I was his husband. This t'hy'la thing—it's innate, right? It would happen in any timeline.”

“I find your leap of logic plausible. Of course, that does not necessitate we choose the same. Our choices are our own.”

“Good,” said Jim. “Because I want to choose you for myself.”

Spock cupped Jim's cheek in his hand, stroking over a psi point. The stab of excitement, yearning, Spock, was stronger than ever. “I choose you also.”

“So, uh. Do we just meld, or have sex and then meld, or . . . ?”

Spock’s mouth twitched. “I believe it is best to simply meld. I would prefer to enter you in a controlled way.”

Jim flushed. “Well, when you say it like that—”

Spock ignored him. His hand found its place. “My—

Jim tasted incense on his tongue, heard the discordant jangle of little bells, felt dry wind on his face. It was Spock, so much more of him than the needy tendril that had hunted through his mind before, looking for vocabulary. It was the whole of him, vast and dark and tangible.

And Spock’s mind was trembling.

Jim tried to ask if Spock was all right, but he could feel the answer without having to form the words. Jim’s mind was pulling Spock deeper, and he was resisting purely to savor the taste of Jim’s mind. Spock had been waiting so long and wanting so much, and this was everything he had desired.

Memories flicked before his mind: standing in a tiny suit and bow tie holding flowers, as his mother stared into the middle distance and shed no tears; pulling out of his mother’s hug because the other Vulcan boys were watching; gravel in his elbows, in his hands, six inches from death and still unafraid; punching a boy in the face and enjoying the green blood on his knuckles; Sam, walking away and never coming back; asking in a small voice, “Where is my brother?” and being told, “Sybok is not your brother anymore.”

Spock was clearly headed for a different part of his mind than last time. Straight through the core memories. It hurt, but at the same time their pain matched up, soothed one another, lessened.

Spock pressed deeper, and now Jim could see the bond pulling him inward. Jim had imagined a thread, but it was not a thread at all. It was something heavier and stronger than that. A steel cable, maybe, or the unbreakable carbon they used in space elevators. The deeper Spock came, the stronger it got.

And Jim loved it. It was his, it was theirs, it tied him to Spock and Spock was everything.

Spock was doubtful, frightened. Worried he would not be enough, that Jim would regret this, that he was tying down a free thing that should never be leashed.

No, Spock, Jim told him. A kite can’t fly unless it’s tied to something. I’ve been drifting; I need a home to come to. Be that for me.

Spock stopped resisting. He plunged deep into Jim's mind, and all at once they were one. Like twinned planets or a binary star, distinct but caught in each other's gravity, shining with one another’s light. 

You, said the being that was jimandspock, and for an uncountable period they could do nothing but behold each other. To see the other as they really were. To be seen. All was known and all was accepted.

When Jim came back to himself, he was grinding hard into Spock's lap. “Sorry,” he muttered, trying, not entirely successfully, to stop.

“No,” said Spock, digging a hand into Jim's hair and bringing their lips together. Somehow Jim understood what Spock meant by it, which was something along the lines of do not apologize, I like it. He could feel the direction of Spock’s thoughts, that enticing taste of his mind, but there was no boundary between them this time. No ache of longing; the taste was in his mouth already, lingering on his tongue.

Jim sucked on Spock's bottom lip, torn between two impulses. He wanted this to last and he also needed to be inside Spock immediately.

Spock, it seemed, was going for immediately, because deft fingers were already undoing his pants. Even on his burning cock, those fingers were warm.

Jim kissed sloppily along Spock's jaw and down his neck, hands dragging at Spock's shirt. He broke long enough to get it over Spock's head and then latched back onto his throat. Spock's hands caressed him, one up his shirt and the other on his cock. “Please,” Jim begged, much farther gone than it made sense to be at this point.

“I cannot give you what you want until you decide what it is,” said Spock, amused. 

Jim paused slightly, panting. “On the bed,” he decided. He shifted his weight to get off Spock's lap, but Spock's hands shifted to his ass as he stood up, lifting Jim with ease.

He laid Jim out flat on the bed and got to work ridding him of his pants. Jim sat up slightly to let Spock get at his shirt, and then he flopped back down, boneless, to watch Spock gracelessly shuck off his own pants. His cock was already fully out of the sheath, hard and dripping.

“Adequate?” Spock asked, crawling over him to meet eye to eye. 

Jim smirked. “Better than that, I think.”

Spock carefully lowered himself. Jim hissed when their cocks touched. Spock set up a slow rhythm against him, rocking as slow as breathing, the slide of skin against skin made smoother by the fluid leaking out of Spock’s sheath.

Jim arched greedily, clinging to Spock’s ass. He wanted more, but at the same time, he didn’t want this exact motion to ever stop. He could feel Spock’s banked urgency, piling up like water behind a dam. When that dam broke, it would be thunderous.

Too soon, Jim felt his climax approaching and gave a small panicked whimper. He had had big plans for tonight. But Spock’s mind gave his a nudge, sweeping away his embarrassment. “Come for me,” he said, low, in Jim’s ear, and Jim was incapable of disobeying. He jerked under Spock’s heavy weight, seeing stars. In his mind, a soft warmth wrapped around him, held him through it.

“Jesus fuck,” he muttered when he could speak again. “I feel like a teenager.”

Spock smirked, his self-satisfaction obvious, and sat back on Jim’s thighs. He swiped a finger through the mess on Jim’s belly and tasted it, eyelids lowering as he ran his tongue over his own finger.

“Okay, Spock, if that’s how you want to play it.” Jim pushed him backward, and Spock let himself be manhandled onto his back. “Let me take care of you for a change.”

Jim began like last night, just softly touching, but it was different on bare skin. He trailed fingers over Spock’s psi points, which no longer sent zaps, but a warmer, more comfortable feeling that ran up his arm. Down the neck, the shoulders. Flicking over one nipple, than the other, watching as that green cock twitched. He picked up Spock’s hand, massaged the palm and down the knuckles, and then put the first two fingers in his mouth. Spock’s eyelids fluttered and he arched, cock straining upward at nothing.

From Spock’s mind, Jim could feel a combination of lust and stubbornness. Spock wanted more, and he refused to ask.

Jim smiled. They could fight over that another day. Today, if Spock wanted to play at not caring, Jim would play along. He lay down between Spock’s legs and regarded his wet cock. Arrowlike head, double ridges, a slight curve; blooming out from the unfolded edges of his sheath. Jim decided to apply himself there first, licking around the folds. They tasted musky and the faintest bit acidic. Jim dipped his tongue between the righthand fold and the base of the cock, and Spock’s leg twitched. Good.

He worked his way around all the edges before finally licking up the underside of the cock and resting the ridges on his bottom lip. He gazed up at Spock in challenge. Would he ask for it?

Spock stared back obstinately, while his mind was screaming with desire. Jim relented and closed his lips over the head to slide down.

Spock’s pleasure poured into his mind, hot and thick, irresistible. Jim was getting hard again, just feeling it second-hand. He did his level best to focus on giving Spock a quality performance, but the fact was, all he wanted to do was feel that cock in his mouth, to tease at the ridges with his tongue. He didn’t want to be graceful about it. He wanted to devour it.

After a while he took a little break, gasping and resting his jaw. Spock raised an eyebrow. “I thought you said you wished to be inside me.”

Jim smirked. Spock wouldn’t say it, but what he meant was fuck me now. He coated his fingers in the fluid from Spock’s sheath and moved them down to Spock’s asshole. “Have you ever done this before?”

“No,” said Spock. “However, I have . . . been thinking about it.”

Jim grinned and slipped a finger in. “I’ll try to live up to the fantasy.”

Spock opened for him easily. Vulcans were just better at everything. Jim slicked himself up and moved up to Spock’s lips, swiping that tempting bottom lip with his tongue. “Ready?”

“I have been for some time,” said Spock.

Jim bit down a little on Spock’s bottom lip, to punish him for the sass, and began to gently push inside. The sounds he made were a little embarrassing, but Spock loved them, so he didn’t try to hold back.

“So good,” he gasped. “So tight. Spock.”

“Jim,” rumbled Spock, reaching up to lay a hand on his chest.

Jim moved gently at first, gliding slowly in and out. Spock gripped his waist. “You need not be so careful.”

“I think what you mean to say is, ‘fuck me harder.’”

“I have managed to cease using your vocabulary and do not mean to regress.”

Yeah, it was definitely not enough, not if Spock could be this coherent. Jim gave it to him harder, slamming inward, searching for the right angle. He knew he’d found it when Spock’s pleasure began to mount higher and higher in his mind. Spock’s breath huffed out on every stroke, and he watched Jim with wide, vulnerable eyes.

He’s seen me, Jim thought. He’s seen me, and he knows me, and he wants me, just like this. The thought was overwhelming, and he bit his lip. Even with the edge taken off, he wasn’t going to be able to last very long at this rate. He took hold of Spock's flushed cock between them and let it slide through his fist, pumping it in time to his thrusts. Spock rocked his hips in rhythm.

