Archive of Our Own

Earlier, before they would arrive on the surface of Ceta III, Spock would meet the Captain briefly inside the Captain’s quarters as was requested of him when leaving the bridge.

Spock assumes Kirk wishes to discuss the mission, to elaborate on the strange prickling on the back of Kirk’s neck when the Captain said, “I have a bad feeling about this, Spock.”

Over time, Spock has learned humans are prone to using such phrasing to describe negative intuition, and that the Captain is particularly adept, and often correct, in this regard. So, it is only natural that Spock agrees: their liaison to this planet is not what they appear, that xe is too calm, or as the Captain described, too shifty, when they spoke to the planet’s leading monarch, Liris, on the bridge.

The presence of both commanding officers had been requested immediately, urgently; told that they are necessary to the prevention of war, the protection of a peaceful people soon to be subjugated to enemy fire and the threat of genocide. All of it is decidedly suspect, and shifty, considering the need was made like a demand more so than an ask.

The Captain is pacing in his quarters when Spock arrives, marching back and forth in the center of his cabin, moving from his desk to the sofa on the opposite side, then back again. Spock waits in the realization Kirk has not yet asked for Spock’s opinion.

++

Minutes before Ensign Durand from Security would call them to the transporter room, Spock will watch Kirk from the space just inside of Kirk’s door. In his silence, Spock’s chest will swell, his heart will pound, and he will realize there is something significant about this man he has somehow always known, but never cultivated.

++

Spock watches as Kirk walks with a knuckle at the edge of his lips, worrying the skin against his bottom lip. The pressure of Kirk’s choices to come are undoubtedly the cause for the crease between the Captain’s thick brows. A full minute passes and finally, Kirk speaks. He does not look at Spock when he says, “Something’s not right, Spock. I can feel it.”

Kirk’s finger flies away from his mouth, waving across the air in Spock’s direction as if to emphasize the point Kirk is attempting to make, “I’m telling you. I just—know it.” Kirk’s hands go to his hips, his face stern. He ruminates his gaze on the floor.

Spock opens his mouth, wanting to tell Kirk he does not disbelieve him, that there is merit in Kirk’s knowing, despite Spock’s inner logic to dispute feeling over fact. But Kirk is quick to continue, to keep talking, around and around and around.

“I’ll go.” Kirk says and Spock almost frowns. “I know they said both of us. But something’s up with that guy. Liris. He knows something. I mean. This has gotta be a trap, or, or—I don’t know, a hit of some kind.”

Spock can see the distress that tenses Kirk’s shoulders, locking the Captain’s elbows in rigid right angles that assuredly rivals Spock’s own predilection to perfect posture.

Kirk continues like this for another five point two minutes without stopping, circling endless possibilities and the potential for error or danger. Eventually, he tells Spock it is better, easier, smarter, that he goes alone; that Spock will have his back, as Spock always does, Kirk is so certain. He also tells Spock to do it safely from the center seat, rather than by Kirk’s side.

Considering this suggestion, it does not take long for Spock to acknowledge he does not care for this plan at all.

It may explain then, why Spock finds himself with the Captain’s mouth over his own, their lips pressed together softly, before Spock leans back and stares almost triumphantly into Kirk’s wild eyes, so luminous, like two full and phosphorescent moons as they sit wide in Kirk’s face.

“What was that?” Kirk asks but there’s no accusation in those words. Instead, there are warm hands crawling, cupping on either side of Spock’s jaw.

“I—,” Spock starts, aims to explain that the action seemed appropriate to ease the cloud of concern shrouded over Kirk’s thoughts; With James Kirk, in general, it seems simpler to do, and return to discuss it later. This move in particular is effective for many reasons. But it’s in this moment that Durand finally does call; xe, the Cetans, are ready to receive them.

It is time to go.

++

Later, when Spock thinks back to this moment, to when both he and Kirk were staring into the air, fixated on nothing and then each other, he will be reminded of the ocean; of water, crawling, curling, and crashing to meet the shore. He will wonder in the theoretical impossibility that perhaps if he had tried hard enough, wanted it enough, he may have been able to hear the waves of kinetic energy moving in the tide between them, and feel the well of gravity created in a way that only Kirk’s singular presence could.

But later, when Spock thinks back to when he kissed Kirk and Kirk pulls back, looking at him with warm, wide eyes and says, “What was that?” He will realize that he could have done nothing but stand there with his feet in the sand, as he waited to drown.

++

Kirk is the first to break away. He steps back, pivoting towards the door to the hallway, already assuming Spock will follow as he rightly abandons his idea to keep Spock on the Enterprise, “We should go.”

And Spock does. Wherever Kirk goes, Spock follows.

They almost reach the door when Kirk pauses suddenly, takes a final turn to block the way past. It prevents Spock from going any further and leaves them too close, Spock’s coolness clashing against Kirk's warmer body heat. Kirk looks at Spock earnestly and says, “Just so we’re clear; we’re talking about this when we get back.”

