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Chapter Text

0.5) It’s over, isn’t it?

With a long groan, James Kirk rose from his captain’s chair, stretching his arms overhead to a chorus of popping joints. It was the end of a particularly grueling shift, and the arrival of his relieving officer felt akin to seeing an angel flying down to greet him—bathing him with a ray of divine light.

Not that he would have it any other way. He loved the Enterprise—every bit of her. Even during weeks like these, when scanning and analyzing the endless phenomena of the cosmos kept him pinned to the bridge instead of tromping across the surface of some strange new world. Still, it had been eleven days since he’d tasted non-recycled air or seen colors beyond the steel-gray of bulkheads, and he was starting to feel it.

His gaze drifted to the science station, a faint smile tugging at his lips at the sight of one familiar Vulcan form—forever poised over the glowing blue void of ship sensors. With a deep inhale, Jim sidled up to his First, turning to lean against the console casually.

“So, Mister Spock,” he began, still watching the captain’s chair as Commander Kyle settled into it.

His hand inched along the console’s surface until it grazed the edge of Spock’s with a feather-light touch. The cool of Vulcan skin felt like a drop of spring water in a desert, and Jim yearned to explore the oasis it promised.

“Any plans this evening?”

He tried to affect nonchalance, but in truth Jim’s skin had been itching all day with anticipation.

The nature of their latest assignment had allowed him precious few moments with his beloved First, and during stretches like these, Spock’s focus was too absolute to humor Jim’s bouts of bridge-side boredom. More than once, he’d been sent down to pester McCoy or Scotty instead.

(Oh, there was always paperwork, of course—but Jim had made an art form of putting that off until the absolute last possible second.)

After a few moments of no reply, but also no removal of Spock’s hand, Jim’s eyes slid across the bridge, finally landing on the Vulcan’s severe profile: all sharp angles and dark planes, the kind of mystic danger he’d craved his entire life. Spock—the endless enigma he neither could nor wanted to solve.

“I was thinking chess,” Jim offered, then lowered his voice into the honeyed murmur reserved for only one man now. “Or maybe something a bit more… physically stimulating?”

At last, Spock turned to face him, the deep dark of his eyes drawing Jim in like a sailor to a siren’s song. He felt half-melted into the console already—god, would he survive an actual touch today?

It had been too long.

“Apologies, Captain. I will be unavailable tonight.”

Jim stalled.

Again?

This was the fifth night in a row that Spock had shot him down. Jim understood the Vulcan’s tendency toward the occasional contemplative mood. The way he could be gripped by such intense scientific curiosity that he’d work for days on end, only resting his mind through brief meditation. But this felt different—the decline now carried the shadow of avoidance.

And with it, a creeping fear.

Fear that the relationship Jim had been so, so sure would never happen—after years of longing glances, lingering touches, and failed attempts to care for anyone else—was now edging toward its end.

Of course, he hadn’t been naive to this possible eventuality. Spock was Vulcan. Jim was human—an emotional one, at that. While he didn’t regret taking the plunge, he’d always known this relationship was tentative at best. Knew it might end up—that he might end up—being more than Spock could bear.

(Lord knew what the Vulcan saw in him, but far be it for Jim to question the love of the supposedly emotionless.)

“How about dinner? Could just be a quick bite in the mess if you need to get back,” Jim tried, fully aware of how desperate it probably sounded—but damn it, he wanted to spend time with his partner.

“Perhaps another time, Jim,” Spock replied, standing and taking the light brush of their hands with him.

Jim mourned the loss of contact, though he told himself that at least Spock had used his name instead of his rank. That was something… right?

“Ah—yeah,” Jim muttered, forcing the defeat out of his voice.

Spock gave a single, precise nod before striding toward the turbolift.

Jim waited a few moments before following.

“Sickbay,” he grumbled at the lift, scowling at the doors as they slid closed.

If he wasn’t going to get laid tonight, he was going to get drunk.

***

Entering McCoy’s office, Jim didn’t bother with a greeting. He went straight to the CMO’s liquor cabinet, where bottles of liquid gold waited behind rippled, frosted glass.

“Well, good evening, Captain,” McCoy drawled, swiveling away from his console where he’d been recording his end-of-shift log. He fixed Jim with an incredulous stare. “Can I help you?”

Jim scanned the shelves, then pulled a bottle of old Tennessee whiskey. Something that burned like hell felt right for the mood he was in tonight.

“I need a goddamn drink. Join me, Doctor?” he said, dropping into a chair opposite McCoy’s desk with a huff.

“Seems I don’t have much choice.”

McCoy closed out of his report and took the proffered glass, raising it in brief salute before sipping with an appreciative grimace.

“I ever tell you this is the old McCoy family secret to the best baked beans you’ll ever have in your damn life?” He grinned over the rim of the glass.

“About eight times, Bones. I have yet to see those beans, by the way.”

“I’m a doctor, not a cowboy,” McCoy scoffed, taking another sip. “Alright, lay it on me. No—don’t tell me. I can already guess. Spock.”

Jim hissed an inhale through clenched teeth as the whiskey’s liquid fire burned its way down his throat.

“Nail. Head. All that.” He answered hoarsely. “I think he’s avoiding me.”

“And what did you do this time?”

“You know, I’m not always causing trouble on the bridge! I’m very professional.”

McCoy refilled their glasses with a gruff laugh, “In a pig’s eye.”

“Shut up,” Jim shot back playfully, then sighed. “I really don’t know what I did, Bones. He hasn’t seemed upset this week, but every chance we’ve had to spend time together, he’s turned me down.”

“And you haven’t just been propositioning him, right?” McCoy asked with a smirk.

“Bones! No!” Jim protested—then hesitated. “Well… maybe today… and two days ago… but Spock knows better than to think I’m only interested in rolling around between the sheets with him.”

McCoy grimaced, raising a hand defensively. “Please, Captain. There’s only so much I can stomach about that Vulcan’s romantic life.”

“Sorry,” Jim said with a small chuckle. “I’m just saying… what if—” He faltered, eyes gazing into the rich amber liquid as if it held the answers to life’s endless mysteries—or at least the answers to his problems. “What if he’s done with me, Bones?”

McCoy barked out a laugh, “Spock done with Jim Kirk?! Now that’s the best joke I’ve heard all week.”

The doctor’s face sobered slightly at Jim’s glare.

“Jim, that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Take it from me—the man who was certain that board of circuits Spock calls a brain couldn’t feel the way we do—Spock loves you. Don’t ask me how, but he does. I see it.” McCoy downed his whiskey in one long swallow. “I suppose it’s too much to hope you’ll just—oh, I don’t know—ask him what’s going on?”

“You know how he is, Bones. He’ll brush me off until he’s ready to talk about it. Remember his mating cycle?”

Jim grimaced at the memory of how many times he’d had to poke and prod Spock into finally explaining the truth about pon farr.

McCoy poured another glass, muttering, “Yes, god forbid two grown men in their thirties have a conversation about their relationship.”

Jim groaned, throwing up a hand. “Look, normally I’d believe you about Spock—but what other reason could there be for him avoiding me like this? Maybe he’s finally logicked his way out of our relationship.”

“Then it’s over,” McCoy said with a shrug.

Jim stared at him, aghast, before dropping his eyes back to his drink.

“I told myself I’d be okay with that before,” he muttered into his glass, “but faced with the possibility of going back to just being his captain, I—”

McCoy set his glass down with a loud thud, fixing Jim with those glacial blue eyes that seemed to turn him to stone—like the legend of Medusa come to life.

“You know what you sound like? Like some whiny cadet expecting the galaxy to hand him what he wants. Aren’t you James T. Kirk—captain of the Enterprise? The man who doesn’t believe in no-win scenarios? If you’re so damn worried about losing Spock, change the rules. Make him regret it. Hell, as much as I love drinking and shooting the breeze with you, Jim, I’d rather talk about my ex-wife than keep dissecting that pointed-eared goblin’s love life.”

