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If he had no scientific knowledge, Spock would be forced to conclude that Dr. McCoy’s continuous grumbling is a medically necessary element of sickbay procedure.

“I have twenty people waiting on everything from shots to stints,“ he says, barely looking up as Spock comes to a parade rest in front of his desk. “Make it quick.”

“I am concerned about the captain.”

McCoy rolls his eyes, taking a PADD from Nurse Chapel and scribbling on it. “And here I thought that was my job.”

“I have noted an additional ten percent drop in efficiency on the bridge since we last spoke. He has not vacated his quarters in eleven point three five hours, during which two mealtimes have passed. You yourself said he was ill.”

“I said he has a cold. He’s just being a baby. I already took him off the duty roster for the next few days.”

“The captain is not an infant.”

McCoy fixes him with an unimpressed look. “Humans are just funny, Spock. Sometimes a little bug can feel worse than phaser fire.”

Spock raises an eyebrow, unmoved.

McCoy heaves a loud sigh. “Here, if you’re so worried about him.” He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a small blue jar, holding it out. “It’ll save me the trip and I don’t have to worry about you catching anything.”

Spock considers it. “If he truly does not require a physician-”

“He doesn’t. You know I would be up there if he needed anything more than soup and a bad holovid.” The doctor shakes the jar, holding it out further until he takes it. “Make sure he’s taking care of himself and keep your pointed ears out of my sickbay.”

---

There is a period of approximately one point three six minutes between Spock’s request for entry and the captain’s door sliding open.

“Is everything alright, Mr. Spock?”

Jim’s voice is hyponasal, as if he’s speaking through cotton. He’s seated at his desk, though Spock judges from his delayed answer and the rumpled bed sheets that he had not been moments before.

“Certainly, Captain. Are you?”

“Of course.” His hair is mussed, his black undershirt and loose navy pants wrinkled.

Spock looks away. “Doctor McCoy asked me to deliver this.” He steps forward to place the jar on the desk, cocking his head slightly when it is met with a noise of distaste.

“I’ll be smelling like an old man for a week.”

“An old man?”

Jim cracks a smile. Spock’s abdominal muscles clench. “I don’t know if it’s still as common, but on Ea-”

He is interrupted by a loud sneeze. He turns away quickly, tucking his face into his arm as three more come in quick succession. When the fit finally passes he slumps over the back of the chair, groaning.

“I think I’ll lie down for a bit, if you don’t mind,” he says, standing with a slight grimace. “Wouldn’t want to get you sick.”

“Very few human diseases are communicable to Vulcans. When did you last eat?”

Jim shuffles towards his bed, sitting heavily on the edge. “Last night. I haven’t been hungry for breakfast quite yet.”

“It is 2100 hours. I will return shortly.” Any protest is muffled behind the whoosh of the door as Spock strides quickly towards the mess hall.

Given Doctor McCoy’s earlier suggestion, he replicates a nutrient-dense soup, a piece of Jim’s preferred bread, and a small cup of fruit.

When he returns Jim is reclined on the bed, an arm thrown over his face. He cracks an eye open and makes a complicated expression that Spock can’t begin to decipher.

“I can walk to the mess.”

“And yet you did not,” Spock replies, coming to the bedside. Jim sits up, taking the tray with a huff of laughter.

“Don’t you think all this is a little beneath you?”

“Ensuring the health of the ship’s captain?”

“Playing servant to a man who isn’t yours,” he says, eyes twinkling as he spears a berry with a fork.

Spock has meditated on the events of his time for a cumulative duration of seventy six hours. He projects that it will require many more before he is able to fully suppress the deep embarrassment it brings. It comes back in a flash: his abhorrent behavior, Jim’s lifeless body, the unending, inescapable heat.

His countenance does not change to his knowledge but Jim reacts as if it has, face somehow softening. “I’m sorry. Bad joke.”

Despite his regrettable reaction, the mention has not caused actual distress. “No apologies are needed, unless you intend to throw your soup.”

Jim barks a laugh. A comfortable silence falls as he eats, tray balanced in his lap. Every so often he brings up some anecdote or another. An ensign in engineering is being considered for a poetry award, which he seems very proud of. A story about the cafe on Rigel where the girls are so- is mercifully interrupted by a coughing fit. Chicken noodle soup, Spock learns, is the traditional comfort food among humans from Jim’s region, though his mother made it with dumplings instead. It is not nearly as nutritious as the minestrone Spock replicated, but he promises to bring something similar if Jim does not recover by the next mealtime.

“I’m telling you, I’m fine,” he insists, but Spock disagrees. He takes the tray once it’s empty, placing it on the desk and bringing the small jar back into the sleeping quarters. Jim immediately discards it on a nearby shelf.