Spock does not know what drives him to respond with, “About what precisely, Captain?” But he does. He did. And in hindsight, Spock will wonder if perhaps, it was only to hear Kirk say it out loud.

“This,” Kirk gestures between their chests, then clarifies breathlessly, “Us.”

“Us.” Spock parrots.

“Yeah, Spock. Us.”

Spock agrees, “Of course, Captain,” because earlier, before they would arrive on the surface of Ceta III, Spock can find no reason not to.

++

But then,

after negotiations have gone south and the Cetans are uprising;

after Liris has run from the main hall calling on reinforcements;

after Liris has betrayed them to the machinations of warlords, promising the murder of two Federation officers as a message to all that would follow;

after Kirk is proven right, like he tells, he reminds Spock when the building begins to quake and there are people screaming;

after Kirk’s assumptions that something was indeed, very, very wrong come true,

Spock is not thinking about before. He does not do so now because, now, everything is creaking and breaking, surrounding them, Spock and Kirk, with super heated metal structures that are melting and melted away. They only have minutes to evacuate as the walls shake and quiver and collapse under fire. Destruction is imminent. Spock knows it from the sounds of thunder, of heavy projectiles and explosions, raining on the roof and on every side; alarms are crying, yelling, screaming for them to leave.

But Kirk is looking at him tiredly as he sits slumped on the floor, folded wrongly in the crease where the ground meets the wall. Kirk’s gaze is welled up with something Spock cannot discern, does not understand, with eyes, still so bright and blue and shimmering, despite the red lines threatening to take their place.

“S’okay, Spock.” Jim slurs, says with a sloppy grin on his cheeks while the room crumbles around them.

Spock shakes his head, shuffling closer on his knees, refusing it, refusing this, refusing everything. He’s quick to reply, “It is not.”

Because Spock cannot believe in this,

that he cannot save him,

that he cannot follow.

Wherever Kirk goes, Spock follows.

And then Kirk is grunting and arching his back, hissing through bloodied teeth. Spock looks from Kirk’s face to the two inch thick pole that has nailed the Captain through his breast, piercing his left lung and pinning him to the floor. Inadvertently, Spock’s fingers tighten their grip on Jim’s thighs. “Captain, we must—.”

“No. Not we,” Kirk coughs, his throat bobbing nearly into his chin, “You. You gotta go. And it’s…” He trails off.

Spock’s brows pinch and he leans closer, straining to hear. The scent of raw copper assaults his nose, filling the spots behind his eyes with a burning sensation he vehemently ignores. It stings, tastes like salt on his lips, “Captain?”

The Captain’s lashes flutter, eyelids open wide as if he’s just remembered Spock was even there, “Jim. S’Jim, remember? You said you would.” Jim sniffs deep. He does not elaborate to such an agreement Spock may or may not have made.

“Jim, we must—.”

“No, Spock. It’s too late,” another wheeze, another sniff. The sound curdles and chokes in Spock’s ears. Jim is dying, “Get outta here. That’s an order, Commander.”

Contradictorily volleyed back his title, Spock’s gaze hardens. His eyes fall over Jim’s face, down Jim’s shoulder, landing them on the offensive wound that climbs out of Jim’s chest like a jagged skyscraper and tells Spock all at once, that he is losing everything he never had the chance to have; to feel with his hands like they were his to own, to keep, or to treasure; to whisper in the dark, all the things that have sat on the edge of Spock’s tongue across a battlefield of white and black soldiers.

It is illogical to harbor rage against an inanimate object or for circumstances he cannot control but Spock’s eyes sharpen further and glaze with anger anyway. He feels his fingers tremble and shake, the urge to rip the pole from Jim’s body and launch it across the room, to throw it into the fires that corrode that which is this room’s bare-bones, too much.

This, is too much.

For this, because of this, Spock will never have what his counterpart once hinted and teased inside those familiar shapes of his own eyes; a friendship that will define them both, a friendship that could have been and is more than that.

++

Why did you send Kirk aboard when you alone could have explained the truth? Spock asks.

A beat, then simply, Because you needed each other. Opposing yet complementary opposites. It was that balance between us—I should say you and Kirk, that often made the impossible, possible.

It was a test? Spock feels his brows cinch in his confusion.

I'm in no position to pass judgment—my actions have robbed you of much. I could not also deprive you the revelation of all you can accomplish together—of a friendship that will define you both, in ways you cannot yet realize.

++

A friendship that is more than that. But now, Spock is certain he will never know.

It is unacceptable. It is not fair.

Spock’s feet scratch the floor when he inevitably scoots nearer, bumping his knees against Jim’s hip, “I am not leaving, Jim. You are welcome to employ whatever punishment you see fit for my insubordination, later. Right now—.”

“Spock. Stop.” Jim throws a hand out, clasping at Spock’s forearm clumsily. There’s blood on Jim’s fingers and it makes them slippery against the skin of Spock’s hand when they weave into Spock’s. Jim interlocks them together, gripping tightly despite how difficult Spock imagines it is for Jim to even breathe, “Just. Stop. I’m not making it out of here. We both know that.”