Jim blinked, then a wide smile broke across his face. He might be madly in love with his first officer, but no one could put him in his place like Leonard McCoy.

“See, this is why I talk to you,” he laughed. “So… what’s the prescription, Doctor?”

Chapter Text

1) You’re the captain, use that

When Jim stepped into Spock’s primary lab the next morning—without the Vulcan in sight—the science technicians looked at him as though he’d sprouted a third ear in the middle of his forehead.

“Captain…?” The ranking officer—lieutenant Vaaux—hazarded as Jim approached. “If you’re looking for Mister Spock, I believe—”

Jim cut him off with a casual wave.

“At ease, Lieutenant. I’m not here for Mister Spock, and don’t worry—we’re not about to explode or anything.”

The air of the lab eased as the technicians turned back to their sensors and analyses.

“Well, that’s good to hear,” the Trill said with a warm smile. “Then what can I do for you, sir?”

Jim chewed the inside of his cheek. “I—ah, that is—Spock mentioned a research paper he was working on for publication with the Trill Science Ministry—”

“Oh, yes, sir!” Vaaux’s face lit with unguarded excitement. “Harmonic Neural Pathway Stabilization in Post-Joined Trill and Post-Katra Vulcans!”

Jim made a face. “Doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue, does it?”

The lieutenant laughed. “No, sir. Probably a mistake to let the Vulcan name it. But in any case, why the interest? Unfortunately, it doesn’t look like we’ll have it done before this year’s submission deadline.” His smile faltered. “Mister Spock and I were hoping to sneak it in before the cutoff. He was particularly eager to blow the Vulcan Science Academy’s publications out of the water at this year’s Trill Scientific Symposium. You know how he is.”

Jim chuckled. “Oh, I’m more than aware, Mister Vaaux. Never misses a chance to show up those stuffy Vulcans, does he?”

“Indeed, sir.” Vaaux grinned, then added, “Shame it’ll have to wait until submissions open again next year. I thought we’d make it, but lately Mister Spock has been swamped with… other projects.”

Jim raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t involved in every aspect of Spock’s daily duties, sure, but Spock’s workload wasn’t any heavier than usual… that he knew about. His stomach began to sink, growing heavy as if filled with the slow pour of cement.

So, not only was Spock avoiding him, but he’d also apparently not been bothering to keep Jim informed of his workload.

Wonderful.

He pushed the thought aside, clearing his throat. “That’s actually why I’m here. He mentioned postponing. If I could give you a couple more hands, could you finish it in time?”

Vaaux blinked. “Sir? That would be great, but this paper is hardly priority research for the Enterprise—more of a passion project between Mister Spock and myself.”

Jim’s smile softened. “I understand. But we’ve got another week or so of space days ahead. I think I can pull a few ensigns from the other labs without sending the warp core into meltdown, hmm?”

The Trill’s grin was so bright Jim half-wanted to shield his eyes.

“If you’re sure, I certainly won’t stand in your way.” Vaaux replied eagerly.

“I’ll comm you when I’ve got your team together.”

“Thank you, sir!”

Vaaux snapped an appreciative salute as Jim left the lab. The doors had barely shut before the hum of excited conversation broke out behind him.

***

At the end of Jim’s shift that, it was Spock who approached him finally.

Jim tried to hide the self-satisfied curl of his mouth as he glanced up innocently at his first officer, blindly handing the day’s fuel consumption report back to his yeoman.

“Yes, Mister Spock?”

“Captain, Lieutenant Vaaux has just informed me you have reassigned three ensigns from the geological analysis lab to assist in completing my paper on neural pathway stabilization.”

Jim’s smile deepened. He opened his mouth—ready to wave it off as no big deal, to accept the thanks he was sure was coming, maybe even blurt out that he loved this man—but Spock continued without pause.

“I appreciate the sentiment, Captain, but it is unnecessary. There is no logic in inconveniencing the geology lab for—what I presume—was my benefit. I had failed to inform the lieutenant of my plan to devote my full attention to the paper once my other obligations have been satisfied. By my calculations, we can still meet the publication deadline with forty-three point six five hours of dedicated research, allowing for two point two hours of rest and sustenance.”

“Oh.” Jim tried to mask his disappointment, shutting his mouth with a small click of teeth and nodding.

“Additionally, I would prefer you not interfere in the affairs of my department, Captain. I am perfectly capable of prioritizing my own tasks.”

Jim blanched.

“Oh, no, Mister Spock,” he blurted, mortified he’d managed to screw this up so royally. “I never meant to cause offense. I merely—”

“Jim,” Spock cut in, the faintest trace of fondness softening his face, “no offense was given, nor taken. I understand you were simply attempting an act of kindness.”

Spock laid one long, elegant hand on Jim’s shoulder. He closed his eyes briefly, absorbing the grounding weight of it—the cool seeping through his command golds, the quiet steadiness that came with it. A small smile flickered across his lips.

When he opened his eyes again, Spock’s hand was gone.

“I will see you tomorrow, Captain. Please, enjoy your evening.”

And with that, Spock left the bridge, carrying with him the fragile moment of calm he’d left in his wake.

2) Give him compliments ( better compliments, Jim)

“Hmm. What do you make of it, Mister Spock?” Jim asked, glancing from the viewscreen to his first officer.

Spock tilted his head in brief contemplation.

“The planet appears to be of limited scientific interest—no sentient life, standard class-M atmosphere.” He paused, eyes narrowing in analysis.

“It may be beneficial to beam down briefly, long enough for the botany department to collect new samples before we resume our charting mission.”

Jim nearly leapt from his seat.

He’d been dying—dying—to get planetside again. The ship’s long-range scans hadn’t shown anything particularly thrilling about this world, but it was the only class-M for lightyears in this sector. Honestly, he just wanted to stretch his legs somewhere that wasn’t lined in gray bulkheads.

As chief science officer, it was Spock’s call whether they made any specimen collecting trips, and Jim could just about kiss him senseless for giving the go-ahead.

(Maybe he would on the planet’s surface… when no one was looking of course).

“Good thinking, Mister Spock,” Jim said warmly—warmer than his usual clipped ‘good work’. “You’re always looking out for the crew’s well-being, I know this isn’t just about samples.”

He gave a flirtatious wink, to which the Vulcan inclined his head in mild acknowledgment, but Jim thought—thought—he caught the barest twitch at the corner of Spock’s mouth.

Stepping over the threshold into the transporter room felt like walking through the gates of heaven. Jim grinned like a fool as he took his spot on the pad beside Spock, McCoy, and four science officers.

“We’ll be back in an hour,” Jim told Scotty, practically bouncing on his toes.

“Energize.”

***

The planet wasn’t exactly Risa—more of a desert world with succulent-type plant life and insectoids—but to a land-starved crew, it felt like paradise. Jim tipped his head back, letting the rays of the triple suns soak into his skin.

McCoy promptly shoved his head back down and plopped a wide-brimmed hat onto it.

“Since you refuse to wear any sun protection on planets like this,” the doctor grumbled, swaddled head to toe in UV-proof fabric.

“A little sun is good for the soul, Bones!” Jim protested. “Just look at Spock—perfectly at home out here, like he belongs on the cover of Exotic Worlds Quarterly.”

Indeed, his first officer had his face tilted toward the suns, eyes closed in serene contemplation—basking like some desert lizard.

“Spock is Vulcan, Jim. What’s your excuse? Idiocy?” McCoy muttered, turning away to scan the nearest palm-like tree.

Jim smirked and turned to Spock, now staring at him neutrally.

“Lead on, Captain.”

They explored the section of desert Spock had selected, the botany team collecting samples while McCoy and Spock offered occasional input. Jim, meanwhile, focused less on plants and more on the way Spock moved—deliberate, unhurried, as if the heat were nothing to him.

The sand was a rosy pink beneath their boots—fine and hot, but not unpleasant. Jim knelt, letting it run through his fingers, savoring the coarse-yet-gentle exfoliating drag across his palms. He was half-tempted to take off his boots and bury his toes in it.