Spock was perfectly ready to come, Jim realized. He was just still holding back, even though Jim could feel the way he ached for it, how much he wanted to. Jim let go of Spock to slide his hand underneath Spock’s lower back, till he found one of the hollows he’d accidentally groped last time. He massaged it gently with his fingers, then pressed harder. Spock shuddered and closed his eyes, hands clutching Jim’s hips, but he still didn’t come. 

Jim was going to have to be the one to beg, he realized. “Please,” he rasped. “Please, Spock. Let go.”

The spot of awareness in the back of his mind, where the bond sat, suddenly expanded, filling his mind with Spock’s, and then finally Spock was coming. His eyebrows were drawn together, his cheeks sucked in, as if he were tasting something unspeakably sweet. His hips jerked, cum dribbling out of him in little spurts, but it just kept going, much longer than Jim had expected. Jim fucked him through it, afraid to stop lest this gorgeous, interminable orgasm ended before it had to. Even though the pleasure pouring into his mind made it hard not to join Spock in this.

He got ten hard, snapping strokes in before Spock finally went limp, chest heaving for breath. Jim bowed his head and let himself come, thrusting deep inside, spilling himself out inside his lover. His other self. Spock’s mind was all around him, inside him, holding him.

Spock slowly removed his clutching fingers from Jim’s hips. “I fear I may have bruised you,” he said softly, rubbing the marks with his thumbs.

“Good,” said Jim. He carefully eased out of Spock and collapsed on top of him. For a minute they simply lay there, breathing deeply, returning to themselves. Their minds still seemed to overlap, brushing one another wherever their skin touched.

“I love you,” mumbled Jim into Spock’s chest.

“T’hy’la,” said Spock, which so far as Jim could figure meant the same thing.

Chapter Text

It seemed absurd to Spock, after all they had experienced last night, to need to get up and do any work. Did the universe not realize that something profound had happened within it, and it would be fitting to simply stand still for a few days and let it sink in?

Spock allowed himself the luxury of meditating in bed with Jim sprawled naked across him. It was distracting, but also enriching, since his bond with Jim was the main thing he needed to meditate about.

Sarek had been correct: it was a deep and strong bond, lodged so firmly in both their minds it could never break. The shielded preliminary bond with T’Pring he’d carried most of his life was nothing in comparison. This was like having Jim’s hand on the back of his neck wherever he went, and when they were touching, he could sink into Jim’s mind as deeply as he desired without needing to meld.

Spock ended his meditation, finding Jim awake, lashes fluttering against his chest. “Your mind feels good when you’re meditating,” Jim mumbled. “Very quiet but there.”

“Yes.” Spock traced idle calligraphy on his shoulder. “Yours is not quiet.”

An agony of embarrassment from Jim. “Oh, god, it must be miserable—”

“It is like music,” said Spock. “Our minds are in harmony. Your thoughts could never be unpleasant to me.”

“Promise?”

Spock opened his mind a little wider, so Jim could perceive his sincerity. “I would never lie to you, Jim.”

Jim sat in a briefing room with M’Benga, Bones, Prrk, and five nervous-looking mates: Chekov, Andres, and Vecht, all human males; one Andorian chaan, Ch’senet; and Gaila.

Why was he not surprised it had been Gaila with the spiny dildo? He rubbed his face to hide any trace of amusement. It wasn't that kind of occasion.

“Thanks for agreeing to host this meeting, Captain,” said Prrk, lowering her eyelids in a Caitian smile.

She looked great, and that was saying something, because she'd always been a knockout. Her fur was about half white, with the rest spotted with orange and black. One of her eyes was yellow, centered in a large black patch, and the other was green and surrounded by orange. Today, though, she looked sleeker than ever, with a healthy glow that suggested her pregnancy was going fine so far. 

“I'll get straight to the point,” she said, folding her hands in front of her. “The five of you were my mates during my recent heat. This was a service you didn't have to do, and I appreciate it. None of you owe me anything further. However, you deserve to know that, through an unplanned combination of factors, I became pregnant.”

The prospective dads all looked poleaxed. Prrk continued, “I do not yet know which of you is the genetic progenitor of my embryo. A genetic test will have to wait until the third month, if any of you feel the need to know.”

Andres blurted, “I'm going to want to know. If I'm the dad—”

“According to Caitian custom, you are all considered the fathers,” Prrk interrupted. “Even you, Gaila.”

Gaila blinked. “Can't say I ever imagined being a dad,” she said a little uncertainly. “Not really sure what my girlfriend will say.”

“You are not Caitian, so I don’t expect you to follow our customs. I leave it to you to decide whether to take on this role,” Prrk went on. “You would not be expected to be fulltime caregivers. The child will be mine and live with me. Instead, you would support me during my pregnancy and the child after it is born. A Caitian child normally has many fathers who provide different kinds of support—whatever they have to offer. I don't expect any of you to take on more than you feel like you can. But if you want to commit to a relationship to this child you helped create, I would like that. I want them to know their fathers and be proud to look up to so many Starfleet officers.”

A small sound came from the corner. Jim looked up to see Chekov had his hands clapped over his mouth. His cheeks were red and there were tears in his eyes.

“It's okay, Pavel.” Ch’senet squeezed his shoulder. “You don't have to—”

“I'm going to be a papa!” Chekov burst out. “Oh, Prrk, you don't know what this means to me. Can I teach them Russian? Can I be their math teacher? I never thought to have a child at my age, but—to have a family again—” He broke down again, crying in earnest.

Andres wrapped an arm around him from the other side. Vecht got up to join the huddle, and for a minute Jim wasn't entirely sure who was happy, who was sad, and who was just trying to comfort Chekov. But eventually they broke apart. “I would like to do this,” said Andres, sitting down with a serious expression. “I lost my girlfriend to Nero. She'd always wanted to have a kid. She said she thought I would be good at it.”

Ch’senet nodded as well. “I have no spouses. So I did not expect to have children of my own for some time. But I think I could do right by your child, Prrk.”

Vecht’s face was stony. He was an engineering noncom on the older side, transferred from the Farragut. He'd had a wife and two grown children back home. He'd lost them all. Jim knew only a little about him beyond that, as he wasn't much of a talker. Who could be, after a loss like that? But he cleared his throat and said thickly, “Count me in.”

Everyone looked over at Gaila, who sighed. “I can't agree to this without talking to Nyota. She was fine with me doing the heat with you but this might be a whole other thing. But I want you to know you have my support, Prrk.”

Prrk was ruffling the fur behind her ears with one hand, clearly emotional. “Thank you all,” she said. “With your support—and yours, Captain—I believe I can do this. And I can't imagine a better home for my kit than the Enterprise.”

At the halfway point of alpha shift, when the first half of the bridge crew normally went to lunch, Nyota came over to Spock's station. “Spock, I know you usually take the second lunch, but I could really use a talk with you. Could you join me?”

Spock looked longingly over at Jim. He was extremely disinclined to do anything today that separated him from Jim, and he had been considering how to ensure Jim ate a healthy lunch with sufficient time left over for what Jim called a “quickie” before they were due back on the bridge. But Nyota looked like it was something important, and she was not one for emotional overreactions.

Jim gave a soft smile, and his thoughts swirled warmly, encouraging him to go with her, though Spock wasn't sure why.

“Very well,” said Spock, shutting down his station.

In the mess, Nyota selected a table for two off to the side and sat down heavily. “It’s like this,” she said. “Gaila’s going to be a dad. To Prrk’s baby.”

Spock blinked. He had seen the announcement go out on the ship’s intranet, but with no mention of the father. “I did not know she was capable of fathering a child,” he said.

“She isn’t.” Nyota rubbed her forehead. “Basically, it’s Caitian custom that all the mates in a heat are the dad, and she was one of them.”

“You did not mind?”

“Pssh,” said Nyota dismissively. “It’s exactly the kind of thing I’m not jealous about. You can hardly get more casual than a Caitian heat, you’re not expected to call the morning after or anything. But Gaila, being Gaila, wanted to be extraordinary at the job, so she—well to make a long story short, she’s the reason why Prrk got pregnant, even though obviously one of the four guys is the bio dad.”

“I see,” said Spock.

“She has a choice to be named as one of the dads or not. If she’s a dad, she has a responsibility to the kid. The kid gets her name added to the long list of last names Caitians have but don’t really use. I mean it’s her kid, officially. Prrk is the most important, because mothers are way more important to Caitians than fathers, but it’s definitely a real relationship and responsibility.”

“What did she choose?”

Nyota sighed. “She asked if it was okay with me. She’s kind of not making a thing of it, but I think she wants to. She probably thinks I’ll be jealous. I’m not sure I’m not. I mean she’s having a child with another woman! I didn’t know if we were ever even going to have kids, but I did think, if this worked out, any kids we did have would be with each other.”

Spock contemplated the situation. It reminded him strongly of that terrible Denobulan soap opera, complete with more mates than one could reasonably keep track of. “According to Caitian tradition,” asked Spock, “could you be a stepmother?”

Nyota thought about this. “There isn’t really a word for it in Caitian. There’s the concept, sure, but it’s a lot more complicated than that, since a lot of males have kids by a lot of different females and vice versa, so you’re kind of distantly related to half the neighborhood. And even if you’re not, Caitians are big on alloparenting so you’re involved in all the kids’ lives anyway.”