“I—,” Spock starts, stops, and with desperation clear in the bow of his brows, briefly considers the repercussions for his compliance; an instance where he doesn’t override his Captain’s last request, doesn’t stand, doesn’t tear this pole from its place on the wall—an instance where he sits and stays by the Captain’s side.

If Spock refused to listen, Jim would say, “Spock. Stop.” and throw a hand out, clasping at Spock’s forearm clumsily. Then, Spock would bite, “No.” defiant when he gets to his feet.

But in the decision to obey, the events unfold next in a fashion that Spock presses his lips together defeatedly, “This cannot happen.” He says instead, before he tries, “It is not—,” and fails at first.

Spock lashes flutter to his cheekbones, to the bloodstained floor, searching for the right word before locking back on Jim’s gaze, blue, like Earth’s sky or the ocean near the Pacific; blue with flecks of gold like a dozen comets, streaking for forever into the atmosphere. They are haunting. Beautiful, even now. Especially now. And Spock knows what the word is when he chooses to listen, “It is not fair.”

Jim’s mouth stretches lazily and he smiles. But there is nothing amusing or pleasing or happy about the way his lips lift crookedly at their corners, “I know.” Jim coughs again, and this time, it sounds wet, drowning or suffocating, or both. To Spock, he says slowly, sadly, “S’too bad we’ll never know, you know. Us.”

Spock stares at Jim. His chest deflates. He cannot breathe. Us, he thinks.

Then, there would have been.

Then, there should have been.

And then, there is no us.

There will be no us.

Beneath Spock's ribs, he feels his heart begin to thunder, beating faster, as Jim’s breath begins to slow.

It would be the case, that now, at the end of everything, that Spock would know for sure: the feeling is mutual. There are waves of kinetic energy moving in the tide between them. And because of it, Spock’s chest deflates, realizing there is something significant about this man he has somehow always known but never cultivated. He will never get the chance.

And he hates it. He hates this planet. He hates Liris. He hates the pole in Jim’s chest. He hates himself. He hates how unfair it is.

Again, his mind supplies him, it is not fair.

“Us,” Spock says.

“Yeah.” Jim sighs, his voice, softer, fading, “Us. Coulda really been something. I wanted—.” Jim blinks furiously, breathes, “God, I wanted,” his empty hand waves into the air on the opposite side of the pole. He swallows thickly. He does not finish his sentence.

Spock looks at Jim with his lips parted. Deep down, a thought emerges from within the calamity inside his mind, glowing softly like an ember, waiting for Spock to notice. It grows the longer he does not speak, takes control of Spock’s loss for words, his wants; because he wanted, too.

“I could—,” Spock raises his hand to Jim’s face before he can prevent it, the pads of his fingers brushing at the side of Jim’s cheek, a temple. If he can give Jim this, give them both this, their minds, one and together, no matter how fleeting or unreal, then he has no wish to stop, “Attempt to show you before...”

Jim’s eyes flare. He looks hopeful, “Spock?” Let me see, he does not say.

“Yes.” Anything.

“Do it.” Jim orders, commands, begs, pleads.

And Spock does. Wherever Kirk goes, Spock follows.

Spock’s eyes close, pressing in, wanting. He wants and he is invited, “My mind to your mind,” he whispers, washing away white walls and oscillating crimson, masking the sight of bent steel and so much fire, until the two of them have sunk deep into the ground and are buried in the soil; until the skeletons of this room and the building they’re in become stalks, growing, until they are replaced by fields of corn.

It’s an empire worth of dirt at the start. Rich, and made of browns and greens, just outside of where Starfleet will someday build a shipyard for a vessel called the Enterprise. The world exists as it does in the mind’s eye of a dusty haired human boy set on the horizon, standing there beside the hood of his father’s car.

“I can’t stand it, Jimmy!” Another boy yells. There are patterns all over his long-sleeved shirt and matching pants; small shapes that look like little cartoon spaceships.

“But you can’t go.” The first boy replies, voice tiny and desperate. His hair is blonde, dirty, his eyes blue like the Iowan sky. It is Jim. He is eight years old, “Come on, we can talk to Mom.”

“Look, you’ll be fine, okay? You get good grades, do as you’re told. Frank—pretty much ignores you anyway.”

“Sam, please.” Jim tries, wringing a sponge in his hands as Spock stands behind him. The thought of being left behind is bad enough. The thought of being left behind with their stepfather, with Frank—Jim shakes his head frantically beside the car; Dad’s corvette, apple-red, and slick with water. There are bubbles of soap everywhere; on Jim’s shoes, his jeans, the edges of Spock’s toes. “Don’t leave.”

“Sorry, Jim.” Sam says and there’s finality to it. Jim knows because he’s heard it before. Sorry. They’re always sorry when they leave.

Sam hitches his backpack higher on his shoulder then turns away. He walks and walks and walks, disappearing into the heat haze of the pavement, at some point, indistinguishable from the crops lining the roadside.

Jim watches on and Spock does, too, “That’s what they always say.” Jim whispers, staring at the dirt that’s turned to mud between his sneakers.