He even managed to spot an insect atop one of the towering succulents—a pale blue plant bristling with tiny spines. Clinging delicately to the tips was a beetle-like creature, its long proboscis threading past the thorns to pierce the water-swollen flesh beneath.

Quickly, Jim called Spock over, delighting in the way his First’s eyes lit with that familiar, addictive curiosity. A look that made Jim want to scour the universe for every interesting scientific phenomena, just to see it again.

“You’re so handsome, Spock,” Jim blurted, his voice softer than intended. Spock stilled, tricorder adjustments forgotten.

“It’s just—you’re an amazing scientist. Brilliant. Elegant. If there’s a brain in the galaxy that can compete with yours, I haven’t met it. Starfleet’s lucky to have you.” Jim let his fingers brush Spock’s forearm, voice dropping just a little. “And so am I.”

Spock’s gaze shifted from the insect to Jim, the faintest green darkening the tips of his ears. He opened his mouth to reply—

And then, as if remembering himself, he turned abruptly and crouched near a cluster of succulents. With precise, careful movements, he trimmed a small portion of fibrous root and tucked it into a sample pouch already half-full of odd desert flora.

Jim blinked. “What are you doing?”

“We came here to collect specimens, did we not?” Spock said evenly, but the way his hand lingered almost reverently over the pouch struck Jim as… oddly secretive.

“Well, yeah, but you’re not usually a plant guy. You going to start a desert garden in the ship’s observation room?” Jim teased, trying to recapture the moment.

Spock only inclined his head and rose smoothly. “The composition of these organisms is… promising.”

“Heaven help me, are you two quite finished?” McCoy groaned from behind them.

Damn this sand. Silent footing had never been more ill-timed.

Jim exhaled sharply, lips pressing into a tight line.

“Hour’s up. Back to the transport coordinates before I tell Scotty to leave y’all here,” McCoy barked, stomping off with a mutter about being a doctor, not a chaperone.

Jim gave Spock a rueful smile. “Better get going, huh?”

Spock nodded once, but as Jim turned to leave, he glanced back, determined to press the point.

“By the way—I meant what I said, Mister Spock.”

With that he sauntered off, hips swaying just enough to make it obvious. Try to resist this, you stone-faced bastard.

Apparently, he could. Spock turned down Jim’s invitation to spar a few hours later.

Back to the drawing board.

3) He can’t avoid you if you hang out in the lab

Two days later, Spock vanished from the bridge at the start of Beta shift yet again. By now, it was routine.

Work as normal, no sign that anything had changed between them—or in Spock’s workload. Decline every one of Jim’s invitations to spend time together off-duty. Disappear into a Vulcan cloud of mystery the moment his relieving officer arrived.

Well, Jim had had enough.

“Computer, locate Commander Spock,” he requested later that evening, fresh from his run and shower.

He’d already tried knocking on Spock’s side of the refresher door to no response. So either he was being ignored, or the Vulcan wasn’t home. (Jim hoped it was the latter.)

Normally, he avoided using his captain’s clearance to track down crewmates. It was a privacy violation, and almost certainly prohibited by some deeply buried regulation Spock could quote verbatim. But Spock’s absence was the problem.

“Commander Spock is in Laboratory Eight,” the computer replied.

“The lab?” Jim muttered, rubbing his chin.

If Spock were working on his neural pathways paper, he’d be in Lab Two: biology. Lab Eight was food sciences.

Fascinating, Jim thought to himself with a wry grin, pulling on a pair of loose-fitting sweats and a T-shirt. His goal tonight was to spend time with Spock—whether the Vulcan agreed or not. If that meant sitting in the lab while Spock tinkered with some food-based experiment, so be it. After all, Jim could—and had—watched that man work for hours.

What was another evening spent admiring that perfect Vulcan ass?

***

Spock’s head snapped up from his sensor array as the lab doors slid open to reveal Jim  wearing what he hoped was a casual smile, rather than the slightly desperate one he suspected had reached his face. The Vulcan raised his brow slightly.

“Captain? Is everything all right?” Spock asked, moving a few items on the lab table with the guilty air of someone rearranging evidence.

Jim filed the curious reaction away for later.

“It’s unusual to find you working in this particular lab.” He said conversationally, pulling a chair up alongside his First. “You finally get tired of Starfleet’s recipe for synthesized plomeek soup?”

“I do admit the replicated version leaves much to be desired,” Spock replied, tone even stiffer than usual, “but I am not working on a solution to that particular issue at this time.”

Well this just wouldn’t do.

Spock was being far too stilted and cryptic for Jim’s liking. He leaned in slightly, catching the heady mix of Spock’s hair oils and his natural, spiced musk—beneath which lingered something foreign. Faintly warm and earthy, like cooked grain or something yeasty.

“I’m not disturbing you, am I?” Jim murmured in a soft voice, feigning ignorance at the increased proximity between their bodies as he examined the table’s contents.

Spock’s posture tightened almost imperceptibly. “Not at all, Captain.”

“Jim, when we’re alone, if you please,” Jim replied, brushing his knee lightly against Spock’s.

“… Jim.”

Satisfied, Jim straightened, watching the slow, unmistakable creep of gentle green flush rise past Spock’s collar with a pleased smile.

That was better.

“So, what’s my handsome science chief working on tonight that’s been keeping you away from me?”

The slip of vulnerability annoyed him instantly. Wonderful—now he sounded like some clingy, jilted lover.

Spock’s eyes locked onto him, famous Vulcan laser focus cutting through Jim’s facade like butter. He briefly panicked that Spock could read his thoughts simply from a look alone.

“You are feeling dissatisfied with the lack of attentiveness I have shown you recently.”

Jim huffed out a sharp exhale, leaning back slightly. “Sorry, Spock. I promise I didn’t plan to come in here and guilt you. Clearly, you’ve been busy, so I figured I’d visit you on your turf.” He pushed the frustration aside and forced a grin. “Soooo, what are you working on?”

The table was scattered with a buffet of mystery test tubes filled with substances of varying color and viscosity. Some contained a terracotta colored gelatinous material. Others looked reminiscent to expired toothpaste. Jim picked one up, frowning at the label—written in Vulcan, oddly enough—and sniffed.

He swore it smelled exactly like a banana that had been soaked in soy sauce. He recoiled with a grimace just as Spock plucked it neatly from his hand before he could puzzle it out further.

“Hazardous?” Jim asked.

“Only if ingested.”

“Then why is it in the food sciences lab?”

“So I may experiment with ways to make it less hazardous.”

Jim leaned in, a Machiavellian grin splitting his face. “And what is it, Mister Spock? Because it smelled absolutely vile.”

Spock ignored him, slotting the tube back in its tray before sweeping the whole thing into the sample freezer. The door hissed shut just as Jim leaned in to get a better look, narrowly avoiding a collision with his own nose.

“Hey!” Jim shot to his feet. “Am I really such a nuisance you have to lock your science away like I’m some errant toddler?”

“That is a gross overreaction, Jim,” Spock replied evenly. “You would not find this analysis engaging, so I determined we could spend our time in an activity we logically both enjoy. Would chess in your quarters be sufficient?”

Jim grit his teeth. On the one hand, this was the goal—time with Spock. On the other, his curiosity was now firmly hooked.

He hadn’t lived on the farm in Iowa for years, but he could still smell bullshit a mile away.

His mind reeled with possibilities now. Truth serum? Vulcan smelling salts? Liquor that would actually get Spock drunk? If it was the last one, Jim would happily assign him as much staff as he wanted—just for the privilege of witnessing it.

But finally, he nodded with a resigned sigh. Whatever Spock was working on, he clearly didn’t want to share, and Jim would have to respect that. But, as they left for their conciliatory chess game he couldn’t shake the feeling that, even if he’d gotten what he came for, the night had been a total—and unmitigated—failure.

4) Vulcans like gifts too, right?