“I would prefer not to be accused of helping you disobey the good doctor’s orders,” Spock says pointedly.

Jim waves a dismissive hand. “Do you have plans for the evening?”

“I’ve been sent a paper on the recent botany expedition to Ocotea IV. Their initial research into fluorine metabolism is promising.”

“You’ll have to let me know what you think.”

They stare at each other for a moment.

“Jim-“

“I really am fine. It’s just a cold.”

There’s an odd sticking sensation in his throat. His concerns are logical. Jim’s earlier statement was not entirely true – Jim is his, his captain and friend. He would see him in good health as consistently as possible for both personal and professional reasons. They face so many dangers, have been put into peril so many times. It is irrational to assign morals to the universe, but it seems unjust that this uneventful stretch of deep space between missions should be marred with a virus. Jim needs the rest.

“I would prefer you to be more than fine,” he says simply, condensing the tumult of his thoughts into one clear objective. “I will assist you.” He leans over to pluck the jar off of the shelf and unscrews the lid. A strong smell wafts out immediately.

Jim blinks. “Assist me?”

“You’re clearly not going to do it yourself. How is it applied?”

“Do Vulcans not use menthol?”

“Mint species are not native to Vulcan. We do not put them in our products or associate their scent with health or cleanliness in the same way that humans seem to.”

“What would you consider a clean scent then?”

The comparatively weak attempts at distraction only solidify Jim’s illness. He would normally be much more skilled. “I will inform you as I apply this.”

Jim holds his hand out for the jar. When Spock does not move he sighs, laying back. “You put it under your nose, usually. And on your chest. Helps you breathe.”

“I am not familiar with menthol as a decongestant.” He looks inside again. The waxy substance has a smooth, uninterrupted surface. He pauses. “Is there no applicator?”

“No. Want to give it here now?”

Jim’s smile is kind but knowing. He holds his hand out again.

Spock is not certain what possesses him to dip his fingers into the jar, which is in itself concerning. That his lips almost twitch upward at the surprise in Jim’s eyes is doubly so, though the unpleasantly sticky feeling of the ointment quickly overshadows any amusement. He comes closer to the bedside, hand held aloft.

“Spock, you don’t have to-“

“I believe this will make less of a mess if you are not talking.”

Jim’s mouth closes with a click. Spock bends down and dabs a finger over Jim’s philtrum, taking care not to smear the substance on his lips. His heart pounds in his side as if he is exerting great physical effort. Jim hesitates for a moment before tugging his shirt collar down, exposing his upper sternum and no doubt stretching the neckline.

Statistically, Jim is less likely to maintain his shirt’s integrity throughout an entire mission than to somehow destroy it. Spock has seen Jim’s chest bare many times. The sudden rush of blood to his face and ears must have another cause. Jim’s vulnerable expression, perhaps, or the strange intimacy of his purposefully exposed skin, his tight grip on the soft fabric. The sleeping area feels suddenly much too small, Spock’s hands much too bumbling for such delicate work.

He reinforces his mental shields and attends to his task, focusing on smoothing the salve in an even thickness, letting it create a thin barrier between his fingers and Jim’s fevered skin. If any emotion slips through, he can’t separate it from his own. He straightens and places the jar back on the shelf.

“I will return before my next shift,” Spock says, not looking at him. “Sleep well.”

He does not believe in luck. The fact that humans are unequipped to notice the elevated speed of his retreat simply is.

---

He fully intends to meditate when he reaches his quarters but finds himself too unsettled. He sits at his desk instead, dedicating half of his mental energy to organizing his inbox and responding to messages that require his input. The other half replays the events of the evening on repeat, searching for answers. Contrary to what outsiders might be led to believe, it is not impossible for Vulcans to experience emotions. It happens every day, presumably to a large subset of the population, though most of them are adept at keeping them completely undetectable. Feelings are not foreign or familiar so much as knowable, tameable. They are carefully filed away and released so as not to cause emotional reactions or illogical behavior.

Spock has always been skilled in that respect. Fear, love, anger, joy, shame, and other large emotions are easily identifiable and therefore easily let go. He sees them when they arise, acknowledges them, and casts them aside. The ‘butterflies in his stomach,’ as he had heard so many crew members describe them, have been captured and pinned neatly into specimen boxes where they cannot affect his daily life.

It is the smaller things that slip by him, eluding the sieve of his mask. Tiny flickers of amusement, embarrassment, fascination. They are amalgamations of many things, harder to identify in the moment and more strenuous to pick apart in hindsight. He has never been able to fully regiment himself the way a true Vulcan would when faced with a fleeting moment of something indescribable.