Earlier, Spock’s feet scratched the floor when he inevitably scooted nearer, bumping his knees against Jim’s hip, “I am not leaving, Jim.”

Tilting his head, Spock frowns then takes a step closer, here, where no one will see them. The hem of Spock’s brown robes soak darkly in the soap but he takes Jim’s hand anyway. It feels small, like his, roughly the same size, “I will not leave you.”

Jim sniffs, looks at Spock, “Yeah?” asking as if Spock could ever deny him. Jim doesn’t wait for Spock to answer. Instead, Jim smiles and it is blinding, radiant like the sun itself was captured then revealed to him inside the split of Jim’s mouth. Jim pulls on Spock’s hand, blue eyes shining on apple-red, “Then let’s get out of here.”

++

By the edge of a cliff, Spock is standing by Jim in sandy covered robes when Jim says proudly, his chest puffed with a defiant look in his eye, “My name is James Tiberius Kirk.”

But on Vulcan, Spock is standing in front of Jim, crouched down, as he gathers his things to go home for the day. Spock’s name isn’t spoken with nearly as much pride on his home planet.

In fact, it is the exact opposite, and said with disdain by another young Vulcan boy, Stonn, who hates him, who calls out, “Spock, once Spock’s lesson is over.

With his back turned, Spock rises to stand. “I presume you have prepared new insults for today?” His eyes slide to Jim’s before he faces down Stonn and two other boys.

It is hard to determine which is more infuriating to Spock’s tormentors, Spock’s indifference to their endeavors, or that of the human standing behind him with a smug look on his face. Spock’s stiff stance pleads with Jim to leave this alone, to stay out of the way. This is their thirty-fifth attempt at eliciting an emotional response. Spock is used to it by now.

“You are neither human nor Vulcan and therefore, have no place in this universe.”

“Look.” A second boy interjects. Spock turns his gaze on him, “He has human eyes. They look sad, don’t they?”

The three of them round on Spock’s smaller frame, towering over him even as Spock’s own long brown robes are fastly becoming too short for him. But Spock shows no fear, does not retreat. Somewhere at his back, he can feel Jim simmering, waves of kinetic energy moving in the tide between them.

“Perhaps, an emotional response requires physical stimuli.” Stonn suggests.

Before Spock can react, he is shoved, nearly toppling into Jim. Jim, who bares his teeth and grabs Spock’s shoulders to keep Spock upright.

“Hey!” Jim barks, smaller than any four of them. He does not care. He moves to blaze past Spock, his hands in fists as retribution whirls like a hurricane inside of Jim’s gaze.

Spock grabs Jim’s wrist and their eyes meet, fixating on each other. No, Jim, Spock does not say. He does not say so because when their eyes meet, he is reminded of the ocean; of water, crawling, curling, and crashing to meet the shore.

“He’s a traitor, you know?” Stonn jeers, “Your father,” and Spock thinks he can see a glint of glee in the depths of Stonn’s black, uncaring eyes when he looks back. The irony of this situation does not escape him; these efforts are futile. UnVulcan. But what Spock fails to predict is his reaction when Stonn adds, “For marrying that human whore,” then glances at Jim, “It appears you will follow his example.”

With a roar, something inside Spock twists then snaps, warm rage, rising from the center of his chest and into his face. Spock expels his fists, his anger, his contempt for these lies into every strike, slamming into the taller boy as Stonn’s companions, and Jim, watch in unequal horror and awe; the former is stunned, the latter, beaming with the same pride Jim once had while triumphant beside a cliff.

Both boys crash in a tangle of limbs, tumbling together into the learning pod. Spock weaves out of Stonn’s poor attempt at to'tsu'k'hy and gaining the upper hand, Spock flips Stonn on his back, straddling the older boy before he flails with both fists. There is blood on his knuckles, green, and glittering like emerald gemstones against his pale skin.

It is not his.

Before, when Jim was dying on the floor, Jim threw a hand out, clasping at Spock’s forearm clumsily as he said, “Spock. Stop.”

But at the base of the learning pod, Spock feels Jim’s hand on his shoulder when Spock is panting, kneeling on the ground with both his eyebrows nearly horizontal in distress. There is blood on Spock’s knuckles, green and glittering like emerald gemstones against his pale skin. The fight had been stopped by the Learning Center’s instructors and by now, Stonn and the other Vulcan boys have left. Spock considers they are likely not to torment him anymore.

Not after this.

Except later, much later, when Spock goes home, he knows his father will be disappointed.

“It’s okay, Spock. I know you don’t like fighting.” Jim squeezes Spock’s shoulder, “But you should know, you were a total badass.” Jim laughs, his chest puffed with a proud look in his eyes. The sound is warm in Spock’s ears, “C’mon.” Jim lets go and extends his hand. Spock looks up at him, “Let’s get out of here.”

++

When they leave, Spock is eleven years old. His parents have invited a young Vulcan girl and her family to their house. Her cheeks are round in her face, plump and slightly green, but her eyes, her eyes are sharp as she stares at Spock from inside the living room of his home in Shi’Khar. Her hair is dark, too, drawn into tight loops and intricate, ornate circles; all of it, coiled gracefully on the top of her head.