“Captain, look!” Uhura’s lilting tenor cut through the silence of the cargo hold as they combed through the foreign ship’s haul.

The former pirates—now turned prisoners—had been prolific in their raids, if the contents of their cargo bay were any indication. Equipment from all corners of the sector sat in neatly stacked rows, ready for sale once they slipped out of Federation space.

Unfortunately for them, crossing paths with the Enterprise had put an end to that plan. With the Orions safely detained, Jim had beamed over with a small party to inspect the freighter’s cargo.

Uhura drew him to a shadowed corner between two towering stacks of crates. In the deep blackness, two green, lamp-like eyes stared out.

Jim flashed her an excited smile before dropping slowly to one knee. “Well, hello little thing. What are you doing here, hmm?”

The pale jade eyes watched him suspiciously, unmoving.

Jim chuckled, holding out his hand. “Come on, you don’t want to hang out in this cold cargo bay. It’s nice and warm on my ship.”

Uhura giggled beside him. Jim shot her a look.

“Apologies, sir,” she said, still grinning. “It’s just—you’re being so cute right now.”

“Shut it,” he muttered—just as the green lamps winked out and whatever creature that owned them skittered away.

“Damn it, Uhura,” Jim muttered, standing with a quiet groan.

“Oh, you can’t blame that on me, Captain. You’re the scary one between the two of us.”

Jim opened his mouth to retort, only for something to land on his shoulder with a solid thump. Jim winced as tiny, razor sharp, claws bit through the fabric of his uniform.

“Ow! Hey—” He reached to swat away the offending creature only to find himself staring into those same green eyes, now much closer.

“Awh!” Uhura gasped. “I was hoping it was a kitten.”

Indeed, the cat—midnight-black, silky, and radiating warmth—wound itself around the back of Jim’s neck, purring like a tiny warp core.

Uhura scratched between its ears, as it rubbed appreciatively against his face. The purring grew loud enough to rival the Enterprise’s engines.

“I believe he likes you, sir.”

“I think he likes my stubble.” Jim murmured, the side of his face now being steadily covered in wiry black hairs.

“Found a friend, I see,” McCoy said as he strolled up, smirking.

“So it would seem.”

“Don’t let that overgrown elf see how much this cat’s taken to you,” Bones drawled. “He might get jealous—o’course he’ll deny it and just be even more insufferable instead.”

Hah. Now that would be something to see.

Only… the idea lodged itself in Jim’s head. And Spock was currently still aboard the Enterprise, totally oblivious to their new discovery.

A wicked smile split his lips.

“Well, we can’t just turn this guy over to some shelter on a starbase, can we Miss Uhura?” He said slyly.

“Absolutely not, sir!” She replied immediately. “I’m allergic, otherwise I’d take this cutie in a heartbeat.”

Jim tilted his head toward her. dropping his voice low, as if discussing some great conspiracy, “If I recall, we both know someone who pretends not to care about little fuzzy animals but actually has a weakness for them. Someone, I think, who would make an excellent cat owner.”

“Oh, Jim, you can’t be—” McCoy began, but Uhura’s face lit up like a supernova.

“That’s brilliant, Captain! We can put a little bow on him and everything.” She clasped her hands against her chest, grinning fiendishly. “Mister Spock is going to hate us, won’t he?”

Jim nodded his head excitedly. Oh, Spock would definitely not appreciate having a cat dropped into his life without warning. But Jim also knew his First wouldn’t be able to resist it for long. And frankly, Jim wouldn’t be able to resist watching a dignified Vulcan interact with a creature that was essentially a fuzzy, purring Spock.

Was this the best idea for a gift? Not even close. Would it help his odds of salvaging a relationship he suspected was circling the drain? Probably not.

Would it be worth it just to see Spock pet a cat once before everything went to hell?

“Absolutely.”

***

Jim tried to ignore the sting of disappointment when, following the conclusion of the day’s shift, Spock failed to appear at his cabin door to thank him, or to argue the illogic of keeping an animal on a starship. Hell, Jim would’ve even taken Spock shoving the cat back into his arms and stalking off in a fit of dignified Vulcan outrage.

Instead, after all his careful planning to sneak the furry little gift into his First’s quarters—an operation in which he and Uhura had giggled like wayward children pulling off a particularly sinister prank, while McCoy stood guard outside like the world’s grumpiest Vulcan watchdog—there was… nothing.

No lecture, no raised eyebrow. Not even a comm at his terminal stating something like: Captain, please retrieve your feline.

Nothing.

In the end, he resigned himself to the bitter truth: the whole thing had been another failure. And not just any failure—possibly one of the dumbest ideas he’d ever cooked up.

Dropping a cat into Spock’s life—what the hell had he been thinking?

He reasoned that either Spock had returned to his quarters and was so incensed he was giving Jim the silent treatment, planning to verbally eviscerate him in the morning—or, the more intriguing and vaguely terrifying possibility, Spock simply hadn’t been home at all.

He frowned at that thought. Out of sheer paranoia, he’d even detoured by the food sciences lab after his nightly run, only to discover no Spock. Not even the mystery tray of test tubes in the fridge. Just a faint, savory smell lingering in the otherwise empty room.

The growing unknowns wound Jim’s stomach into knots.

Finally, with no answers forthcoming and nothing left to do but stew in his own regret, he laid his head down on the pillow and surrendered to uneasy sleep.

5) When in doubt—whip it out

After three days of silence regarding the cat—despite Jim’s increasingly obvious prodding—he finally gave up trying to wring a reaction out of his First. The animal had likely been quietly rehomed, and Spock had chosen to ignore the entire failed display of affection.

“It’s over, Bones. Fuck, it’s over.” Jim spiraled in McCoy’s quarters that evening.

The doctor simply watched from his desk, an exasperated frown ghosting across his face, as Jim paced like a caged animal.

“I feel like I’ve been digging myself a bigger hole these last two weeks. I messed with his science officer assignments, made him uncomfortable planetside, interrupted his work—” Jim broke off with a groan, scrubbing both hands down his face. “I should’ve at least asked him about the damn cat.”

“Gee, ya think?” McCoy finally cut in with a sharp huff.

Jim leveled him with a glare. “You’re not helping.”

“Look, Jim.” Bones leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. “You need to talk to him. My god, this is getting downright ridiculous.”

“You said to show him I meant business!”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d be so bad at it. Damn it, Jim, I thought you were supposed to be a real lady-killer.”

Jim exhaled a long sigh, shoulders slumping.

“Spock is different, he’s—” he gave a short, self-deprecating laugh, “I’ve never had a partner who makes me feel both the most and least comfortable. He’s like the other half of my soul—he can read me like a book without the telepathy—I only wish it went both ways.”

“Yeah, well, you wanted a Vulcan. You got a Vulcan.” Bones snorted, then muttered, “Maybe he just needs a good fuck to loosen him up.”

He immediately grimaced at his own words, which turned into an outright scowl when Jim’s expression lit up.

“That was not a serious suggestion.”

Jim shrugged. “Only thing I haven’t tried yet is getting into his pants. It’s been a few weeks for us. Maybe I need to remind him about all of this.” He gestured broadly to his body with a egocentric grin.

“Jesus Christ. Please get the hell out.” McCoy groaned, pressing palms into his eyes until he saw stars.

“Thank you for your help, as always, Bones.” Jim beamed as he headed for the door.

“For once I’d like to talk about my problems,” McCoy muttered, already turning toward his liquor cabinet.

So much for rationing the brandy until their next starbase dock.

***

Determined with the desperation of a man about to lose it all, Jim headed back to his quarters and freshened up. He took a quick sonic, styled his hair into the slightly undone look he knew Spock favored, and pulled on the grass-green uniform tunic he usually reserved for diplomatic missions.

He’d briefly considered the single suit tucked in the back of his closet—something he’d packed at the beginning of the mission as a “just in case” option and promptly ignored for the last four years—but decided semi-casual was the safer play. He’d probably already weirded Spock out enough in recent weeks. Plus his diplomatic attire had the added bonus of hugging his frame in the all the right places. Anything to impress a potential Federation ally, he supposed.