He has examined his face in the mirror countless times, trying to pinpoint what exactly gives him away. “Your eyes closely resemble your mother’s,” his father had told him once, and even at a young age Spock had understood it for the warning that it was. Endeavors to correct it throughout his lifetime have been unsuccessful. The cracks simply will not fill. It is fortunate that he has made his life among humans, where all but his most dire failures go completely unnoticed.

Jim is, as always, the exception. He knows things, sometimes before Spock knows them himself: when he is in need of a chess game and when he is best left alone, when his curiosity tips into genuine but restrained excitement, when some comment wounds him in a brief but smarting way. Here, in the red warmth of his quarters, he can examine the emotional sediment the thought stirs up. Glimmering pride, sharp unease, aching want. He pushes his chair back, correspondence finally dealt with, and slips into his meditation robe. There is much to sort before the next shift.

---

He feels distinctly more prepared when he enters the captain’s quarters the next morning, tray in hand.

Jim is at his desk again, though he appears to have actually been there prior to Spock’s arrival this time.

“Good morning, Captain.”

“Good morning, Mr. Spock. How was your night?”

He manages to avoid saying much of anything as Jim constructs a sandwich out of the selected breakfast items. He cuts it at a diagonal and offers Spock half. Golden yolk peeks out from between the slices of bread, dripping onto the tray.

Vulcans do not eat with their hands outside of ritual contexts. He is vaguely surprised that the captain doesn’t know this, though he couldn’t say where the information would have been acquired. Certainly not from Spock himself. “I have already eaten.”

Jim nods and continues on, asking between bites about the paper Spock had not read and the sleep that he had not gotten. His color is slightly better, though his cough and fever persist. When Spock’s eyes drift towards the small barrier wall of the sleeping quarters, Jim gets up and grabs the jar for him. He does not protest as Spock unscrews the lid.

Jim’s eyes flick around his face as he carefully applies the balm. “Are you alright?”

“I am well, Captain. I can alter the environmental controls if you are uncomfortable.”

“No, no need. You’re just- well, you’re blushing.”

“Vulcans do not have the same propensity for erubescence as humans. Touch telepathy precludes the need for many of the communicative physiological responses found in other species.”

“Fascinating,” Jim says, teasing.

He can feel Jim’s eyes on him as he finishes and says his goodbyes, but cannot meet his gaze. Something hangs thick in the air. It follows him to the bridge and back to his quarters at the end of the shift, an inescapable miasma.

---

Spock elects to take his dinner in the captain’s quarters the following evening. Shared meals have long been part of their working relationship. This unspoken tension has not. The correlation is admittedly imperfect, but he is willing to forgo his usual scientific standards for a hint of normalcy.

“I’m beginning to get cabin fever,” Jim says over his promised chicken and dumplings.

“You are typically pestering Mr. Scott for work by this stage of medical leave,” Spock agrees.

“I would be if Bones didn’t say it was contagious. I’ll keep my germs to myself this once.” He frowns, forehead wrinkling. “I’m not going to get you sick, am I?”

“Vulcans are not susceptible to most human illnesses.”

“Yes, you said that before. But you’re half human.”

“Most pathogens that affect humans can not survive in the higher Vulcan body temperature. Those that can would require a more direct means of transmission, such as a bite. I have no reason to believe I am at risk.” This is technically true. In childhood he sometimes ‘caught’ the flu virus from his mother after her visits to Earth, likely due to his insistence on tending to her. He has not experienced the same vulnerability in adulthood, though whether due to his stronger immune system or lack of prolonged close contact with human illness, he could not say.

“Alright,” Jim says, though he is clearly not convinced.

By the time they finish eating, Spock has nearly gathered enough evidence to ascribe his recent unease to the change in routine. He had simply not realized how accustomed he was to following the captain’s typical meal schedule, the disruption of which had subtly altered his own arrangements, including his time for meditation. Perfectly logical, if a poor reflection on his chronoception.

The thought settles him enough that he is not immediately apprehensive when the captain retrieves his medication. “I think this is the last of it.”

Spock accepts the jar without comment, standing to follow Jim into the sleeping area.

“I’ll just take my shirt off, if you don’t mind.”

A small part of him minds immensely. He smothers it with haste. “Proceed.”

“I could apply it myself, you know,” Jim says, voice briefly muffled as he pulls his shirt off and tosses it to the side.

“I am aware. It is whether you will.”

Jim sits on the edge of the bed, leaning back on his hands. “I will.”

Spock ignores this, choosing instead to steady himself and collect the last swipes of medication from the jar. As predicted, Jim makes no move to actually do so himself.

The bare skin of his chest is warm under Spock’s fingers, rising and falling at what appears to be a slightly elevated rate. Jim does not move forward when it is time for his face, necessitating that Spock lean over the bed to reach him.

They are so close that he can see the start of perspiration at the captain’s temples.