She is beautiful, he observes. And in Spock’s ear, Jim tells him he does not like her.

“Spock, attend.” Sarek calls and as his Father’s son, Spock goes, “I present T’Pring.”

“I understand, Father.” Spock replies because he does. He knows exactly what this meeting is. His hands tighten where he conceals them at his back, his slim frame made awkward and angled by the onset of adolescence. The gesture is becoming a habit Spock realizes, warring to remain impassive by this news. But it is difficult when Spock has no desire to be tied to an individual who will not have him. He can tell by the faint trace of disdain she wears beneath the violent shade of her lipstick.

No, he thinks. That is not it. He does not want this, either. He does not want her.

He wants—

“You can’t have him.”

Spock freezes, his eyes round with surprise. If anyone notices, however, they do not call attention to his lapse in control. Instead, all eyes are on the blond-haired human boy who is also in the room, who was never here in the first place. As Spock turns, he schools his features to nothing, and there, just inches behind him, he sees Jim smiling, radiant like the sun.

“Hi. I’m Jim. By the way.”

Quickly, Spock comes to stand before Jim, blocking Jim from view. He leans in, his brows scrunched together, wondering, “What are you doing?” But there’s no accusation in Spock’s voice, no reprimand, or scolding, no tone that tells Jim, as Spock once thought to use, to stop or stay out of it. He has learned that Jim will do so no matter Spock’s protests; Jim will do whatever he wants.

Jim shrugs, then says simply, “She can’t have you,” while young and fierce and full of life. Their eyes meet, fixating on each other, “Don’t you get it? This is about us.”

Spock feels his breath leave his lungs, his brows knitting tightly together, questioningly, repeating Jim as if unsure, “Us.” He stares at Jim and Jim’s eyes remind him of the ocean; of water, crawling, curling, and crashing to meet the shore like it always does.

“Yeah. This is about us. You and me.” Jim affirms, so achingly sure, “Just us.”

++

And it stays that way even as the sand blows outside, rippling through wilted plants, wasting away whole gardens, before wisping around the curves of dead things and their open bones. It’s just the two of them now, huddled close and shivering.

Spock cannot remember the last time he has eaten. But he feels it. This, hunger, that curls in his stomach, eats itself from the inside out. Spock folds the slender things of his arms across his chest, hardly noting the way his forearms fit snugly inside the gaps between each rib. He looks at Jim and declares, “We will not die here.”

But “I’m dying already,” is all Jim replies.

Nearby, Spock stiffens, remembering somewhere else, before remembering this, where he is now.

It is a wasteland here, where the air smells like rot and everything is fragile; the ground, the trees, what is left of these people. The soles of Spock’s feet are blistered, the skin cracked and dried with blood inside scuffed and torn shoes. He looks down to his clothes. Those too, are tattered, hanging too big from Spock’s growing and awkward and angled body.

“Jim.” He says. It comes out quieter than he planned. Jim looks no better.

“S’okay, Spock.” Jim slurred to him once, the grin on his cheeks, sloppy, while the room crumbled around them. Spock shook his head, shuffling closer on his knees, refusing it, refusing this, refusing everything. He was quick to reply, “It is not.”

Because they buried Johnny yesterday. And it was an arduous and taxing and terrible task. The cold, hard ground by the edge of the mountains had been too brutal, too unforgiving, and especially hard for two young boys with only their tired eyes to guide them, with nothing but earth for their bellies to eat.

Spock had thought the hole they dug was too shallow. The sides, barely covering the tips of Johnny’s tiny sneakers, red and white, with a lightning bolt on the side.

Despite this, Jim tells Spock today, “S’okay, Spock.” He drags a hand through his hair. It’s gotten long, dirty blonde, hanging in front of his eyes.

Spock shakes his head, turning, moving to stand closer. “It is not.”

Jim sighs, “Yeah, it wasn’t. It isn’t.” Jim’s expression is bright beside wilted crops, still radiant like the sun, even though he’s narrowed his eyes. There are dark circles underneath them, dirt on Jim’s face, “And I didn’t mean for you to see this. But it’s different, okay?” He adds, and more defiantly, “This is different.”

“I do not understand.” Except Spock does. He just wants to hear Jim say it.

“Because I have you.”

++

It is only logical then, that years later, Spock is waiting inside Riverside County Jail with as much patience as he ever does.

At the desk, after he has given the receptionist his credit chip to pay Jim’s bail, he takes a seat and stares blankly at the wall. Spock’s hands are folded neatly in his lap, the lines of his dark blue tunic, crisp, like the fringe of his bangs across his forehead. He does not care that the woman filing her nails and popping her chewing gum in the chair beside him, makes him so very much out of place.

It is not the first time Jim has gotten into an altercation at a nearby establishment, throwing his fists where his words or his wit has failed him. But like before and the time before last, Spock is not angry. He displays as much when Jim turns the corner, watching silently as the bailiff releases Jim’s fists from his cuffs.