Finally, standing outside Spock’s quarters, Jim drew a steadying breath and tapped the comm.

Rather than the usual crisp “come,” the door opened to reveal Spock himself. Tonight, his First wore traditional black Vulcan robes, the flowing lines making his tall frame seem all the more imposing—and, to Jim’s private delight, stimulating. He often wondered if Spock even wore anything under all that endless fabric, or if the Vulcan simply went full commando. Spock would probably argue something about 'the logical need to regulate body temperature' but it didn't stop the heat that pooled in Jim's lower stomach at the thought.

Though tonight his main curiosity was the why for the outfit.

Welp, no turning back now.

Spock tilted his head, “Captain? You’re—”

But Jim was already stepping forward, crossing the threshold into the Vulcan’s personal bubble with a wicked smile as the door slid shut behind him.

Quickly, he caught one of Spock’s hands in his own—gentle but insistent—drawing a quiet, involuntary inhale from the Vulcan. Before Spock could recover, Jim lifted those long fingers to his lips and pressed a lingering kiss to each sensitive pad, savoring the way the inhuman cool of Spock’s skin sparked against his mouth, fizzing like static across his lips.

Spock had used these beautifully large, deft hands only for science for far too long. Hands as perfect as these deserved worship—deserved to be appreciated for their raw elegance. That they happened to be an erogenous zone for Vulcans was a happy coincidence. Even if they weren’t, Jim would still be doing this.

And he knew, as the thought burned through him, that Spock knew too.

That was the point.

He was diving head first tonight, and he didn’t care if the waters were three feet deep or three hundred.

When Jim finally looked up through long golden lashes in the way he knew Spock couldn’t resist, he was rewarded with the sight of his Vulcan’s composure cracking—mouth parted, dark eyes wide, a green flush blooming along his cheeks and deepening the saffron glow of his skin.

“Jim, what—” Spock began, only for the words to break into a sharp exhale as Jim’s tongue traced slowly from the base to the tip of his pointer finger.

“Sorry, Spock. You were saying something?” Jim murmured with a self-satisfied smile, pressing long, reverent kisses into Spock’s palm.

“You are—” Spock tried again, but the thought strangled into a choked moan as Jim took both pointer and middle fingers into his mouth, sucking down to the base. The sparking sensation of the Vulcan ozh’esta popped and fizzed across his tongue like carbon candy. He let his eyes roll back, savoring it.

“Captain,” Spock ground out, his voice rougher, lower, “please, I—”

But Jim was already losing himself in the rhythm, catching Spock’s other hand and dragging it down toward his own growing arousal as he sucked harder. He pressed Spock’s palm firmly against the swell in his slacks, rutting into the Vulcan’s hand while keeping his own on top, guiding the motion.

He heard Spock’s breath stutter, felt those elegant fingers slowly curl around him, tentative at first, then deliberate.

“Jim,” Spock murmured, his head falling forward and pressing to Jim’s forehead as if finally ceding the last remnant of his control.

Jim could’ve pumped his fist in triumph if he wasn’t currently being stroked through increasingly tight pants by the universe’s most infuriating first officer. Got you, he thought victoriously, releasing Spock’s fingers from his mouth so he could lean in, greedy for the scent at his neck—

Only… something was different.

He paused, nose at the Vulcan’s pulse point, the hand guiding Spock against his erection going still as his lust-fogged brain caught on an unfamiliar scent. Slowly, he pulled back and blinked around the room as though seeing Spock’s quarters—quarters he’d been in a thousand times—for the very first time.

The lighting was dimmer than usual. And instead of the familiar, spiced-earth notes of incense and Vulcan skin, the air carried something else: warm, savory, mouthwatering. A strange but enticing blend of umami and nuttiness, undercut with the faint sweetness of… fennel?

That was when he saw it—Spock’s desk, usually cluttered with PADDs and samples, now completely bare. In their place sat two neat place settings, simple flatware, and—oh god—an unopened bottle of something amber and potent.

Jim’s mind reeled. His heart plummeted.

Oh. Oh no.

He staggered back a step, realization crashing down on him like a warp core breach. Spock only tilted his head, face perfectly neutral, unreadable.

But Jim knew.

It was a dinner.

It was the dinner.

The breakup dinner.

And he had just barged in, tongue-first, and molested Spock’s fingers before the poor man even had a chance to say the words.

Fuck.

5.5) Well, we had a good run

Jim scratched the back of his neck with a rueful sigh, a hollow laugh escaping him.

“Christ, I’m a piece of shit.” He muttered.

Spock opened his mouth, but Jim quickly shook his head.

“Sorry. Ignore that. Just—ah, what were you trying to tell me before I, you know…” He gestured vaguely between them, as if that covered it.

“I was attempting to inform you that you are early, Captain.”

His confusion must have been obvious, because Spock added in the next breath: “Did you not receive my dinner invitation this morning?”

Dinner invite? Hah. Jim had been so wound up over this damn Vulcan he hadn’t checked his personal messages in a week. Slowly, he shook his head.

“Been a lot on my mind. Sorry.”

He’d had never quite wanted to melt into the floor as bad as he did right now. As if Spock needed more ammunition to walk away. Might as well rip the bandage off.

“So,” Jim continued, trying to affect nonchalance as he leaned back against the wall, “This is it, isn’t it.”

Spock faltered—just slightly, eyes widening by a fraction. “You were aware of my plans?”

Jim nearly barked a laugh. God, this was painful. “Of course. Wasn’t exactly a secret. I just—I’m sorry I came in and jumped you like that.”

“Apologies are unnecessary, Jim,” Spock said, shaking his head once. “You were unaware of my proposed meeting this evening. If anything, I am… gratified your libido brought you here on time.”

Okay, now Jim had never wanted to melt into the floor as much as he did now. Spock continued, blissfully unaware of his spiraling guilt.

“However, I regret the secrecy. Had I known you were aware of my intentions, I would have informed you sooner. As it is—I have been considering this for some time, though I was uncertain where to begin.”

“Spock,” he cut in, raising a hand. “You don’t need to explain—”

“I would like to.” Spock’s interjection was quiet but absolute.

With no small effort, Jim snapped his mouth closed. Rarely did Spock interrupt him so decisively. Clearly, this speech had been rehearsed. He took a steadying breath and nodded.

Whatever it was, he’d hear it, no matter the cost to himself.

“You are… very important to me, James. This past year—our time together as more than captain and first officer, but as life partners—will remain among my most treasured memories.”

Jim felt his heart slowly fracturing. The echoes of lost love sounding throughout his chest like the cracking of an ice shelf over a winter’s lake. He tried to swallow the growing lump in his throat. Will the burning threat of tears back behind his eyes.

“Same,” he croaked, then cleared his throat. “For me, I mean. No matter what—that’ll never change.”

Spock closed his eyes, giving him a slow, reverent nod.

“I am gratified to hear you say so, Jim.” Then he turned. “Please sit. I will return momentarily.”

Jim sank into a chair as Spock disappeared behind the room’s divider, every heartbeat thundering in his ears. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. He’d never cried during a breakup before—had always prided himself on strength, on independence. But then again, he’d never been dumped by Spock.

His Spock.

The one he’d thought was endgame.

The silent fall of tears began to stain his tunic—light grass green turning to deep forest under the weight of emotion. Frantically, he wiped at his eyes with the hem of his sleeve, skin rubbing raw with the rough fabric, and forced himself to inhale a shaky breath.

It would be fine. They could get past this. He could get past this.

Couldn’t he?

A moment later Spock reemerged—robes pristine, gloved hands carrying a dish of something steaming hot, his face alight with quiet triumph.

“I present to you sample 1124, otherwise known as ‘meatloaf’.” Spock announced, pride softening the edges of his voice. The heady scent of protein—only a gentle drizzle before—now filled the room like a torrential rain, warm and unmistakable.