“Capt-“

“Spock.” The word is barely a puff of breath. Jim’s eyes sparkle in the low light, fixed entirely on him. Spock feels suddenly unable to move, trapped by his gaze. Something stretches between them, a buzz of energy in the air. Spock reinforces his shields, bringing them down against nothing.

His statement seems out of place now, somehow, but Jim is waiting for him to speak. “Your fever is breaking.”

Jim blinks. “Oh. Is it?”

“Yes.” He dabs Jim’s philtrum gently and straightens, screwing the lid back on the jar and placing it on the bedside table.

“Well, good.” Jim straightens as well, clearing his throat. “I meant to thank you, Spock. It means a lot.”

“Thanks are unnecessary,” he replies automatically. There is a long pause. He and Jim often exist in silence together — it is in fact one of his favorite aspects of their friendship — but this one is ungainly, waiting to be broken.

He settles for a simple goodnight and leaves the captain to his recovery.

---

He has more than enough data. It would be illogical to continue to deny a fact.

He is in love with Jim.

Years ago he may have reacted with horror and shame. Those first flickers of friendship were terrifying, unmanageable. He knew nothing of them but their inherent wrongness, their very possibility proof that he was a failure. He has long categorized his physiological reactions to the captain’s nearness as symptoms of this nagging fear: the increased heart rate, the dilated pupils, the occasional but frustrating inability to control his body.

That is clearly not the case. He has learned much about himself on this mission, with these people. The statistical chance that he would live and work and very nearly die among them and escape unchanged was negligible. He has accepted this. Kaidiith.

He has also learned much about Jim, which is helpful, because it means that he knows how entirely logical it is to love him.

A significant portion of the ship does, if gossip is to be believed. A significant portion of the otherworldly beings they encounter do as well, as documented in their logs. Jim is kind, intelligent, and almost offensively attractive. To believe himself alone to be immune to Jim’s charms would be pure arrogance.

Loving the captain is not an issue. It may in fact be beneficial for the functioning of the command team; he is certain Jim loves him as well. In a sense, the ship as a whole runs on such emotion. Members of a collective function most efficiently when they are valued and supported, when they come together for a greater purpose, when they experience connection and camaraderie. This is true of humans especially, who struggle to separate their work and personal lives to an astounding degree. He has heard of the conditions on other ships: frequent disciplinary hearings, tense atmospheres, constant power struggles. Even a Vulcan would be remiss to disregard the effect of goodwill on a Starfleet vessel.

The issue, as is so often the case, is Spock. Some part of him is not content to simply love Jim, to enjoy the friendship and frankly unwarranted esteem that Jim has gifted him against all odds. Spock wants, a wanting that opens a chasm in his chest the second he examines it, starving for attention after being neglected for so long. It nearly takes his breath away.

As much as he would like to brush this part of himself off as human emotionalism, it is not – or at least not entirely. Vulcan children are raised on stories of the pre-Reform era, largely due to their importance in underscoring the ideals of post-Reform culture. Untethered from logic, ensnared by passion and madness, they risk losing themselves completely. He thinks of Jim’s soft smiles, his curious mind, the pleasing set of his shoulders. Spock would do anything for him. More than an officer of Starfleet should consider, more than is logical. Jim would never ask it of him, of course, and therein lies his solution. Thankfully, it is one at which he is most skilled.

He lights a stick of incense.

---

After several sessions of meditation spanning three point nine seven days, Spock considers the matter finally closed. Jim has improved considerably by the time he is done, joining him in the mess for dinner for the first time since the onset of his illness.

“You’re looking much better,” McCoy says, placing his tray next to Spock’s. “I’m glad. The man flu can be very serious.”

The captain rolls his eyes, smiling. “I am, no thanks to you. Mr. Spock here has an excellent bedside manner.”

“Thank God for that. If it saved me having to deal with you, I’d almost consider hiring him.”

Spock raises an eyebrow. “I see no reason for a demotion, Doctor. The addition of your duties placed no strain on my own.”

He receives the desired outcome of Jim’s laughter and McCoy’s grumbling. He turns his attention to his meal, listening idly as the two trade gossip and discuss logistics. The doctor’s communicator pings after fourteen point six two minutes, summoning him back to the med bay with a curse. Jim takes a roll off of his abandoned tray.

“Chess tonight? I believe I threw our schedule off.”

“That is agreeable.”

Though the return to normalcy is gratifying, it does not make deep space pass any more quickly.

His scanner reads a one hundred and eleven point six meter asteroid as being one hundred and twelve meters. This discrepancy is technically within tolerance. He recalibrates it anyway.

The captain leaves the bridge soon after to attend one of the many rescheduled meetings requiring his presence.

Dr. McCoy makes a brief appearance to harass Chekov about a missed physical, though he does not stay long.