“Hey, Spock,” Jim says. His voice sounds hoarse.

Spock raises a brow. Jim has bundles of tissue paper shoved up each of his nostrils. They are soaked red all the way through, blood staining Jim’s skin in thick paths to each corner of his lips. Jim has worn this appearance before, later, in a bar, when he meets Captain Pike, after he’s fought two more men to make it an even fight.

“You are fond of this particular injury.”

“It’s a good look.” The laugh that hustles between Jim’s teeth is clever, all-knowing, and slippery, in the way it’s able to sneak past Spock’s defenses and coil within Spock’s gut.

Inches from Spock’s feet, Jim shuffles inside his leather jacket, white tee shirt splashed with the same crimson color along the rim of his collar. The sight is wild and Jim’s hair is ruffled like he’s had the wind in his hair. It makes any rebuttal Spock might have possessed, catch and claw inside his own throat, never to be released.

“Admit it. You dig it.” Jim teases, again, all-knowing and slippery. But Spock does nothing to refute Jim’s statement. Instead, after a beat, after he’s taken a moment to memorize this look plainly and simply for what it is, Spock turns and leads them out the door.

++

But what Spock finds outside is not the wide lands of Iowa’s green plains. In its place, is a large, open room, surprisingly empty this time, save for the two of them. It is as sharp and as cold and as merciless as it was the day they first met.

Jim’s voice echoes a part of Spock’s observation out loud by saying, “It’s just us in here.”

Spock glances back from his position at the front of the auditorium. There are dozens of barren seats behind them, every chair folded and upright. It is the same when Spock brings his gaze to the other side, before his podium, where a row of senior officers and prominent members of Starfleet Academy’s faculty had once prepared to put Jim Kirk on trial.

“So it would seem,” Spock says. He looks to Jim and with perfect memory, immediately notices a more creative difference. Their podiums are closer together.

“You would have had me kicked out of this place.” Jim looks back at Spock, a question and a statement both, within his reply.

Spock’s chin shifts a degree, the things he said, free-flowing from his mouth as it was written, “It was obvious you somehow managed to install and activate a subroutine in the programming code, thereby changing the conditions of the test.” He pauses, knows what comes next. Jim will argue the point of which Spock must naturally supply, “You violated the rules, Jim. You cheated.”

Jim laughs through a sudden divide of his teeth, his eyes crinkling at their corners, and the sound is glorious and terrible all at once, indestructible, when it cleaves the air. Spock subjects himself to the sound, listens for it, follows it unconsciously, as it reverberates against the assembly’s high ceilings then falls back on his sensitive ears.

Jim is breathless when he tells Spock disbelievingly, “You still think that, huh?”

“You had given me no reason to believe otherwise. Besides, your interpretation of those events are somewhat inaccurate.”

“I don’t think so. See, I know for a fact you didn’t like that I beat your test.” Jim argues, disallowing Spock from coming to Spock’s own defense when he keeps talking, keeps going, despite the way Spock has opened his mouth to combat it, “But it’s more than that. You didn’t understand why I did it. You still don’t.”

“I am aware you failed the simulation twice beforehand. Considering my familiarity with your character at the time, it was logical to conclude you merely sought an avenue to alter the results in your favor.”

—for arrogance, he does not say.

“Maybe some of it was like that but nope, sorry. Still wrong, Spock.” Jim smiles at Spock again, amusement and something quite arguably affection, inside the wide curve of his lips.

Spock’s eyes narrow, unaware of his own position in this room. It has changed, somehow moved directly into Jim’s space. It is oddly incensing to be reminded of such convictions Spock once harbored when now, he sees them for what they are.

Flaws.

“Perhaps, you will enlighten me then.”

“It had nothing to do with the story, Spock. Yeah, sure, finding out that no matter what you did to save the stranded crew, the Klingons would still show up and blow you, your crew, and everyone you were supposed to save to smithereens? Anxiety inducing and incredibly frustrating, I promise you. But the test’s not what I was trying to beat. The test itself is unwinnable. You know that. You wrote it.”

“Then what—,”

“It was you.”

Spock frowns, “I do not understand.”

“Well. I didn’t know it was you at the time.” Jim clarifies and his eyes glimmer knowingly, almost slippery, “Think about it; nowhere did it say anyone had to beat the Klingons or really, even rescue the crew of the Kobayashi Maru. It’s a test of character, isn’t?”

Slowly, Spock nods, studying Jim carefully.

“Right, so I don’t believe in no-win scenarios. And to figure that, I had to think outside the box, consider all my pieces and break the fourth wall so to speak. I wasn’t going to lose if I could help it and the thing is, I could, Spock. I could help it. Don’t you see? It wasn’t about beating the Klingons, or, or lasting the longest on the board, or anything like that. I was beating the institution; the idea that you can’t win because you’re too afraid or aren’t given the option to do what needs to be done to do it. A captain should do whatever it takes to save their crew, to save lives. That’s what a good captain should do. That’s what I wanted to do. I mean, what are we even doing here, Spock? What do you think all this is?”