Shifting his gaze to Jim, Spock stopped short. The prideful expression fell away, replaced instantly by deep concern. 

“Jim?” He set the dish quickly on the desk and stepped around, kneeling before him. Jim turned his face away, trying desperately to control the unmistakable hitch in his breath.

“I’m fine. I’m fine, Spock, really.” He waved a shaky hand, but Spock ignored it, cupping Jim’s jaw and tilting his face up until red-rimmed hazel eyes met the deep, ever-steady pools of amber.

“You are crying,” Spock murmured, almost to himself. “I… do not understand.”

Jim knocked his hand away, anger and humiliation churning in his chest.

“Of course I’m crying, dammit!” he snapped. “You’re dumping me over a meatloaf!”

Spock’s brow furrowed, the barest trace of confusion flickering across his face. “Dumping you?”

Jim could’ve screamed. “Oh my god—breaking up, ending the relationship, ‘it’s not you it’s me’—that clear enough for you?!”

“No,” Spock said flatly.

Jim groaned and shot to his feet. Spock rose more slowly, calm as ever.

“You just waxed on about how you’ve been thinking about this, and how much our time together has meant to you—that’s breakup talk! Code for ending the relationship.” He raked a hand through his hair, voice cracking. “Why do you think I’ve been acting so weird lately? I was—” His breath hitched, his throat tightening with the threat of renewed tears.

He shoved it down, clinging to the anger as if it were a lifeline being lowered over a chasm of despair.

“I was trying to change your mind. Salvage this—us!”

“There is nothing to salvage,” Spock replied evenly.

The words, so savage in their simplicity, hit like a photon torpedo to the chest. Jim’s mouth fell open, his anger instantly evaporated, leaving only the hollow ache beneath. He stared at Spock for a moment before quietly turning to the door.

“Alright.” He managed, voice pitifully warbly, “I guess… that’s that.”

He took a step—then froze.

A soft warmth brushed against his shin, and at a glance down Jim was met with two bright green eyes peering up at him from a puff of midnight fur. The cat wound itself around his legs, tail curling with possessive ease, before sitting squarely between him and the exit, watching expectantly.

Jim blinked, the sorrow that had been filling his mind like sand in an hourglass slowed, replaced with a sudden, quiet sense of doubt. Slowly, he turned to face Spock.

“You… you kept the cat?” Jim asked hoarsely, searching Spock’s face for any crack in the neutral mask.

“Of course. Though, in truth, Iris is no mere feline. She is a highly intelligent being.” Spock inclined his head as the cat—Iris—leapt neatly onto Jim’s shoulder, green eyes gleaming. “She informed me she was intended to be a gift.”

Jim blinked. “She… told you?”

Spock’s expression softened into the faintest hint of humor, candlelight dancing warmly within his deepset eyes. “She does not begrudge your misjudgment of her species, Captain. Humans are psi-null, after all.”

Iris purred thunderously, rubbing against Jim’s cheek. His hand rose automatically to scratch behind her ears, even as his brain scrambled to make sense of the mess.

“I thought you were so annoyed with me you just… gave her away and didn’t say anything,” Jim admitted softly.

“Negative. Though I will admit to a substantial level of surprise upon our meeting.”

Jim’s mind fought to make sense of the situation, frustration stewing like he was trying to solve a puzzle with half the edge pieces missing. He began to pace, Iris clinging to his shoulder, hot fur prickling against his nape.

“Okay,” he muttered, still scratching absently behind her ears. “You made a meatloaf.”

“A synthesized protein supplement derived from yellow lentils, cultured dextrose, yeast extracts—”

“You made a fake-meat meatloaf,” Jim cut in, stabbing a finger toward him.

“… yes, Captain.”

“You’ve been keeping this experiment a secret for weeks. You put your publication with Lieutenant Vaaux on hold. You’ve been obsessively working on this in your free time. You accepted my ‘gift’ without a word…” Jim slowed, voice dropping to a murmur, “And tonight you’re dressed in your Sunday best with a candle-lit dinner prepared just for me…” His eyes went wide, stomach plunging through the hull and out into the vacuum of space.

“What’s the stardate?”

“4246,” Spock answered instantly.

Jim froze. “4246,” he repeated slowly. A date he’d marked excitedly on his calendar some eleven months ago. A date that arguably held more significance to him now than his own birthday.

He exhaled heavily, shoulders slumping in defeat. “It’s our anniversary, isn’t it?”

“Correct, Jim.”

Jim gave a hollow laugh. “And I forgot. God. I was so busy assuming you were plotting my emotional destruction, I didn’t even—” He groaned, tipping his head back toward the ceiling. “Hell, maybe you should break up with me.”

“There is no logic in punishing myself for your error. You are only human after all, Captain.”

Jim chuckled quietly, then grimaced.

“Ugh, McCoy is never going to let me live this down.”

As if on command, Iris thumped the back of Jim’s head with her tail. He shot her an annoyed look.

“Or you, apparently—you little shit.”

Iris mrowed imperiously, delivered one more thump for emphasis, then leapt down and padded away with all the disdain of royalty exiting an audience chamber. Jim could practically hear the “hrmph.”

Turning back to Spock, Jim felt utterly drained, stupid, and—god help him—insanely relieved.

“So,” he sighed, dragging a hand down his face, “just to confirm—this is not a breakup dinner? This is a lovely anniversary dinner that I’ve royally screwed up, right?”

“Yes. Though I hardly agree with your assumption of ‘ruining’ the evening. While your conclusion was… misguided, I can understand the path of reasoning that led you there.”

Jim barked a laugh, half-tired, half-exasperated. “Gee, thanks, Spock. Nothing like being told my complete mental breakdown was at least logical.”

Spock took a step forward, extending his middle and forefingers in the ozh’esta.

“Would you prefer I call you an irrational human?” He asked, voice dropping low, the velvet tone laced with unspoken meaning.

Jim felt the tangle of fear and anxiety that had been coiling steadily for weeks suddenly unravel, as if Spock pulled a loose thread on a skein of yarn. He sighed contentedly, grinning softly up at his First. His last. His everything. He lifted his own fingers, hesitating in that narrow, breathless space between them before finally closing the circuit.

Sparks raced up his arm, fizzing warm like summer rain, carrying with them the intimate whisper of Spock’s emotions, mirroring his own. Humor, regret, embarrassment, but overwhelmingly—love. An endless tide lapping at Jim’s consciousness, steady and inexhaustible. He could almost taste the cool salt spray on his tongue—feel himself buoyed in its weightless current.

“You know, I could say the same to you,” Jim murmured, allowing himself to be drawn closer to the Vulcan, as if gravity itself was working to bring them together, “So logical, yet so blind to my emotional state. A human would’ve been suspicious.”

Spock massaged their fingertips together in languid, sensuous circles, and Jim could feel another sensation rising between them. A feeling that zipped down straight to his groin.

“Then I propose we endeavor toward better mutual understanding by our next anniversary, ashaya.” Spock all but whispered, taking one last step forward. “Perhaps with further refinement to the ratio of legume to synthetic-based proteins.”

Jim snorted a laugh between them, tilting his head up until their mouths nearly brushed.

“Only you could make me hard talking about lentils.”

Spock inhaled in anticipation, not even bothering to correct him about the loaf’s contents. Jim leaned in to close the final centimeters of distance—

Only for an indignant mrow cut through the moment like a red alert klaxon.

Jim froze, his lips a hair’s breadth from Spock’s.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Iris?” he muttered.

The cat answered with another impatient meow before weaving between their legs, tail curling around Jim’s calf. With that, the moment was gone, burned up like an over-exhausted nacelle.

Jim threw his head back with an exasperated groan.

“You,” he pointed sharply at the little soot-sprite, “Are about to find yourself in a starbase shelter, you little cock-block.”

Iris yowled louder, tail flicking against Jim’s leg impetuously.

“She is requesting we abstain from sexual intercourse until after dinner.” Spock translated.