Uhura forwards him her translation of a Vulcan ballad she has been hoping to perform at their next rec night. He dutifully reads through it, though he knows there is no need. Her rendition is impeccable as always.

His communicator buzzes exactly fifty six minutes before the end of alpha.

JTK: Security planning celebration in rec room. Meet at yours instead?

STS: Acknowledged.

---

He has just stepped off of the turbolift when Jim speeds past the opening doors, carrying two trays.

“Captain?”

He jerks his head in the direction of Spock’s quarters and does not slow down until they are inside, heaving a rather dramatic sigh and setting the food down.

“Sorry, I know I’m early.” He grimaces, kicking his boots off next to Spock’s. “Bones wants some kind of new scanner, Yeoman Rand has a stack of PADDs taller than she is, and I’m reasonably sure that Scotty’s proposal for restoring used warp coils is a capital crime. I saw a window and I took it.”

“You are hiding,” Spock surmises.

“I am the captain of this vessel, Mister.” He sits down at the low table, gesturing for Spock to join him. “Of course I’m hiding.”

The evening begins smoothly. He updates Jim on the status of his most recent experiment as they eat. Jim spoons half of his replicated fruit onto Spock’s tray. They play two games of chess, winning one each. Jim considers him across the table as they reset the board for a third game, his face contemplative.

“Feeling alright, Spock?”

“Affirmative.”

“You’re sure? You just seem a bit… off.”

His face is not flushed, his heart rate is normal, his hands are steady. He has not reacted to Jim’s socked foot brushing his shin under the table. There is no evidence to suggest that he is functioning less than optimally.

“Off, Captain?”

“Jim,” he corrects. “And yes, off. Like something is bothering you.”

It is a statement, not a question. They stare at each other for a beat. “I assure you that nothing is bothering me.”

“Are you sick?” Jim begins to reach over the table.

Spock rears back more intensely than he means to, inexplicably fearful of the contact, as if Jim has somehow gained touch telepathy in the past twenty-four hours. He arches an eyebrow, attempting to smooth over his strange reaction. “There are three devices in this room alone more capable of measuring my temperature than the back of your hand.

Jim narrows his eyes, forehead creasing into what Spock has privately determined to be his ‘risky gambit’ expression. “Maybe I’m old-fashioned.”

The touch would be intimate by Vulcan standards, but there is no need to ascribe meaning without intent. Jim is concerned for his wellbeing and clearly believes him to be lying. Touch is reassuring for humans. He reinforces his shields, steadying himself.

“In the interest of demonstration, then,” he says, inclining his head.

Jim presses his hand to the offered skin tentatively, taking his temperature. “You’re warm,” he concludes after a moment.

“My quarters are warm.”

“Why did you come to my quarters, Spock?”

He looks up slightly, surprised by the non sequitur. Jim retracts his hand at the movement.

“They’re already normally uncomfortable for you. I know I had it freezing in there, with that fever. I could have gotten my own food, or had a yeoman do it. Hell, Bones would have eventually. I could have-” his hand drifts to his chest, as if subconsciously. “I was barely sick, and you stopped by twice a day every day. Why?”

He does not answer, torn between the twin impossibilities of lying and admitting the truth.

“It isn’t logical.”

“You are the captain.”

“Is that it?”

Spock is silent.

“Something else?” Jim takes a deep breath through his nose. “Is it our… friendship?” He has the particular tone that Spock has observed others take when describing their relationship. Edith Keeler, the admiralty, even Dr. McCoy. It reminds him of the way untested ensigns deploy code words, unsure of where to place the correct emphasis to be both subtle and clear. Whatever the cipher, Spock does not speak it confidently.

Jim takes pity on him after a moment. “Tell me to drop it and I will,” he says quietly, standing up. He moves at a glacial pace, as if approaching an unknown animal, coming to a stop just in front of Spock. “Tell me I’m misunderstanding.”

He shakes his head, not trusting his voice. Jim presses their lips together with the utmost care.

It takes him a moment to respond, mind wiped nearly blank by the rush of transferred emotion: apprehension, hope, determination, concern, all wrapped in warm, golden affection. He stands just as Jim begins to pull away, catching one of his hands in his own. He allows a small trickle of the joy ballooning in his chest to flow through his skin.

Jim lets out a quiet gasp in response and Spock is completely powerless against the impulse to taste it. His focus narrows to every point of connection: Jim’s palm on the side of his face, the other hand clasped in his, the jolt of electricity when their tongues meet. Every place sparks with the thrum of Jim’s thoughts, snapshots of Spock filled with years of feeling: on the bridge, in his quarters, flat on the sparring mat, hunched over machinery, standing tall at a diplomatic event. He surely doesn’t realize how strongly he is projecting, Spock realizes with a rush of guilt.

He pulls back slightly. “You think very loudly.”