Spock stares at Jim, considering this, considering how time and time again, Jim has never ceased to surprise him, to thrust upon him the unexpected. “I had not considered—.”

The solution was illogical. Unpredictable. Yet—original. It explains to Spock all those nights when he assumed he’d had Jim cornered, with a checkmate so close within his grasp, that Jim would so casually do something drastic in an attempt to throw Spock off the trail. It did not occur to Spock what Jim was doing. It had not occurred to Spock that what they are doing, right now in this very moment, is precisely what Jim had done then.

“We were supposed to talk about us. You and me. Remember?”

Spock does. How could he forget? Even if for a while, for as long as their minds, as Jim’s heart would allow him, he wants to. But he remembers. Jim is dying, “I do.”

“But we can’t. Not like we want. So what’re we doing in here, Spock? Tell me.”

Finally, Spock understands what Jim had attempted to teach an entire proctor of instructors behind the glass of his exam, what Jim is trying to teach Spock now. Spock takes a breath and his chest swells, realizing there is something significant about this man he has somehow always known, but never cultivated.

“We are cheating.”

It’s “Yes,” that Jim breathes next, with his hands moving to cover the sides of Spock’s face. Jim’s fingers cradle over the sharp angles of Spock’s jaw, the pads of his thumbs planted on Spock’s cheekbones. His palms are hot, flushing relief and adoration, victory and yes, this, Spock, this, when they clip around the base of Spock’s ears.

Their lips meet and above them, behind them, Vulcan is collapsing into itself.

++

It’s not long later, after Spock slips from Jim’s mouth to look outside the window—after Starfleet has sent them and all available hands into space to answer a distress call, after Jim sneaks onto the Enterprise and together, they watch Vulcan be destroyed,—that Spock learns to define his confidence in his Captain, in Jim Kirk.

Jim is the captain of their best ship. A great, silver ship built just outside the farmlands of Riverside, Iowa called the Enterprise. Jim looks proud when he stands on the bridge, taking the command chair and molding his body inside of its white, pristine lines, a part of it, like he was made for it. Sitting in front of the view screen, Jim crosses his legs. There is a grin on his face, bright and warm like the sun.

Jim belongs there, he thinks.

Years earlier, when George Kirk became the captain of another great ship called the Kelvin, he was captain of that ship for twelve minutes. He saved eight hundred lives, including Jim’s. He is considered to be a hero.

Jim is not George Kirk.

But their dedication, their sacrifice is the same; years earlier, when the Kelvin propels its engines and collides with the Narada, or years later, when the Enterprise is falling from the sky and I’m scared, Spock, and there is two and a quarter-inch thick glass between them.

Jim is not George Kirk but Jim belongs there, Spock knows. He knows because when he looks at the center seat, it is all there is. Jim. Jim, who smiles with all of his teeth, his eyes bright and radiant like the sun.

He belongs there, Spock is sure of it. Just as Spock is certain he will always be there, that he will try to. Wherever Kirk goes, Spock follows.

Their five-year mission starts and Jim is the captain of their best ship. Spock is Jim’s First Officer, then later his friend, his brother. And then after, perhaps later still, but not too late, Spock is his lover, too.

++

There’s a breathless laugh and Jim’s fingers are combing messily through the hair at the back of Spock’s head when he asks, “How was it?” Then clarifies once he receives a rise of Spock’s eyebrow, “Your shift.”

Spock’s voice rumbles lowly in his chest, “Adequate.”

Jim stands close and his eyes fall briefly to Spock’s mouth, knowingly, slippery. It feels warm at Spock’s chest, superheated, and trapped in the Captain’s orbit, Spock cannot look away from the flecks of gold in Jim’s eyes, like a dozen comets, he thinks, streaking into the atmosphere.

“Good! That’s good. My day was too, I guess. I’m off rotation.” Jim explains but Spock is already aware of Jim’s schedule. In their minds, it is whatever they wish. Still, Jim leans away, still smiles, pretends. There are creases at the corners of Jim’s eyes and he says, “I must have ate until I passed out, did some reading. Almost sounds like a real day off, huh?”

“All things considered, I prefer normalcy in your case.”

Jim feigns a roll of his eyes, “Yeah, except what you call normalcy, I call boring.”

Spock raises an eyebrow again, his reply quick, even if it stings in the lie around them, “If boredom is the only consequence for your safety, then so be it.”

Jim scrunches his face, “Oh come on, so you'd rather see me stir crazy than finding purpose in the fast-paced and occasionally dangerous?”

Spock’s resolve is steady, his eyes dark, when he stares forward to meet Jim's determination, the two of them in a push and pull where the earth meets the sea, “History steers me differently,” he says while Jim stares at him back.

Spock will not remind Jim of the truth in where they are, in here, out there. But Jim continues as if beyond their minds there is no fire, as if there is no pole in his chest, no blood on his hands or on Spock’s, none on the floor or the walls or everywhere; like he is not bleeding all over everything or that Spock bleeds along with him.