“There are a number of avenues by which two females may become parents,” Spock said thoughtfully. “Perhaps the two of you might select another avenue at a future date to have a child with only one another. But you should not assume that being father to this child is something Gaila must necessarily do without you. Perhaps it is something in which you can have some role as well. That is, if you even desire to.”

Nyota slowly ate her way through her potato-and-bean stew as she thought it over. “I’ll talk to her about it,” she said at last. “I just can’t help imagining her holding a little furry baby. We could babysit them, play around with them when they get older . . . You’re right, Spock. It’s not something that takes her away from me. I know perfectly well she doesn’t mean it to. And if I’m involved too, it could be something that brings us closer.”

Spock nodded approval. “I am glad I was able to be of some help.”

She stared at him for a minute. “Damn, Spock, I’ve been distracted. Talking all about me when obviously there’s something going on with you.”

“Obviously?” said Spock.

“You’re visibly happy. I can’t remember the last time I saw that happen.”

Spock schooled his face. “Sometimes I wonder if your training in nonverbal communication has caused you to see things that are not there.”

Nyota only waited, one eyebrow raised.

“Jim and I—”

“You finally told him how you feel?” 

“We had a conversation,” Spock hedged. “My interest was requited.”

“I’m so happy for you, Spock. Truly. So is it just casual so far? I mean, it is Jim.”

A silence stretched out. Spock hadn’t meant to tell her everything yet, because he knew how she might react. But on the other hand, he had to tell her sometime. “We bonded.”

“What?!”

“I did not plan on making this announcement to the entire mess.”

She lowered her voice. “How did you talk Jim Kirk into a commitment that serious?”

It was exactly as he had thought. Worse. She thought, just as he had, that Jim could never want such a thing. For a moment her assumption seemed plausible, that he had somehow pressured Jim into it.

But she was wrong. He knew she was wrong. He had seen to the bottom of Jim’s soul, and knew he wanted exactly this. That he had been waiting all his life for it.

“He was the one to insist on it,” said Spock defensively. “He did not wish to wait.”

“How long were you even dating?” she asked. “You never told me. Here I was teasing you about your crush on him and you were together?”

“Forty-two point four nine hours,” said Spock.

She dropped her hands on the table and gave him a disbelieving look. “You never cease to surprise me, Spock. Every time I think I’ve worked you out, I'm wrong. Jim, too. I was sure you’d break your heart over him.”

Spock opened his mouth to say that he was Vulcan, he had no feelings to be hurt by rejection, but it was a lie too large.

“You underestimate Jim,” said Spock placidly. Warmth grew at the back of his mind, Jim approaching. He had taken his lunch early so it would overlap with some of Spock’s. They had fourteen point nine minutes, and Jim’s thoughts were humming with desire.

“Excuse me, Nyota. I have an urgent engagement.”

“Engagement?” She smirked. “I call that a marriage, Spock!”

Fourteen point nine minutes, it turned out, was more than enough.

Chapter Text

On the viewscreen, Delta Pavonis turned below them, a swirling marble, not unlike Earth, but with a wide equatorial desert they could see from here. 

“Humanoid population is in the ten millions,” Spock reported, eyes on his scanner. “In these numbers, it is impossible to determine species. Centers of population exist both in the desert and in the polar regions, however, which suggests that both Andorians and Vulcans remain here. There is one city of any notable size, which is located in the temperate zone.”

“That's where we'll direct our communications,” said Jim. “Wonder if they'll pick up.”

“It's unusual that they haven't contacted us first,” said Uhura. “They surely know we're here.”

Jim contemplated that. If they didn't know the Enterprise was there, it didn't speak well of their development level: no short-range scanners, nobody even watching a telescope. But it was a lot more likely that they were watching and just keeping silent like they had all this time. They didn't want to talk to Starfleet any more than their home planets.

“Well,” he said, “nothing to do but give it a shot. Open a broad channel and let's see who answers.”

Uhura touched her screen and gave him a nod, and Jim addressed himself to the blank screen. “This is the Federation starship Enterprise, calling the leadership of Delta Pavonis. We're interested in establishing—”

The viewscreen winked on, showing a Vulcan in long black robes. “James T. Kirk,” the man said, without expression. “We have heard of you. And your Vulcan first officer.” He glanced over Jim's shoulder at Spock.

Jim opened his mouth, but the Vulcan went on, “You may beam down. I am transmitting coordinates.” The screen winked out again. 

“I don't like this,” said Uhura. “Who knows what they think of you guys. I couldn't read him at all.”

“There is surely little they can object to about the captain,” Spock said. 

“But he took particular notice of you, Spock.”

“She has a point,” said Jim. “It's possible he is concerned about anyone from his homeworld.” Or he's one of those Vulcan purists who hate Spock for being half human, Jim thought but didn't say. That was a risk everywhere, unfortunately.

“Our mission is to establish diplomatic relations,” said Spock. “And we have been invited, which is a clearer opening than I had expected.”

Jim nodded. “You're right, of course. And like I said, there's no point in pretending we're something we're not. They'll have already heard of us. I'll beam down with you, Sh’relin, Eona, and Uhura. Mr. Sulu, you have the conn.”

They beamed down in a pleasant town square, in front of a large building of tan brick which must be the government center. It was a gorgeous day, blue sky, a few puffy white clouds, trees in both green and red-brown lining the sidewalks. 

“It's just like they say,” Jim said, sighing. “All the good ones are taken.”

Uhura laughed. Sh’relin turned one antenna in his direction. “The good whats?”

“Men, usually. In this case I mean planets.”

The door of the brick building opened, and three people came out, the Vulcan they had spoken with before and two Andorians. 

“Welcome to Delta Pavonis,” said the Andorian in the center, smiling. “Captain Kirk. Commander Spock. I am Zh’tera, the spokesperson for our government, such as it is.”

Jim introduced the rest of the landing party. “Thank you for welcoming us to your planet,” he added. “I know you don’t often accept guests from the Federation.”

“Not ever,” said Zh’tera. She extended one hand, hesitating. “I understand humans shake hands?”

Not one to refuse what was clearly an overture of friendliness, Jim stepped forward and took her hand. Zh’tera pumped it solidly once up and once down, like she had read about handshakes once in a book, before dropping it. “Come and I will show you a little of our city. It is improper to speak business until we know more of one another.” 

She turned, and Jim saw a pointed blue ear. Interesting. He exchanged a glance with Spock. So the Vulcans and Andorians were not just coexisting. They were very friendly indeed, and they had not hesitated to select a hybrid as a spokesperson.

The group walked slowly along a shaded sidewalk. There did not appear to be any vehicles in this part of town besides the occasional foot-powered cycle, but Jim could see the shimmer of forcefields in some of the windows, so they did possess some advanced technology.

“When our ancestors first came here,” said Zh’tera, “they remained apart from one another; the Andorians in the tundra and the Vulcans in the desert, hoping to escape one another’s notice. Of course they knew their settlements were illegal and they would likely be forced off the planet if they were discovered. Each expected, of course, to be reported immediately by the other and removed by that planet’s army. But it did not happen, because there was no reason for it to. Why report one another when it might call attention to their own settlements?”

“Makes sense,” said Jim.

“And then the crisis came. An unseasonable rain, damaging the crops of the Vulcan settlement. Blight set in, and most of their crops were lost.”

Jim tensed, and immediately there was Spock’s steadying hand on his back, flooding him with comfort. They were safe here. There was enough.

“They had two choices. To call for help from their homeworld, which would surely evacuate them and destroy all they had built, or to call upon the Andorian settlement. They chose the latter. It was obvious to the Andorians that, living on a new world like this, such things might happen at any time, and might well have happened to themselves. So they provided aid in the form of grain and vegetables, things the Vulcans could eat.”

Jim breathed out in relief. A happy ending, for once.

“Ten years after that was another such crisis, a plague in the Andorian settlement they had no treatment for, and the doctors had fallen too sick to develop one. The Vulcans came, taking over the labs and then, when they discovered the virus did not transmit to them, caring directly for the sick. The death toll was a fraction of what it could have been. Both colonies continued to thrive.”

“That’s beautiful,” said Jim.

“But you must remember our planets were not friendly toward one another at the time. Each thought themselves superior. Our ancestors had been taught to mistrust each other. It took time to break that down. But, after that great exchange of assistance, trade opened between the two settlements. There were many things we could receive from each other that we could get no other way. And then it seemed simpler to select a halfway point and set up an open market. The market grew, people settled around it, and that was the beginning of our city.” She gestured broadly at the pedestrians walking by, the buildings, the fountain leaping into the air in the center of a crossroads. Many of the people sported both pointed ears and antennae; or neither, but softly blue skin; or upswept eyebrows under snow-white hair.

“And a beautiful city it is,” said Jim.

She turned to face them. “Let me be quite frank with you. We have no more desire to deal with our xenophobic parent planets now than we had then. Things have supposedly improved there, but not enough to make us comfortable. And we are well aware our settlement of this planet remains illegal. If either of them had come to speak to us, we would have turned them away. But you, James T. Kirk of the starship Enterprise, are different, we believe. We saw your speech, you know, on the subspace news. You staked your command on keeping this Vulcan—this half- Vulcan—by your side.”