“Sorry,” Jim says, smile taking a sheepish edge. “Too much?”

“Not at all. I am simply finding it… difficult to shield you out.”

“So don’t. Unless-“

“It is your comfort I am concerned with,” Spock interrupts. A curl of fondness passes between them with no clear origin.

“I’m comfortable.” Jim’s hand leaves his neck and skates along his back, finding the small strip of exposed skin where his uniform shirt has ridden up. Spock suppresses a shiver. “Are you?”

“Yes. Though I would perhaps be more so on the bed.”

Jim’s eyebrows shoot up, a tangle of surprise and delight emanating from his mind.

It is all he can do to tug Jim towards the sleeping quarters. He sits on the edge of the bed, assuming Jim will do the same, and is pleasantly surprised when he slips a knee between Spock’s instead. He swallows the resulting noise directly out of Spock’s mouth, pushing him gently down onto the mattress. His hands find his way under Spock’s shirt again, skimming his sides.

A snapshot from Jim’s mind passes through the contact: Spock in their cell on Ekos. Specifically, Spock’s bare chest in their cell on Ekos.

“Message received,” Spock says, amused. He taps Jim’s hands and sits up, quickly removing his upper layers.

Jim grins. “How does that work? I’m psi-null as they come.”

“To simplify, touch allows my mind to establish the connection for communication. Once this is in place, you are able to transmit along it, whether consciously or unconsciously. As psi-null individuals are unfamiliar with the finer details of telepathic communication, it will likely be easiest for you to share via the thought patterns that are most familiar to you. Additional skin contact or contact with my psionic centers may also be conducive to giving you a stronger connection, since you can not generate it on your own.”

He hums thoughtfully. “I’m a visual thinker.”

“I had gathered as much from your images.”

“So if I were to try to send a word, it would be harder?”

“I believe so.”

He puts his hands on Spock’s chest and closes his eyes again. Spock receives three images of himself: now, on the bed, face flushed. On an away mission several months ago, looking up at a pale pink sky. Last week, plucking his lyre as Uhura sang at their last performance in the rec room.

“Getting anything?”

“Negative.”

Several more: in their shared bathroom, applying eyeshadow. In his dress uniform at a starbase. On the couch in their New York City ‘flop,’ hat and hair askew. In his meditation robes, one sleeve threatening to slip down his shoulder.

“Are you attempting to send my name?”

“Not quite.”

Feelings, this time. Awe, curiosity, wanting. The desire to touch.

“If I may?”

Jim nods. Spock places his hands over Jim’s and focuses his mental energy on their connection.

It takes a moment of sorting. Jim’s mind seems to operate by association, linking scenes in ways that are not immediately clear to Spock. Images flick by in his mind’s eye: starlight streaking by the window of the observation deck. A sculpture Jim had seen at a museum many years ago. Himself again, leaning over the scanner. A bright purple flower.

Vanity is moreso a trait than an emotion but Spock suppresses it regardless, sending a flourish of impressed pride instead. It is unsurprising that the Captain would manage flattery in a language he barely grasps. “Beautiful.”

Jim smiles. “Yes! Will that get easier?”

“Honing a connection, particularly as a sci-null individual, takes time and practice. Frequent prolonged contact can lead to the formation of a fledgling bond, which significantly expedites the process.” He inwardly chastises himself for the mention of bonding so soon. “Meditation would also be beneficial, if you are interested in learning. Discipline of the mind is key.”

If Jim is bothered by the reference, he does not show it. Eagerness zings through their connection instead, bright and round. “Frequent prolonged contact, you said?” Curiosity apparently assuaged, he kisses Spock soundly into the pillows. His hands rove the newly bared skin, touch light. He breaks the kiss to press his lips to Spock’s jaw, his neck, the point of an ear. He teases the sharp line of a collarbone with his teeth, doing it again when Spock’s breath hitches and marveling at the olive mark that forms. He presses another kiss to it on his way further down, fingers trailing through dark chest hair as he sucks a nipple into his mouth. Spock’s hips twitch upwards without his permission, one hand coming up to cradle the back of Jim’s head.

This seems suddenly, distinctly unequal. He reaches over Jim’s back for the hem of his shirt, pulling it up to rake his fingers over the warm skin. He sends the request through their connection, hoping Jim will be able to receive it.

There is a slight delay, but he knows it has translated when Jim huffs a quiet laugh. “Not a fan of talking suddenly, Mister?”

Vulcan mating is highly ritualized, due in part to the intense effect of the pon farr on both pre and post Reform culture. There are specific phrases, movements, songs, and articles of clothing appropriate for each stage from the very inception of birth to the end of life. Vulcan bondmates need not speak, telepathically connected as they are. The sheer wealth of choice available in this moment is, frankly, terrifying.