Jim barked out a disbelieving laugh, hands on his hips as he stared down the tiny menace, “Oh, she requests it? I’ve been spinning my gears for weeks, thought I was getting dumped tonight, and she can’t let me have ten minutes of comfort sex? Goddamn cat.”

“Jim,” Spock said, tone gentle but admonishing, “there is no need for insults.”

Jim whipped his head toward him, aghast. “You’re taking her side?!”

Spock calmly seated himself at the desk, already cutting into the cooled loaf.

“I admit I was eager to… indulge you. But Iris is correct. Satisfaction will be greater if we are properly nourished first.”

“Okay, no.” Jim said firmly, throwing himself into his own chair. “You are not discussing our sex life with her.”

If Vulcans could shrug, Jim swore he just witnessed one.

“She is on a pilgrimage to observe the galaxy before returning to pursue a career in xenobiology. As we have agreed to mutually study each other for the time being, it would be illogical to exclude her from relevant aspects of my existence.”

As if on cue, Iris leapt onto the table and neatly positioned herself before what Jim only now realized was a miniature place setting prepared just for her.

Jim stared, gaze flicking between feline and Vulcan, somehow mirroring each other perfectly. Posture immaculate, eyes narrow and calculating, hair and fur black as night. He cracked, laughter bursting from deep within his chest. Doubling over, he giggled until his sides ached and he was gasping for breath.

Would his first anniversary with Spock have gone any other way?

“Fine. Romantic dinner for three, then.”

He reached for the liquor—only to blink at the label.

“Wait. Is this—Spock, how the hell did you even get Romulan ale?”

Spock raised an eyebrow, slicing another portion with calm precision.

“Jim. I have been planning this evening since the day you agreed to be my romantic partner.”

Somehow, Jim wasn’t surprised.

Chapter Text

Bonus: Prove you are indeed a ladies' (man's?) man

They made it thirty minutes before Jim derailed dinner again—this time with intention.

“Okay, I know you’re not messing with me, but are you sure this isn’t meat?” Jim asked around a bite of what he swore was meat.

“As I have stated, it is a blend of synthetic and organic proteins.”

Jim narrowed his eyes at the loaf on his fork. He’d never liked the meat substitutes his allergies permitted him, but damn if Spock hadn’t nailed this one. “Then how the hell did you get it this close?”

Spock lowered his utensil, fixing him with that familiar look—playfully exasperated, the Vulcan equivalent of rolling his eyes.

“Jim, do you not agree there is an inefficiency in continuing questioning the contents of the dish without permitting me to list them?”

“Well, words like methylcellulose and soy leghemoglobin mean nothing to me.”

Mrow! Iris chimed in from her place setting.

Spock inclined his head to her gravely. “In that, we are in agreement.”

Jim blinked between them, incredulity written all over his face.

“I am not being insulted by a cat on my anniversary, am I?”

Both Spock and Iris snapped their gazes toward him in perfect unison.

Iris mewed inquisitively at the exact same moment Spock asked, “You can hear her thoughts?”

Jim barked a laugh, nearly choking on his bite. “No, but apparently I don’t need to! And before you offer—no, I don’t need a translation. Thanks.”

They settled into comfortable silence, in which Jim picked at some of the side dishes Spock had replicated to go with their meal—an interesting selection of Vulcan and Earth cuisines—and Spock scratched Iris’ chin in quiet admiration.

“How long did this take anyway?” Jim finally asked, “Surely you didn’t attempt this one-thousand-twenty-something times. And that’s another thing, of all the dishes you could’ve made, why meatloaf?”

Spock, pointedly, kept his eyes fixed on the cat.

“I did not include attempts which produced inedible results. And as for the choice of main course, it was your mother’s suggestion.”

Jim’s mouth fell open in undisguised shock. Not only had Spock indeed made meatloaf over one thousand times, he’d consulted Jim’s mother?! No wonder the recipe tasted familiar.

He shook his head with a deprecating laugh. He knew Spock didn’t begrudge his stupidity in forgetting tonight—knew that Spock understood it had been an honest mistake—but still his gut churned with a deep well of guilt. Did Spock’s compassion and attention to him know no bounds? How could Jim ever possibly hope to measure up when the bar was in the stratosphere?

“And how is mom, then?” He asked with a sigh.

“She requests you comm her more frequently. She also remarked that I am ‘too good for you’. I was unsure as to the meaning of such a statement considering your impressive professional resume.”

Jim exhaled a short laugh, “With my abysmal failure in the partner department today, I have to agree with her. You are far too perfect to be hanging out with some mid-Western boy like me.”

Spock’s brow creased in slight irritation. “I will not hesitate to list the ways in which you are a consummate bondmate if you continue, Jim.”

Jim waved his hands frantically, “Please no, you know I hate it when you do that.”

He blew out a sigh, raking a hand through his hair, then let the guilt slide off with a practiced grin.

“Guess I’ll just have to think of some way to earn my keep.”

Pushing aside his empty plate, Jim propped his elbow on the table and leaned into his palm with a roguish smile.

“So how do you propose I make up for tonight’s faux pas?” He asked in a low, syrupy voice, invoking as much unspoken implication as he could muster.

Spock straightened, dabbing the edges of his mouth calmly.

“Perhaps Mister Vaaux and I could use the extra help on our publication after all.”

Jim suppressed the urge to groan at Spock’s ignorance—never quite positive whether it was purposeful or no.

“Oh, come on. This was a real ball-drop on my part. Surely I can do a little more for you than offer a few extra hands.”

Oh, he wanted to offer Spock some extra hands alright—he could already feel his slacks beginning to constrict him.

Spock looked to Iris for a moment, contemplating.

“Iris has requested the occasional use of one of our laboratories for her analysis of Vulcan biology. Perhaps if you are able to grant her low-level clearance—”

Spock suddenly broke off at the feel of Jim’s foot, which had been subtly inching toward him under the table, slipping beneath the robes and stroking up his calf. Jim felt a vague sense of disappointment to discover the Vulcan was indeed wearing thermals beneath all that cloth.

Even so, the fabric was thin and snug enough to reveal the corded muscle of Spock’s leg as Jim slid higher, nudging at his knee until his thighs parted.

“I was thinking perhaps I could start my apology process tonight,” Jim murmured, batting his eyes with an innocuous grin.

Spock inhaled just a little too sharply as Jim’s foot grazed higher along his thigh. “When did you… remove your boot?”

Jim tutted, scooting forward slightly in his chair as he continued to quest deeper between Spock’s legs. “A magician never reveals his secrets.”

His eyes flicked to Iris, now casually licking a paw. “If you’d excuse us, I think Mister Spock and I will be finishing what you so rudely interrupted earlier.”

She regarded him impassively for a beat before giving a small, conciliatory nod of her fuzzy head. Then, with a neat leap, she padded silently into the refresher.

Satisfied with their newfound privacy, his eyes snapped back to Spock. To the uninitiated, his first officer might appear coolly indifferent—but Jim was an expert in Vulcan micro-expressions. Especially this Vulcan. The slight inward draw of perfectly upswept brows, the faint olive tinge to his cheeks, the almost imperceptible pitch of his hips forward—it was as good as begging.

“How ‘bout it, Spock?” Jim cooed, pressing his First’s legs just a little wider, savoring the faint anticipatory quiver of muscle as he neared his destination. “How may I please you?”

“Perhaps,” Spock huffed, “Your apology would be best suited for the bedroom.”

Jim chuckled softly, “Oh? But you haven’t finished your meal.”

He gestured toward Spock’s half-cleaned plate—then nudged forward another inch, finally reaching his destination and pressing the ball of his foot gently into Spock’s crotch. Jim’s smile broadened, his efforts rewarded by the sight of stiffening posture and marginal parting of the Vulcan’s lips.