Jim looked away, embarrassed by the personal attention. “I had to have the best person for the job."

“And you did not want the memory of Earth to be lost. The memory of Earth as a place for all.”

“Yes,” said Jim softly.

“I grieve with thee for the loss of your home,” said Zh’tera. “But I am pleased to find you share one of our most crucial values. Not all of us follow the Vulcan way, but infinite diversity in infinite combinations has become the motto of our community. Perhaps we flatter ourselves, but I think we may embody this value more than most Vulcans.” She caught Spock’s eye.

“It is central to my values also,” Spock said neutrally. His emotions were locked down tight—not shielded from Jim so much as suppressed altogether.

“You’ve been upfront, so I’m going to do the same,” said Jim. “I’m authorized to offer you full membership in the Federation in your own right, as an independent planet. Both your parent planets have agreed they’d rather have you on their side than stick to two century-old, contradictory claims. The usual conditions apply—we’d have to get a really good look at your society, ensure your mode of government meets our standards for equity. But, given the way both the Klingons and Romulans keep pushing into our space, we’d rather have allies in the neighborhood.”

Zh’tera examined him thoughtfully. “Allies who fight for you, perhaps? Who pay levies for war? What else could you want allies for?”

Jim floundered a minute. It was all very well to say Starfleet was mainly peaceful. 90% of the ships out right now were patrolling, not exploring. And this close to the Klingon border, the Federation would insist on putting in orbital platforms at the very least. As they should, Jim couldn’t help but agree, given how vulnerable a planet really was, once you’d thought about it. Neither the Federation nor the Klingons would be able to stop thinking about it now.

Zh’tera took pity on him. “I will bring your proposal to the council, and there will be a great deal of talk. They will want to know every detail of what you expect of us, and what you can give to us that is more valuable than what we give to each other. None of that is my decision.”

“I understand,” said Jim.

“I would like to know one thing, however.” She pinned Jim with deep black eyes—Vulcan eyes. “What do you want, James Kirk?”

Jim stammered. “Uh—I’m just the messenger.”

“We do not commonly deal with messengers,” said Zh’tera. She turned to Sh’relin, who had been following along quietly. Jim’s universal translator kicked in as the leader switched to Andorian. “To whom is your loyalty, sister? Is it to Andoria?”

Jim clenched his teeth, hoping she'd have a diplomatic way to point out that the Federation was larger than her homeworld, that her duty was to all of it.

Instead Sh’relin answered without hesitation. “My loyalty is to my captain.”

A subtle smile tugged at Zh’tera’s mouth. “You see. We deal with persons. I am very curious to discover what sort of person you are, James Kirk.”

They were given rooms in a modest hotel: light brown brick outside, wooden floors, double rooms with twin beds. Jim sat down on his bed for the debrief, his team looking up at him from the floor like eager kindergarteners. “So. Was it me or was she a little intense?”

“She is a very incisive personality,” said Eona. “She believes all she says and is cautiously optimistic about you. She seemed only slightly interested in our offer, however. There is something else she has in mind, but she’s choosing not to bring it up yet.”

“Interesting,” said Jim. “Any other observations?”

“She took a particular interest in me,” said Spock. “I believe it was positive. I am uncertain what she expects of me, except that she thinks I will be pleased by the number of hybrids present.”

“Are you?”

“So far.”

Jim turned to Sh’relin. “You really can’t say stuff like that, by the way. We’re supposed to be a united front and stick to the mission.”

“She didn’t ask about my mission,” said Sh’relin. “She asked about my personal loyalty. I joined Starfleet for a multitude of reasons, but I transferred to the Enterprise for you.”

Jim rubbed the back of his neck, feeling it heat up. “Um. Well, I'll try to deserve that.”

Uhura piped up, “Her Standard is great, obviously, but I heard the people on the street speaking some kind of creole. They’re certainly building a unique culture; there's nothing about them that suggests either is dominant here.”

“It will certainly be different in the two regional settlements,” said Eona. “If they apply for Federation membership, we will have to examine those as well, and ensure they also consent.”

Jim clapped his hands together. “Great. I'll have our things beamed down, and then I guess we can spend till dinnertime settling in. Unless you want to go wander around getting to know the man on the street. If you do, take your comm with you and don't go too far.”

“Which man on the street?” asked Eona.

“Sorry. Average person.”

“Please do not apologize,” said Eona. “These Terranisms are part of your culture. I am happy to acquire them. I have collected nine hundred sixty-two Terran idioms so far, including the ones Ayoti brings me.”

Jim grinned. “You'll collect them much faster if you spend some time with Dr. McCoy. He can hardly talk without them.”

Spock, in obedience to his captain's suggestion, went exploring. After, of course, fulfilling his duty as a bondmate and doing his share of the unpacking. 

It was remarkable what the bond did for Spock's mental health. It was like carrying around a sliver of sunlight wherever he went, that low pulse of Jim's thoughts as a background hum in the corner of his mind.

He walked until he found a playground, located a bench at a polite distance from the playing children, and listened. 

Their creole was indeed fascinating. His universal translator was confused by it, so he switched it off. Many of the words were Vulcan, but the verbs conjugated like Andorian. Meanwhile he heard several Andorian words transformed with Vulcan endings. Still, he knew enough of Andorian to make out the meaning. 

He did not hear any insults or mockery. Several of the more-Andorian children were play-fighting, while two children who appeared to be fully Vulcan were attempting to master the swingset with a single-minded focus he knew well. The rest were playing some kind of chase game. 

“Come on, don't you want to play ul’toths and le-matyas?” one of the latter group called to one of the children on the swings. 

“It is chaotic,” the child called back, “and it involves touching.”

“We're doing the no-touch touch,” the first child offered. This appeared to be a method of tagging where the children knocked their shoes together—a clever adaptation not known on Vulcan, as they never played such games there.

“Maybe later,” said the Vulcan child. “I am obtaining mastery at this.”

The child accepted that answer and returned to chasing. The idyll, however, did not continue. A child tripped, fell, and cried. The other children stood around arguing about whose fault it had been until a Vulcan adult approached from the bench opposite Spock’s to examine the weeping child and mediate the dispute. After a minute, the children decided to switch to hide and seek. The adult glanced over at Spock, gave a casual nod, and returned to their seat.

Spock sat very still, examining his reaction. There had been no second glance at his human eyes. Nor, as on Earth, curiosity at his Vulcan ears. He was simply a person. The adult did not even know he did not belong to this colony.

It was an interesting experience which he did not fully know how to respond to.

Twelve minutes later, he felt the warmth of Jim approaching and stood. “Captain. Am I needed?”

Jim waved him down. “Just came to see you.”

“For any specific reason?”

Jim sat on the bench next to him. “Will you be offended if I say I felt an emotion from you?”

Spock looked down at his hands. “No. You are my bondmate. All that I feel is yours.”

This answer clearly pleased Jim, and he edged closer, till the distance between them was only three centimeters. “What about the reason for it, is that mine too?”

Spock returned his gaze to the children. “I was watching them.”

“You like kids?”

“I have no particular feelings about them,” said Spock. “They are simply persons, if younger than most. No, it is how they interact with one another. The Andorian children, as you see, prefer to fight; this is their culture and a common form of play. They learn to control their movements and withstand a moderate amount of discomfort. The Vulcan children prefer solitary activities in which they may gain mastery. Most of the children are neither fully one nor fully the other—it is possible that none of them are. But they coexist. There is no notice taken of the difference except insofar as it affects their games.”

Jim leapt to the unspoken heart of this utterance. “Your own childhood wasn’t like that.”

“It was not.” Spock watched as the children switched to a complicated roleplay, narrating their actions as they went. “Vulcan is not, by and large, a bigoted place. But it takes a great deal to wipe out prejudice. Children often reveal the unspoken biases of their parents; things the parents do not say in public but let fall in private. Or they develop biases of their own because they recognize a difference and it is never explained to them. These children have not. They have been raised alongside one another from the beginning.”

“You envy that?”

“I am not compromised,” Spock objected.

“Didn’t say you were,” Jim said softly. “But I’m jealous of these people too. They’ve built something that’s all theirs.”

“We must be on our guard,” Spock reminded him. “This is an emotional appeal. It would not be the first time a place that appeared a paradise concealed a hidden rot.”

“I know. But it’s not illogical to hope this one’s real.” 

Chapter Text

Jim trudged toward the field they'd been directed to, Sh’relin at his heels. It was about a million degrees, and he was sweating off his sunscreen. Even in a broad hat and a cooling vest, Sh’relin was wilting too.

He'd decided to examine the Vulcan settlement himself, sending Spock to the Andorian one with Uhura and Eona. His thinking was that they'd have a better test of each place’s welcome if it was an alien visiting. 

So far, the settlement had been not unlike Vulcan itself: the distance passersby kept from each other, the adobe buildings, the sound of Vuhlkansu on the street. A council of elders ran the place on logical and democratic principles. Everyone so far had been friendly, at least by Vulcan standards.