Human communications are, in his experience, both less ritualized and more discerning. The choice of one synonymous word over another can change the entire meaning of a statement. Misunderstandings based on such minuscule details as their tone or expression are incredibly common. He knows himself to be overly formal in Standard, partially due to his culture and partially in an attempt to be as clear as possible. This is typically seen as strange and unattractive in sexual contexts, as he’d learned from his scant casual relationships in the academy, but he is largely uncomfortable with altering his speech patterns for others.

The thought of taking further time and focus away from his current fortune to navigate these complications is frankly distasteful.

“I would prefer to be otherwise occupied.”

Jim’s hands tighten briefly on his sides, eyes going wide. The surge of desire is beyond gratifying. “I think I can work with that.” He straightens, peeling off his top and tossing it away. Spock takes the opportunity to get his hands on him, testing the pleasant give of padding over muscle. He traces the trail of golden hair that disappears into Jim’s uniform pants, checking Jim’s reaction before dipping his fingers under the waistband.

“Those are up for removal too, if you want,” Jim says.

Spock wastes no time undoing the button and tugging them down around his thighs.

Jim pulls away to kick them the rest of the way off. Spock utilizes the slight pause to remove his own, stretching to drop them off the side of the bed. Jim takes advantage of his momentary lapse in attention, returning quickly to stroke the dusting of dark hair covering Spock’s thighs. A hand curls possessively around his hip, thumb tracing the ridge of the iliac crest where it peeks out above his regulation boxer briefs. He pulls Jim back down for a kiss, every nerve sparking at the decadent stretch of skin to skin contact. He trails his lips over the square cut of Jim’s jaw and down his neck, tucking his face into Jim’s shoulder when a thigh presses firmly between his legs.

Jim gasps quietly and releases Spock’s hip, hand questing down as if in confirmation of his initial thought. His thumb ghosts over Spock’s genital sheath through the fabric, the sensation at once electric and muted.

“You’re wet,” he says, voice ragged.

Based on past experiences, an explanation of Vulcan anatomy has a thirty five point seven percent chance of ending the evening prematurely and a statistically negligible chance of improving Spock’s pleasure. Humans, as they frequently assert, seem to learn best by doing. He lifts his hips in invitation, stomach flipping pleasantly at Jim’s haste to pull the briefs down his legs and fling them across the room. A pointed snap of elastic gets him to remove his own as well, though he makes the task harder by moving away only minimally to do so. His fingers stroke absently along Spock’s inner thighs, eyes wide and dark. “Anything I should know?”

“I will tell you if anything becomes relevant.” His voice is gravelly and uneven to his own ears.

He nods. Spock arches up until they are pressed flush entirely, taking greedy handfuls of back and glute and thigh until Jim allows his full weight to press him into the mattress. His thumb traces the folds of Spock’s sheath.

“Is this-”

He projects a rush of desire. His skin feels superheated, every atom between them charged with electricity. Jim’s thumb dips ever so slightly in, spreading wetness, and mirrors Spock’s shaky gasp with a sharp inhale through his nose.

He sits up, slipping his leg over one of Spock’s, and grabs the other, lifting it up onto his shoulder and pressing a quick kiss to Spock’s calf. He could certainly become accustomed to being arranged.

“Can I?” he breathes, and Spock is both wildly unsure of what he’s being asked and absolutely certain that he wants it more than he has ever wanted anything. He sends the affirmative through their skin.

A wicked grin flashes and Jim is bearing down, pressing them together. He rolls his hips, adjusting the angle each time as if searching for something, and then Spock has no time to grasp for the correct human colloquialism before a small, round head is slipping messily between the ridges of his sheath. He makes a garbled sound, eyes affixed to the tensing and relaxing of Jim’s abdomen as he moves, the patch of light wiry hair on his pubis, the pink tint of his cheeks. His lok begins to emerge of its own volition and he clenches against it, unwilling to alter the press of their bodies so soon.

He reaches up to touch Jim’s smooth chest, rubbing over a rosy nipple with his thumb. Jim’s hips stutter minutely, the easy slide between them becoming a slow, deep grind. His hand slides down Spock’s lifted leg, fingernails raking lightly over the back of his thigh. His lok descends a bit further. A particularly hard roll of Jim’s hips presses him against the barely emerged head, the glancing contact making Spock hiss.

Jim sits back slightly, gaze dropping between Spock’s legs. A fragment of memory passes through their contact, almost certainly unintentional: Spock on top of him in the Vulcan sand, erection pressed into the crease of his hip as they grappled. His eyes flick back up, hungry.

He reaches between them to ghost gentle fingers over the head. The remaining length glides smoothly into his hand. Spock bites back a groan at the sudden rush of air and touch against the wet skin. Jim closes his hand in a loose fist, smiling when Spock’s hips twitch helplessly upwards.