“You should finish quickly,” he murmured, reaching for Spock’s hand where it lay ever so carelessly on the table. He slipped his fingers under the sleeve at the wrist, earning a soft gasp. “Because not being with you for weeks has left me rather—” he pressed harder into the heat beneath the table, brushing fingers lightly across Spock’s pulse point, “—insatiable.”

Spock shivered beneath his touches, and Jim’s now fully hardened cock twitched impatiently, trapped uncomfortably against his thigh.

“I believe I may have miscalculated my portion size, my hunger seems to have been prematurely sated.” Spock said, still managing to keep his voice perfectly level, even as Jim felt him begin to rut slowly into the sole of his foot.

“My, it’s unlike you to make a mistake Mister Spock. Are you feeling alright?”

Spock closed his eyes briefly as Jim dragged his nails along the Vulcan’s palm and down his fingers.

“Perhaps—” Spock took a steadying breath, opening his eyes to fix Jim with an intense stare—the type of stare that made him feel that he was being dissected. Like his skull was being pried open agonizingly slowly—deliberately—and every hidden desire, want, need was put on display before the Vulcan, ready to be judged.

He hated it.

He loved it.

“—an examination is required, to determine my well-being.”

Jim chuckled lowly. “I think Doctor McCoy is off-duty, though I’m sure he could make an exception if this is an emergency.”

Another slide of his foot earned him a quiet, unbidden whine.

“I do not believe it is that serious,” Spock managed, breath hitching with each movement. “You have received enough medical training to perform such an inspection.”

Jim could feel the beginnings of Spock’s lok emerging from his sheath now, the slit bisecting wider to allow for his erection to descend. He almost didn’t want to take his foot away, curious if he could push Spock all the way with this alone. Yet, he was becoming unpleasantly hard, and desperately craved Spock’s touch.

Jim nodded slowly, withdrawing and kicking off his other boot, he rounded the table with a devilish grin. Before Spock could rise, Jim swung a leg over him and settled in his lap, pinning him to the chair.

“Now,” Jim said, adopting a mock-professional tone as he settled against him, “let’s see here…”

He cupped Spock’s jaw in one hand, tilting his face up as though conducting a proper inspection.

“Your pupils are dilated.” Jim noted conversationally.

“Dilation occurs naturally in low lit environments.”

“You feel warmer than usual,” Jim countered, pressing his other hand to Spock’s throat, feeling the Adam’s apple bob beneath his palm.

“I am wearing more fabric than is typical for me. And you are currently sitting on my lap, Captain.”

Jim giggled softly at the use of his title. He never had an authority kink necessarily, but he couldn’t deny playing captain and first officer in bed didn’t do something for him. And Spock seemed to like it—far be it for Jim to deny him anything.

“Very well, Mister Spock.” His hands drifted lower, grazing Spock’s chest. “And how do you explain your nipples being hard if you’re so warm?”

He pinched lightly through the silky fabric, earning Spock’s closed-eyed shiver.

“Nipples can contract for a multitude of reasons.” He breathed out.

Jim huffed indignantly and, with a swift southward slide of his hand, he cupped Spock’s sheath—moist heat radiating through the cloth.

“And this?” he murmured. Even through the layers he felt the insistent tip of Spock’s lok, struggling to emerge fully past the confines of his thermals. Jim leaned into Spock’s ear, hot breath ghosting along its elfin point, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say these are all classic signs of arousal.”

“Vulcans only experience arousal during our mating time.” Spock replied, his voice edging from calm and clinical to low and husky.

Jim stood with a predatory grin, “Very well. Though, I believe a more thorough physical examination is in order. Please remove your pants, Mister Spock.”

Immediately Spock hiked the robes up and dropped his thermals to his ankles, an unmistakable sigh of relief slipping from his lips as his lok fully emerged. Jim hummed in delight, resettling in his lap. His cock pulsed eagerly at the newfound sensation of Spock’s arousal pressed between them.

Spock raised an eyebrow. “The removal of my robe would be ideal for a physical examination, sir.”

Jim threw his head back with a laugh. “Eager, are we? You’ll just have to trust my medical knowledge.”

With that, he gathered a handful of the silken robes about Spock’s lap, wrapped them around his length, and began to stroke.

Spock’s gaze flicked down to Jim’s hand, lips parting slightly. “Jim, dirtying my robes in this manner is illogical. They will require manual washing.”

Yet, despite his protestations, his hands came to grip Jim’s thighs rather than push him away.

“No kidding, are these Rigelian silk or something?” Jim wondered idly. “Almost want to try this on myself.”

The cloth was endlessly soft, sliding along Spock with no resistance. His natural lubrication made it slicker still—sloppy and obscene in how easily Jim could pump him. A particularly fast stroke earned him a barely suppressed moan.

Jim smiled warmly.

Spock always tried so hard to hold himself together. Early on, that restraint had been a wall between them—sex with him stiff, silent, clinical. Hell, it had taken Jim five separate tries before Spock even let his cock out. But now? Now Spock took initiative. Bantered. Roleplayed. He wasn’t human, would never be entirely free in the way Jim was—but he didn’t need to be. Jim loved the challenge of coaxing him further, of seeing how close he could push him to losing himself completely.

His favorite goal? Driving Spock so far he lost control of his second eyelid.

He wasn’t there yet—but Jim was just getting started.

His other hand, which had been teasing Spock’s nipple, drifted to the Vulcan’s mouth. He pushed two fingers past plush lips into the cool, wet heat. It didn’t affect Spock the way stimulating his own fingers would, but Jim knew his partner’s kink well enough—hands always undid him.

Spock huffed around the digits, lashes fluttering, as Jim quickened his strokes—still measured, savoring every slick drag of silk over the ridges of his cock.

Spock, close now, moved one hand toward the psi-points on Jim’s face—a gesture he often used to share in the pleasure of his finish. The only problem being—

“Wait.” Jim pulled his fingers free to catch his hand. Spock tilted his head in silent question.

“You know if you do that you’ll make me come.”

“That is the point.”

Jim smiled, soft but stubborn, halting his hand to twine their fingers in the ozh’esta. “I want to focus on you tonight. I’ve fucked up enough as it is.”

“This is our anniversary,” Spock countered, voice low but insistent. “I request you focus on your pleasure as much as mine.”

A flicker of frustration cut through him, before melting into a wicked grin. “Are you saying I can’t get you off more than once?”

“You know that is not what I am implying.”

Lightning fast, Jim shoved Spock’s fingers into his mouth as he resumed stroking him, ruthlessly now. Spock’s head fell back, a ragged moan breaking free. Jim smirked around the digits, tongue tracing clever circles along the pads as he worked him harder, faster—chasing the unravel.

“Jim—I am going to climax.” Spock’s voice fractured, breath stuttering with every thrust.

The hand gripping Jim’s thigh tightened to a bruising degree—the singular second Spock could not contain his full strength. Jim savored it, humming around his fingers as he pressed himself flush against his partner—right there, right with him—as the Vulcan broke. His cock pulsed hot and violent between them, nictitating membranes sliding in a slow, involuntary blink across his dark eyes (yes!) as thick release spilled into the silk, his body shuddering with the force of it.

Jim stroked him through it, before releasing Spock’s fingers and dipping down to press slow, soft kisses into his neck. Another quirk he had discovered about his Vulcan partner, Spock took a long time—by human standards at least—to reestablish himself after an orgasm. Jim loved that about him—those precious minutes where control was gone and Spock was unguarded—totally and completely his.

Eventually, Spock’s hold on his thigh eased, replaced by the gentle glide of long fingers threading into Jim’s hair. He guided him up, amber eyes still softened by release.

“Ashal-veh,” Spock whispered, pulling Jim into a kiss at last—cool lips lingering, almost tender.

Jim tried to ignore the impatient twitch of his own untouched cock, focused instead on the miracle of Spock kissing him this way. On how his Vulcan had learned to not just tolerate, but appreciate the human way of loving.

“As you would say, Jim,” Spock murmured against his mouth, “it is your turn.”

Jim smiled into the kiss. Who was he to deny the perfect man?