They'd picked a farm at random to visit, in the hopes that it would give them a good sample of the population. The woman gardening out front didn't have time to talk, but she pointed them out to the field where her husband was putting in fences.

They finally spotted him putting in fenceposts with a small machine to dig the holes and a giant sledgehammer to drive in the posts.

The Vulcan stood silently, leaning on his sledgehammer, while they made their introductions. Then he picked up the hammer again and made his way along the row, talking as he went. 

“I am part of the first generation to come here. Hold that in place, young man.” The sledgehammer came down, driving the post at least twelve inches into the ground. “My family did not like the state of Vulcan at the time. We felt it had become stagnant. A new place could revitalize us. Naturally the government would never have allowed it.”

He eyeballed the distance to the next post, which Jim had no doubt he had gotten exactly even, and applied the digger. “There were some hard times, of course. The northern settlement helped us. We returned the favor. It is not complicated.”

Digger out, post in, wham. Jim had a strange sense of déjà vu. This man was no different than hundreds of Iowa farmers (all dead now; there were no longer any Iowa farmers, or any Iowa) he'd met. 

Be awfully nice if his brain would stop doing this, every time he tried to think about anything tangentially related to Earth. He rubbed sweat out of his eyes and trudged to the next post hole. 

“I heard on the radio about the Federation offer. We get shortwave from the city.” Wham. “It doesn't make much difference to me. We don't import much from off planet to begin with. And if anything goes wrong here, we won't be calling on you. We will call on each other.”

“But you wouldn't mind it?”

An eyebrow shrug. “It makes no difference. Though I doubt you will have any luck recruiting for Starfleet here. We are peaceful people.”

“Do you ever go to the city?”

“When the crops can spare us. My son lives there. He has married three northerners. I do not claim to understand it. But he seems contented, and there are four grandchildren.”

“By northerners, you mean Andorians?”

A critical eyebrow this time. “Andorians live on Andoria,” he said. “We are Pavonians. Some north, some south, some in the city. If one came from the north to live here, they would be a southerner. They would live in the south.”

“But they never do?”

The farmer stared at him like he was stupid. “They are not tolerant of heat. You see how your lieutenant is wilting. They would not be happy here. When we wish to be with one another, we meet at the city.”

“But you choose to live here.”

“I like to farm.” He hefted another post off his little supply wagon and planted it in the hole. “And it is comfortable to be in a place that is designed for us. The city is somewhat noisy. Except for the light gravity and thick air, this place is very much like T’Khasi, as I remember it.”

“So you don’t think the Vulcan way is better?”

“Of course I think it is better. But I am a subjective individual. It is not possible to deny one’s own subjectivity.” Wham. “Our culture is important to us. If we all lived in the city, something would be lost. But if none of us lived in the city or visited there, our culture would become stagnant. We seek balance.”

He was certainly saying all the right things. If the Pavonians decided to apply for Federation membership, Jim didn’t think there would be the slightest problem. Cultural preservation apart from isolationism; tolerance of a variety of ways of life.

Earth had used to be so expansive, downright hungry for cultural exchange. Now Terran culture had already become isolationist, so deeply afraid of losing what was left of themselves that they actively pushed others away. Which, ironically, was a loss of one of the best things about their culture.

Jim wished he could take Komack and that awful security chief from Starbase 6 here. Give them a look at what it meant to balance the desire to save their languages, customs, and food without lashing out at everybody else. At the same time, he didn’t think these lovely people deserved a punishment like having to deal with Komack.

They took a shuttle back to the city that evening. The shuttles were an old model, probably from the initial colonization, but kept in good repair. They ran between each settlement and the city morning and evening. The few-hour trip was too much for a commute, but it did make it easy to go visiting.

Spock reported that the northern settlement—he too had learned it was not called the Andorian settlement anymore—was just as healthy. Culturally very different, of course: streets meandering organically, underground dwellings, music and noise everywhere. Spock and his team were greeted with open suspicion, but when Spock assured the residents they were not there to reclaim the planet, they relaxed for the most part. They were fiercely defensive of what they had, but who could blame them?

Then it was time to go back to the endless negotiations for Federation membership. The ruling council seemed to be a random assortment of people with no particular political expertise, and they pored over the documents for hours while Jim had to sit quietly and not interrupt unless they had a question.

“I told you we did not have much of a government,” said Zh’tera, at the recess. They sat in a small, shady garden beneath russet-colored trees, eating a delicious lunch at a picnic table. After months of replicated food, the homegrown food they served here gave him quite an appetite, even though he had no idea what any of it was. “The term limit is one year. We have no interest in keeping on professional politicians. All the government needs to do, generally, is organize our few imports and exports. It does not require much expertise.”

“And you?” Jim asked. “How long have you been doing this?”

“Three years,” she said. “Please do not mistake me for a leader. I exist so there can be one person to speak to, with my two colleagues to assist if necessary. We have no vote.”

“And yet you do have an agenda.”

She smiled. “Not so grand. From time to time I have an idea.”

“If I had to guess,” said Jim, “your ideas tend to happen.”

“From time to time,” she admitted.

“So I’m beginning to think I should try to get you on my side, when it comes to Pavonis joining the Federation.” 

“Your side?” she asked. “I think you mean the Federation’s side.”

He shook his head. He couldn’t figure why she was always on about this. “If you have any doubt that I’m on board with my government’s offer to you, I don’t know what to tell you. I think it would be good for us and for you.”

“If everyone here followed the Vulcan way, you might be able to make your point based on benefit. But we don’t. Many of us choose because of much deeper motivations. We are accustomed to our own independence. Even isolation.”

“Well, if you want to look at it that way, I feel like the Federation is completely in the Pavonian style,” Jim argued. “Mutual aid. You help each other when you need it, next thing you know, you’re friends. I can’t imagine what would have happened if Earth had had to stand alone against Nero, if we didn’t have the Federation after it happened. Vulcan surely would have fallen too. And we’d be scattered across the galaxy, begging for crumbs. The Federation has done everything it can to help us. Each planet pitching in whatever it can.”

“It is not only mutual aid that brought us this close together,” said Zh’tara.

“What else?”

“Marriage,” she said. “Oh, do not look so startled. You have seen how we live, who we are. How better to get to understand a culture than to live with a member of it day after day, a person you already love? To raise a child who belongs to both cultures? One of my fathers is Vulcan, as you have probably already guessed.”

“I can see how it’s made a big difference for you,” said Jim, but he was worried about how this conversation was going. He wasn’t one of those single captains who could go around symbolically marrying somebody on every planet to help make terms. Spock would never stand for it.

Sure enough, she went there. “Would you consider marrying one of us, James Kirk? There are many potential candidates who would find it an honor. You would not have to marry anyone you did not love. And to marry one of us is to become one of us, in our thinking. We are all related by marriage when we are not by blood.”

Jim shifted uncomfortably. “If you’d asked me six months ago, I’d have said sure. But, uh . . . I recently got married, so I’m not really available. I could certainly ask around with the crew if anybody wanted to get married.”

“Who is your spouse?” she asked, surprised, but not upset.

“My first officer. Mr. Spock.”

She laughed out loud, the first time she’d departed from subtle, Mona-Lisa smiles since he’d met her. “Of course, I should have seen that coming. You wanted him on your ship because he was your husband.”

Jim shook his head. “We were only friends then. No, I insisted on him because rightfully, the whole command should have been his. He had the experience and the seniority. The admirals wouldn’t have given it to him because they blamed him for the loss of Earth. And—” He paused. He was pushing at the limits of what an agent of his government should be saying. But she seemed to value honesty above all. “They were going to kick him out of the Fleet. Make him join the Vulcan Expeditionary Force, because he wasn’t human. And by the new rules, the VEF could have turned him down too, because he wasn’t all Vulcan either. And a number of the rest of my crew—Gaila, and Keenser, and Prrk—they wouldn’t have had another fleet to go too, if Starfleet pushed them out. So it was about Spock, but not just about Spock. Fortunately I carried my point.”

She nodded, serious once more. “Do not take this the wrong way—I do not want to denigrate your Terran allegiance. But Spock is one of us already, so your marriage to him makes you one of us as well.”

“Because he’s Vulcan?”

“Because he belongs nowhere else,” she said simply. “A child of two worlds can ultimately be seen as a child of none. We have feared being sent back to our homeworlds because, by this time, we have none. I cannot parcel myself into pieces. And while most Pavonians are not hybrids, enough of us are that we feel rather fiercely defensive of them. They are— we are—the sign of our peace here, a living proof that we are no longer two peoples but one. Spock fits in here, unremarkably for the most part, but if anyone threatened him, we would leap to his defense.”

“Wait,” said Jim. “Does that mean I’m related to you by marriage?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Of course. You have a bond with him, correct?” Jim nodded. “Then you have been added to the k’war’ma’khon. Every Vulcan, and everyone bonded to a Vulcan, is in some way connected to you. Vulcans do not commonly think of people like you and me as part of their oneness, and yet it extends much further from their planet than they recognize. From them to Spock, from Spock to you, from you to all humanity and every species that humans have called family.”