“Gorgeous.”

Spock cannot lie. Vulcans do not blush.

He is, however, only half Vulcan. Between Jim’s full attention and his slow, leisurely strokes, Spock suspects he is a deep, fevered green. He reaches for Jim, ghosting a hand over the slight softness of his lower abdomen and down until he meets slick heat.

Jim’s anatomy is not unlike his own, though smaller. He strokes gently with his thumb, thrilling when Jim shudders.

He takes the opportunity to study Jim, greedily cataloging every reaction. A particularly hard jerk of his hips has Spock’s fingers slipping lower, grazing against his entrance.

A bolt of desire strikes him, nearly stealing the breath from his lungs. Before he can determine its origin Jim is leaning down, bracing himself on his hands to kiss Spock hungrily. By the time he breaks away, they are both nearly panting.

“My, ah, accessories are in the other room.” A moment of silence passes before Spock understands it as a question.

He considers it. His curiosity is almost insurmountable, the hunger to know and feel and take an overwhelming ache. At the same time, the thought of separating for any length of time is nearly painful.

“I am here presently.”

Jim smiles, untangling their legs to slide smoothly into his lap. “So you are.” He takes Spock’s lok in hand, spreading wetness and looking up for one final confirmation before lining them up. He sinks down carefully, tilting his head back with a sigh.

Spock’s world narrows to sensation: heat, wetness, the heady press of Jim’s skin. His hands find Jim’s hips, rubbing what he hopes are soothing patterns into his skin and straining against the desire to move.

Jim grins as if this has transmitted, raising up in a slow, steady motion. “What would happen if you let go, I wonder?”

Spock meets him on his way back down, grinding up into him. “Perhaps you will learn in time.”

Jim’s answering laugh is breathy as he plants a hand on Spock’s chest and rolls his hips faster, any pretense of taking his time gone in a sudden wave of desperation. Spock feels it, a growing fire deep in the pit of his stomach: years of waiting, of wanting, of knowing that something was missing but not knowing that it was there, always, aching to be taken. Jim groans on a particularly deep thrust, clenching around him, and Spock finds himself echoing the noise, suddenly aware of his own gasping mouth. He reaches down, gently stroking Jim between two fingers and shivering at the resulting feedback loop of pleasure.

Jim keens, projecting every filthy approximation of an ozh'esta that he has evidently been considering: Spock’s fingers in him, around him, in his mouth. His fingers in Spock’s mouth, in his sheath, twining in his hair as Jim buries himself in Spock.

Spock’s answering projection falls apart quickly as he nears orgasm, less a concerted response and more a jumble of desire.

Jim, laid out on red sand. Jim, grey hair just beginning to grace his temples. Jim here, now, finally within his grasp, grasping back. Any day, every day, in his endlessly aggravating green wrap shirt, in a Jeffries tube, stumbling blearily to the bathroom sink, sprinting down the halls during a red alert, smiling, touching, laughing. In him, around him, made for him.

“Yes,” Jim says, the word nearly a hiss.

Spock projects a frantic warning, hips stuttering.

“Yes,” he repeats, reaching back to clutch Spock’s thigh as if it will keep him in place.

He would be embarrassed by the sound that escapes him as he spills into Jim, but it is shoved to the side by a rush of ravenous desire.

“God, Spock,” Jim says, strained, and then he too is tipping over the edge. His eyes squeeze shut, head falling back, and Spock takes the opportunity to memorize him like this: flushed, beautiful, an errant curl stuck to his forehead, twitching back and forth from Spock’s hand as if he can’t take the stimulation but can’t abandon it either.

They are still sitting like that moments later when Spock’s lok begins to retract. Jim startles, looking down, and laughs when he realizes what is happening. He sits up with a hiss and shuffles on his knees to the side of the bed, flopping down next to Spock.

“That’s pretty handy,” he says, beaming.

Spock is certain that Jim would not actually mind an explanation of the relevant Vulcan biological process, but he finds himself loath to deliver it. He presses his cheek to Jim’s chest instead, sated and nearly speechless. If there are words for his good fortune, he does not know them.

They take turns in the sonic, not coordinated enough at the moment to fold two bodies inside the small cubicle at once.

Jim pulls his loose sleep pants on and herds Spock back into his bed, waving away any suggestions of paperwork or duty rosters.

“Tomorrow. I’m keeping you to myself tonight.”

Spock does not intend to project his smug, preening satisfaction, but Jim evidently receives it anyway, laughing and curling a possessive arm around his chest. He should probably be concerned about these unintentional messages, about the unfinished work, about the fledgling bond his mind is already aching to establish.

“Tomorrow,” he agrees, basking in Jim’s warm glow.

---

Spock wakes with a sneeze.