Jim rubbed the back of his neck. “Wow, that’s—profound, really.”

“It is only one way to think about the universe,” she said dismissively. “But I will share with the Council that you have married Spock. I believe many will find it significant.”

The afternoon session dragged on forever. Jim amused himself by following along with whatever Spock was doing on the other end of the bond. At the moment he was being at his most adorably scientific. Touring the hospital, Jim thought, though the bond was worse at conveying facts than feelings. Spock was excited—fascinated, he would say—about whatever it was that he was learning.

“I’m just not sure this thing can go through at all,” said the plain-spoken thaan across the room from Jim. “You say it’s mutual aid, but what can we possibly contribute? Already it’s a struggle to export enough to afford medicine and technology we can’t make here. We’re not an extractive colony, we came here to live. There are no extractable resources here, or this planet would have been taken from us long ago. We have no dilithium or pergium or diamonds, and if we did have them, we would not dig them up for you. We are not miners, we are farmers.”

“What do you export?” asked Jim.

“A few agricultural and artisanal products,” he said. “We grow man-kastik here, which can be used to make Vulcan-style silks. It is a popular product, since we sell it for less than the Vulcans do, and we sell it outside the Federation, to planets that will not deal with Vulcan.”

“And that’s exactly why we can’t join the Federation!” somebody else interrupted, and the arguing broke out again.

Jim leaned his head on his hand and wished he were back in space.

Spock spent a fascinating afternoon touring the hospital with Dr. McCoy. The colony had been deemed safe enough for shore leave, and at least half the crew was in the city at the moment. Yeoman Hatfield and Miss Joanna were touring a school, at the locals’ invitation, so Dr. McCoy had requested a tour of his own.

Everyone here was almost implausibly friendly. A reproductive specialist explained all the different ways that Vulcans and Andorians had hybridized; the combinations that would result in offspring and those that could not.

A Vulcan male and an Andorian thaan or chan all produced haploid gametes—23 chromosomes—and could be substituted for one another in either the Vulcan process (two parents, a diploid zygote with 46 chromosomes) or the Andorian process (four parents, a tetraploid zygote with 92 chromosomes). However, the Vulcan female produced haploid gametes as well, while the Andorian shen produced diploid gametes with 46 chromosomes, and the zhen produced none. Furthermore only the shen could conceive and only the zhen could gestate the embryo, so it was impossible for a Vulcan female to substitute for either the shen or the zhen. A Vulcan female must have one partner, while an Andorian shen or zhen must have three, or conception was impossible.

The upshot of this was that many of the families were incapable of having children, but now that the process was understood, arrangements existed to produce children outside of the family structure to later be raised within it. Unlike on Andoria or Vulcan, there was no stigma in this. There were also a number of artificial ways to produce offspring when the conditions were not otherwise favorable. Recently, they had managed to induce parthenogenesis in an Andorian shen to allow her to impregnate her Vulcan wife with a diploid but viable embryo. The resulting child was fully Andorian except for her mitochondrial DNA. 

“Really, the only reason Andorians find reproduction difficult is that they are concerned with keeping the blood pure,” said the specialist, a chan of what appeared to be fully Andorian descent. “In rural areas like those my ancestors came from, inbreeding is a serious concern. It is difficult to find three spouses one is not related to. Thus marriages are often arranged among different villages. Here, though, with the introduction of Vulcan genes, the pool has been greatly diversified. Meanwhile Vulcans’ reproduction is made more difficult than it needs to be because they refuse to apply logic to it, leaning far too hard on tradition even when life is at stake.”

“Life?” asked Dr. McCoy, puzzled.

The specialist gave Spock a meaningful look. “Can you really claim keeping the Silences from a doctor who may be called upon to treat you is remotely logical?”

Spock could not. He had often thought Vulcan culture could be selective about where it did and did not apply logic, and pon farr was the most egregious example. But he said only, “I do not make the rules, Doctor.”

“I am a follower of Surak myself, but perhaps it is presumptuous of me to judge the practices on Vulcan.” said the specialist. “I only say, we do not have such restrictions here.”

Spock raised an eyebrow in surprise. He had never seen the teachings of Surak practiced by anyone who wasn’t a Vulcan—unless one counted himself. “So the Vulcan way is not restricted to the southern settlement?”

“By no means. Cultural exchange has led to many of us finding our home in different traditions than our ancestors’. And there are many life-ways—many religions or philosophies—which have grown up here. Infinite diversity extends to this. We find ourselves the richer for a variety of viewpoints.”

“Conflict seems inevitable between such disparate ways of thinking.”

“Conflict, yes. Animosity, no. One thing we all seem to share here is our enjoyment of spirited debate.”

McCoy grinned at this. “You hear that, Spock? It almost sounds like you arguing with me all the time doesn’t mean you don’t love me.”

Spock raised an eyebrow at him. “That does not prove the inverse.”

“Do you find it is the same on Vulcan?” asked the specialist. “As a hybrid, were your differences part of an accepted diversity, or did they provoke animosity?”

Spock stared at him, taken aback by the scientist’s presumption. “As a Vulcan,” he said pointedly, “I did my best to ensure there were no differences.”

McCoy glanced back and forth between the two of them, instinctively aware of the emotional shift. “I want to hear more about parthenogenesis,” he said loudly. “It amazes me that it can even be induced. It certainly can’t in humans.”

The specialist finally dropped his gaze from Spock’s. “Naturally not, as human gametes are haploid,” he said, and the tour continued.

Dinner, in the hotel restaurant, was a noisy affair. Everyone was excited about their discoveries—Eona regaling Ayoti about the wide variety of life-ways, Nyota holding forth to a whole table of communications officers about the city’s creole, Yeoman Hatfield explaining their educational system to Dr. McCoy.

Spock only wished Jim would finally be done with his diplomatic session and return to him. An illogical thought, though understandable. Who would choose to be without the light of Jim’s presence for longer than they had to?

At last he came in the door, and Spock caught his eye immediately. Jim’s eyes crinkled at the corners in delight, but his mind urged patience. Jim’s duty came first, which in this case meant stopping at every table, listening to a bit of the talk, making sure everyone was well. Only once he had checked on all of his crew did he come lay a hand on Spock’s shoulder. “I hope you’re finished eating. I want to go upstairs.”

“You have not eaten,” said Spock reprovingly.

“Oh, I ate. Every hour of the damn thing they passed around more hors d’oeuvres. I think I’m gonna pop.”

Spock did not hesitate further, but followed Jim up the stairs, eyes on his flexing muscles. Jim’s uniforms were once again fitting as tightly as they were designed to do, a fact that gave Spock satisfaction in more ways than one.

Once in their room, Jim gestured for him to lie down on one of the beds. It had become their evening ritual for Jim to rub his back before bed. An entirely unnecessary one, as Spock’s back was already well-aligned and did not hurt, but the sensation of Jim’s hands on him was always distinctly pleasant. Spock stripped off his tunic and undershirt, stepped out of his boots, and lay down.

“I have had,” said Jim, climbing onto him and straddling his hips, “the most boring, exhausting, miserable day.”

“I could not help but notice,” said Spock. “I would have helped entertain you, but your work was too important to bear distraction.”

Jim bent forward, rubbing his cheek against Spock’s shoulderblade. “I haven’t touched you enough today, have I?”

“Barely at all.”

Teeth pressed lightly on either side of his neck, as if Jim were a mother cat who meant to lift him by the scruff. Instead, the touch melted into a kiss. “Better make up for it now.”

Spock stretched luxuriously under him, rolling his shoulders. “I have no objection.”

There was a pause while Jim warmed his hands against his neck, and then at last they were on him, kneading the muscles of his back. “Zh’tera asked me if I’d marry one of them. I’m not certain she didn’t mean herself.”

Spock came up on his elbows. “Quite a presumptuous—”

“I said I was taken, obviously,” said Jim, and Spock settled back down. “She didn’t mind, in fact she said it was just as good, because you’re one of them, so I already did marry into the family. Did they tell you that?”

“No, but it does explain some comments that have been made to me.” Jim’s blunt, powerful fingers dragged along his latissimus dorsi and he let out a long breath. “I was uncertain whether they wished to poach me away from the Enterprise, or were only making presumptions about my upbringing and my loyalties.”

“Are they wrong about your upbringing?”

“A thing can be correct and also not another party’s business. And I am a Vulcan. I do not call myself a hybrid and I do not find it gratifying when they do.”

“I’ll let them know,” said Jim softly. He leaned forward to slide his hands heavily up either side of Spock’s thoracic vertebrae, then back down. “I do understand where they are coming from, though. They’re hybrids themselves—a hybrid colony, even if most of them are still genetically one or the other—and they feel a kinship with you.”

“I am more different from them than they understand,” said Spock. “At a young age, I was required to choose a side. Follow the Vulcan way, reject my humanity, and undertake the kahs-wan; or select my mother’s path, knowing it had no explanation or guidance for so much of what I was. It never occurred to me that one could commit oneself to logic without also committing to being Vulcan, and yet I met today an Andorian who has. He has all the discipline one might expect of a Vulcan, but no Vulcan blood whatsoever. He does not claim to be Vulcan, or reject his Andorian ancestry. He has only made certain choices.”

Jim was silent at this, his thumbs circling on either side of Spock’s spine, just below his scapulae. Spock could feel his mind proposing and discarding things to say. At last he ventured, “Does that change how you see your human side?”

“It is . . . somewhat late for that.” There was little more to be said on the topic, and Spock found himself weary of it. He had no interest in picking apart the sides of himself at his age. He was what he was. “Has any progress been made on their membership treaty?”

“No. Worse, honestly. Part of the application has to be what they will contribute to the rest of the Federation, and they’ve honestly got nothing to give. I can go back to the Federation Council and argue that simply allowing us to put in an orbital platform is enough, because their position is so strategic, but a lot of the member planets might resent that. They’re providing millions of credits a year toward the Federation budget, whereas the number of credits we’ve spent on our hotel bill is more than usually comes into the whole planet in a month. Their own currency is just . . . for local . . . exchange.” The last sentence was distorted by a yawn.

“You are tired,” said Spock. “Come and lie down.”

“I haven’t even done anything today.” Jim climbed off Spock’s hips and lay down beside him. His eyes were drowsy. “Just sat.”

Spock felt a fond smile tug at the corner of his lips. “You find nothing so exhausting as sitting still, t’hy’la. You need to rest.” He pulled Jim’s back against his chest and spread the blanket over both of them. They only just fit in the narrow bed, and only if they were touching.

“We can’t sleep yet,” Jim protested, but without actually fighting free. “You’re horny.”

“I desire you always. But desiring you is a pleasure also. I will have you in the morning, if you are rested enough.” He pressed his nose to the back of Jim’s neck, smelling the sweetness of him.

“Mm,” said Jim, cuddling a little closer. “Guess I’d better make sure I am.”

Chapter Text

Spock was walking along a dusty gravel road. On either side of the road was only an indistinguishable blur. Nothing was there.

He was tired, so tired, but there was nowhere to sit down, nowhere alongside the road to take a rest. There was nothing he could do but trudge along, his feet like aching blocks of stone.

The nothingness on either side resolved into space; not the brightly spangled galaxy, but immense coldness and emptiness, an occasional star only highlighting how empty it was, how very far away he was from any warmth. His chest felt hollow, caved in.

It was not his dream, this time. It was not a memory; it shifted and blurred like a human dream, remixing reality to create impossible scenes.

He could not control the dream, as it was not his, but he pulled himself out of Jim’s point of view and instead walked beside him. “Jim,” he ventured.

Jim glanced to the side but could not seem to see him. “Alone,” he whispered to himself.

“Never alone,” said Spock. “Jim!”

A powerful wind had come up, stirring up dust and sweeping Jim off his feet, as if he were as light as a paper bag. Spock lunged for his hand, but the wind dragged Jim away, Jim’s fingers slipping from his. It carried Jim into the sky, dwindling to a tiny dot.

Spock awoke with a gasp. In his arms Jim gasped too, shaking like a leaf. Spock, too, was somewhat disconcerted, even though he had known all along none of it was real. “Jim,” he said softly. “Jim, I am here.” The last time this had happened, Jim had recoiled from him.

This time, though, Jim turned in his arms, plastering himself against Spock’s chest. He was still for a few minutes, till the shivering abated. “Did you see that?”

“Yes. I was hoping to improve the dream, but was not successful. I fear I made it worse.”

Jim shrugged. “It’s usually something like that anyway.”

“I do not understand what it signifies. Or why it was so frightening.”

Jim combed his fingers through Spock’s chest hair. “It’s just . . . being homeless. Wandering. That’s all.”

“You still feel that way.” Spock felt foolish when he had said it. Of course Jim still felt that way. The bond supported him, Spock could feel that, but it couldn’t solve everything. Spock was only one person. He could not replace a planet in Jim’s heart.

“I’m never gonna stop,” Jim said softly. He moved again in Spock’s arms, pulling Spock on top of himself. “Doesn’t mean you don’t help.”

Spock carefully rested a portion of his weight on top of Jim, hopefully enough to comfort but not enough to crush. Jim pulled at him. “I need you closer.”

Spock looked down, raising an eyebrow. “I am already touching you.”

“I guess you're going to have to fuck me then.”

Desire rushed through him. “Are you certain?” He was well aware of how vulnerable it felt to be penetrated, which he suspected was why Jim had never asked for this before. He was vulnerable enough as it was.

Jim opened his mind, showing Spock the aching emptiness he still felt. “I need you inside me.”

Spock gave up any thought of objecting. He kissed Jim thoroughly, aligning their bodies and swallowing Jim's moans. Jim ground upward against him, frantic, eager. So he wanted it fast. Spock could oblige him.

He dug the bottle of lubricant out from under the pillow. He had never done this before, not with a male, but he had become familiar with the slow and gentle way Jim prepared him and believed he could do the same. 

Still, he gasped when he slid the first finger inside of Jim's body. It was hot in here, and tight, and his sensitive fingers could pick up the hum of Jim's thoughts, needy and desperate. He moved as quickly as he could without causing Jim any discomfort.

“Spock,” Jim whimpered.

“Another moment.”

“Now, please Spock.”

Spock relented and lined himself up, pressing gently but steadily inward. Jim let out a beautiful moan, eyes fluttering shut. Spock paused once he was fully inside, feeling the tightness around him, the sweetness of his t’hy’la’s body encasing him. Jim’s mind hesitated briefly before becoming brilliantly, hungrily ready.

Spock thrust into him the way he wanted: hard, fast, enough to fill the emptiness inside him, enough to make him forget about the dream or anything that was not this moment. He could not quite achieve what he wanted in this position, so he pulled out, flipped Jim onto his stomach, dragged his hips upward, and pressed back in. Jim’s mind flared with pleasure and need at being manhandled like that. 

Yes, this was better. He could slam in at the correct angle with considerable force, and Jim could push back against him. He held tightly to Jim’s hips for leverage. Jim moaned into the pillow, his mind now fully absorbed in the sensations of the present moment. Spock let his mind overlap with Jim’s, half melding, pushing into Jim’s mind in a way Jim would be able to feel. Jim’s mind accepted his, pulling him inward, and for several moments it seemed unclear who was thrusting, who was moaning, who had taken hold of Jim’s erection and was rapidly working it toward climax.

Jim could not last long, not like this, and Spock allowed himself to be caught up in Jim’s pace. They were close, they were tensing, they were there, as their minds flowed together and hot liquid spattered the sheets and the inside of Jim’s body.

They gradually peeled themselves apart, mind and body, and lay panting. “Thanks,” Jim said after a few moments. “I needed that.”

“Evidently,” said Spock, still processing the meld, the things he’d seen in Jim’s mind. He understood better now why Jim had had that dream tonight, what Jim had been trying to hide until this moment. “Why did you never tell Zh’tera what you wanted? She seemed to want you to ask.”

“I don’t beg,” said Jim flatly. “And I don’t invite myself over.”

“For yourself, I know you never would. But for your crew? For everyone we’ve gathered on the way?”

Jim huffed in frustration. “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few?”

“Or the one,” said Spock.

Jim was silent for some time. Then he said, “Let’s switch to the other bed, this one’s a loss.”

They spoke no more about it, while they cleaned up and tucked themselves into the other bed. Spock could sense that Jim was not set in his decision, but neither was he willing to be pushed. He would have to decide in his own time.

In the morning, a message was waiting on Jim’s comm. Zh’tera asked the honor of taking Jim to breakfast, with his spouse if desired. “What do you suppose she wants?” Jim asked Spock, as he rooted through his bag for a clean uniform.

“I expect she wants to have breakfast with us,” said Spock, from his seat on the floor. He had finished his meditation before Jim had woken up.

Jim rolled his eyes. “But why?”

“If I had to guess, I suspect the Council is close to making a decision. She either wants your last-minute advice, or to give you hers.”

However, when they met Zh’tera at the small restaurant she had specified—a fusion place, but Vulcan in its minimalist decorations—she neither offered advice nor asked any questions. Instead she made casual conversation, asking after the members of the crew she had met so far, recommending dishes.

“Vulcans normally have soup in the morning,” she said, gazing at her menu, “while Andorians prefer fish. Thus fish soup is common here, but there are also many other options.”

Jim couldn’t imagine having fish soup for breakfast and selected pir mah instead, being something Amanda used to make and therefore recognizable. “In my part of Terra we usually ate eggs,” he said. “Or cereal, or something light. I usually just had toast and coffee, if I ate at all.”

“Coffee,” said Zh’tera sagely. “Your lieutenant told me of her disastrous encounter with it.”

Jim grimaced. “I hope it doesn’t make you think worse of us.”

“Why should it? You and your crew stood by her and saw justice done.”

“I meant, worse of Terrans generally.”

She smiled. “I have told you before, I deal with persons.” 

Jim hesitated, remaining silent for so long that the food arrived before he’d decide whether or not to speak. Once it was set before them, he drew a breath. “You asked me, when I first arrived here, what I wanted.”

Her dark eyes flicked immediately to his. “And you evaded answering.”

Jim sighed. “Sometimes it’s better not to think of what I want. Because I can’t have it. Every time I’ve gotten hopeful, it hasn’t been an option. Easier to focus on my orders, on what the Federation needs, what might be good for you.”

She waited, lifting a spoonful of soup to her lips. Jim realized, from the lack of steam and the condensation on the outside of the bowl, that it was chilled. Cold fish soup. For breakfast.

“I want a home,” Jim blurted. “That probably . . . wasn’t hard to guess. I’m never going to stop missing Earth, but I can’t wander the stars forever. Not without knowing I have a place to come to.”

“And that is your primary mission, is it not? To search for such a place.”

“We’ve had no luck so far. Every promising place turned out to be dangerous, or inhabited, or without something we needed. And . . .” This was the difficult part. “I look at you, what you’ve built here, and it’s everything I dreamed of creating. A place for people who didn’t belong anywhere else. I have people of many species on my ship. I have humans who were ruled not quite human enough to count. There’s going to be a baby born on my ship in a few months whose parents are Caitian, Andorian, human, and Orion, and we have no idea what they’ll come out looking like. Where do you raise a child like that? On any of those homeworlds, they’d stand out like a sore thumb. Here—nobody would care.

“But I can’t very well ask for a piece of your planet, not when the whole point was accepting your right to it. I can’t even guarantee that, even if it was offered, my superiors would accept it, when they told me to find an empty world. You’ve heard already how closed-minded a few of them are.”

Zh’tera nodded, not seeming surprised in the least. “If I am honest, I wondered why you had not asked. You have an obvious need. We have an obvious surplus. Space is the one thing we have in far greater quantities than we need.”

“Do you think your government would be remotely open to it?” asked Jim, feeling a little pathetic.

“We have already made an offer to your teacher, Savannah Hatfield. She is talking it over with her colleagues back on Vulcan, but I believe she will accept and bring all the children here.”

Jim stared at her. “I had no idea.”

“I cannot deal with governments,” Zh’tera reiterated. “But enough individuals want her here that there was no difficulty in extending an offer, privately, to a private group. I do not believe there would be any difficulty for you, either, or any member of your crew who wished. They would be quite comfortable in the city.”

Jim’s heart sank. “I’ll . . . let people know.”

“Why are you distraught? I believed you wanted this.”

“I didn’t want to break up my crew,” he said. “I wanted to make this the colony, the one we’re trying to found. A place that we could all call home, even when we’re halfway across the galaxy. A place to raise our children before we went back to the stars. A place, maybe, where we could speak our Terran languages and have eggs for breakfast. Plant the seeds of every Earth plant that survived. Promise a home to every single Terran and all the people Terra used to shelter.” He stopped, choking up, realizing he couldn’t possibly say all this to the Council. They’d want to know how it would affect them, what the Terrans would have to offer, whether Starfleet would want to establish a base, whether it had any bearing on their Federation membership or not. They didn't care about eggs and maple seeds and Russian profanity.

Spock’s hand rested on his thigh under the table, and he breathed for a moment. “You see why I didn’t want to say? It’s too much. You all have been here for a century, and it took a long time to create the balance you have, and your city and everything. We have no right to swoop in and demand a piece.”

“Why not?” said Zh’tera, raising an eyebrow. “Good things come to those bold enough to ask. And it would hardly be in line with our values as a people if we refused you. But it is far too large a request for me to grant. And I must tell you that today is a closed session. You will not be present; the Council wishes to deliberate without you, now that they have all the information.”

Had he put off asking until too late? If the Pavonians refused Federation membership, it would be pretty difficult to convince anybody back at Command to set up an actual colony here even if it was offered. “Oh,” he said softly.

Zh’tera’s eyes, previously fixed intently on Jim, drifted to Spock. “And you, Spock of Vulcan? What do you think of any of this?”

“I desire only to follow my captain wherever he goes,” said Spock.

“But for yourself,” she pressed. “Do you like it here? Do we meet with your approval?”

Spock’s eyes dropped to his bowl of soup. “If I ever have children,” he said softly, “I would wish to raise them here.”

There was nothing much to do that day. Zh’tera went off to the Council session, making no promises. Hopefully she would at least mention the idea. Jim didn’t feel optimistic that she would get them very far, though. The core suspicion the Pavonians had of the Federation had not changed. They wanted their independence. Why would they give up a piece of their planet for free, have it crawling with Starfleet and in constant contact with the rest of the galaxy, when all they had wanted initially was to be left alone? They liked the Enterprise and her crew, but that didn’t extend to the rest of the Federation, not by a long shot. Or even the rest of the Terrans.

Jim knocked around town with Spock. Then they met up with Gaila and Uhura for lunch and went shopping afterward for a baby shower gift for Prrk.

“A shower,” said Gaila incredulously, as they walked through the modest shopping district. “You give presents to new mothers and you call it a shower. Like a bath?”

“Like rain,” said Jim. “Though even that doesn’t make the best metaphor.”

“Anyway, it’s an Earth tradition,” said Uhura. “This baby’s going to be born of four species; we’ve got to cover all the bases we know how to. What do Orions do for new mothers?”

Gaila got quiet, and Jim wished there were a subtle way to kick Uhura and tell her to shut up. “Sometimes,” she said softly, “they pool their money together, and buy the pregnant woman her freedom before anybody finds out and her price goes up. We had several at the safe house. They always felt so guilty, ‘cause that was money their friends had been saving for their own freedom. But who could ever say no to getting their child safe and free?”

“Oh,” said Uhura, her hand running up Gaila’s arm. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think.”

“Well,” Gaila said, with forced brightness, “who knows what they do on the homeworld. Not me. I think I’d just as soon stick with the rain present.”

“Shower gifts are usually useful things,” Uhura explained. “But often they double as keepsakes. Baby’s first bib, baby’s first spoon, that kind of thing.”

“Baby’s first hairbrush?” Jim suggested. “I’m just saying. It’ll probably come out furry, at any rate.”

Gaila glanced to the other side of the street and immediately dragged everyone over. It was a blanket shop of some kind. Outside were pinned up silky man-kastik blankets knitted in Andorian styles—yet another thing that had blended over a century. They went inside, where a man with deep blue skin, no antennae, and pointed ears nodded to them. “Ask him what blankets they have for babies,” Gaila hissed, and Nyota talked to the man in creole.

The man ducked behind the counter and came up with a green blanket about a meter square. He spoke enthusiastically about it at some length. “He says green is good luck for babies in Andorian culture, and the pattern is similar to a traditional Vulcan one. However he made some alterations because of . . . I think some of the shapes are considered inauspicious in Andorian culture? He makes them himself, he learned the art from his chan-father. And um . . . he wants to know whose baby it is.”

“Tell him it’s mine,” said Gaila firmly. “Tell him I’m one of the dads. Maybe it’ll blow his mind.”

Another rapid rattle of words. “It didn’t blow his mind at all. He said that as the father it will be your duty to wrap the baby up in the blanket when they’re born. Among Andorians, that is the thaan-father’s task.”

“I’m sure he’s seen a lot weirder than a girl dad,” said Jim. “They have six genders here. Spock told me a shen fathered a child by parthenogenesis earlier this year. The hospital’s very proud of themselves.”

Gaila bought the blanket, and she and Uhura headed back to the hotel. It felt like they’d been shopping for hours, but it was only two hours after noon. “Well,” Jim said briskly, “what now?”

There was a tiny crease between Spock’s brows. “Jim, are you well?”

“You know I’m not,” said Jim. “But there’s nothing you can do about it.”

They made their way back to the government center to wait. Jim lay on a bench in the garden, staring at the shifting red-brown leaves of the tree overhead, the slices of blue sky that opened and shut as the wind stirred them. Spock sat beside him, hand idly playing in Jim’s hair.

“If it does not happen,” Spock said after a while, “we are no worse off.”

“Yeah we are,” Jim contradicted, feeling sour. “Because I got my hopes up, and I swore I wouldn’t, but here I am.”

Guilt oozed over from Spock’s mind. “Perhaps I should not have interfered.”

“You’re allowed to feel guilty when you make me do shit,” said Jim. “It was my decision to ask. I realized if I didn’t I was just going to wonder forever what would have happened if I had. Now at least I know I’ve done what I could.”

A door creaked open, and Jim scrambled upright. It was Zh’tera. “They have decided on their answer to the Federation,” she said formally, her tone giving away no clues. “Your presence is requested. I will be speaking for the Council, but please remember I do not speak for myself. I will speak as my government communicating with yours.”

Jim’s heart sank. It had been obvious Zh’tera wanted to give Jim whatever he wanted, but this warning implied the Council’s answer was going to be something else. Reluctantly he got to his feet and went inside, Spock at his heels.

The Council room was more formal and quiet than before. Each representative was upright and quiet behind their table. Zh’tera swept to the podium, light Vulcan-style robe fluttering behind her, and began to speak.

“We have thoroughly discussed every point of the Federation application and the offered treaty. We have come to the conclusion that we do wish to enter the Federation, provided our conditions can be met.

“First, that our independence as a planet is recognized and our planetary government is recognized as this representative body.