Somewhere, Spock had said back to Jim, “Us,” while staring into Jim’s eyes, eyes that remind him of the ocean; of water, crawling, curling, and crashing to meet the shore. And like a promise that could never be broken, Jim had looked back at him and said, “Yeah. This is about us. You and me,” so achingly sure, before, “Just us.”

Somewhere out there, Jim is dying. But here, where Jim is looking at Spock now, both devious and slippery, Jim simply wets his bottom lip, pink tongue flashing between his teeth like it doesn’t matter, like the only thing that does, is this, is here, where it is just the two of them.

“Sounds like you think I bite off more than I can chew, Spock.” Jim leans in, “A little struggle’s good for the soul, you know,” and then his smile widens, so very bright, “And I, have a big mouth.”

Spock follows that sensation of brightness with his eyes, "You are certainly ambitious, Captain. But it is an admirable quality."

Jim hums, "Like control, right? That's another one. I'd guess you didn't wanna kiss me right now, if I didn't know you."

But Jim doesknow him, Spock realizes, knows that Spock wants to. He knows that Jim knows because earlier, when Spock had found himself with the Captain’s mouth against his own, their lips pressed together softly, Jim had asked him, “What was that for?” Spock did not answer. He did not have to.

++

Later, when Jim asks Spock the first time they are intimate, “Have you ever done this before?” Spock does not answer then either. Instead, he kneels slowly to the floor, turning his face against the heavy line at the front of Jim’s fatigue pants and just breathes.

++

For the fleeting moments Spock can help it, he admits nothing, "I assure you, I am in control."

"So you say." Jim tilts his head, the seam of his mouth teasing when its corners flick up, rising on a dare. Jim steps back another step and it takes effort for Spock not to chase him, "We got a whole night to ourselves. I'm starving. Hungry?"

Spock nods, “I will join you."

“Great. Let’s eat in tonight. I'm not changing out of these sweatpants.”

Spock watches Jim move away to scan the short menu on the synthesizer in Jim’s quarters. Jim has forgone his uniform, a white shirt and loose, grey pants in its stead. “That is acceptable.”

“Watcha want? I'm feeling the molten, melty comfort of cheese. Mostly cheese. Mac and cheese. And mostly because Bones can’t stop me. You?"

“Tea, please."

“That’s all?" Jim casts a furrowed smirk over the line of his shoulder, already punching in the order. He is overcomplicating the sequence as he adds. "Well, I'm gonna fix it with something special. How ‘bout it? Something— autumny. A little bit of Earth's mid-September, where I'm from."

Spock takes toward the sofa. He catches the hem of his tunic before peeling it off and folding it into a neat, blue square; his black undershirt is comfortable enough for the time being. He is officially off duty for the next twenty-four hours, pleased by the smell of the tea Jim has made him, something herbal with a hint of cinnamon in its leaves, "You are referring to your home state of Iowa?"

"Yeah," Jim confirms, the response muffled when he dips down to retrieve the steaming mug. The corner of Jim’s mouth is snagged upward as he turns around and Jim’s eyes glance from the floor to Spock’s face, "I am." Jim pads back towards him with careful attention to the rim of the cup and the swaying liquid inside. “The only decent weather we got all year. Otherwise, it was hot, raining, or tundra.”

"I have considered that despite its temperatures, you would have enjoyed Vulcan." Spock takes the cup from Jim into his hands and a fine crease forms between his eyes when he looks into it. He has never had tea of this kind, a dark auburn, the color of Vulcan’s sands in the Forge. It smells sweet and tastes even sweeter, smooth when it rolls over his tongue and down his throat.

After a beat, Spock tells Jim, “It is not unpleasant,” and it is the truth, even if none of this is real.

“Good." Jim’s voice is quieter than before, his eyes clouded with something Spock cannot identify. He reaches out suddenly, plucking a tiny puff of fuzz apparently clinging to Spock's chest. They both watch it float to the floor. “I thought we could watch a movie? Or play chess?”

Abruptly, Jim returns to the synthesizer then prods at the panel. The items materialize with seemingly great effort on Jim’s part but when Jim retrieves a bowl—noodles, Jim’s eyebrows furrow and he barks down at it, laughing, his skin flushed.

Spock frowns a bit, “Is everything alright, Jim?”

“Yeah, I just—,” Jim angles his hand to present Spock his bowl before he discards it onto the table. There are two full-length hot dogs sticking up out of what Spock believes is referred to as elbow macaroni, “This is gonna sound stupid but the, uh hot dogs,” Jim waves his hand over the top of the bowl, “They’re whole.”

Spock’s eyes narrow, aiming his frown between Jim and his food.

“They’re supposed to be sliced up. Like in little pieces instead of—,” Jim laughs, louder this time, crisp and bright and full of life. The sound simultaneously shrinks and expands the air in Spock’s chest, “God, wow. I can’t even, I mean this isn’t, you know, somehow I fucked up hot dogs and mac and cheese. In here.”

On the table, the twin ends of meat greet him over the lip of the bowl and the crease between Spock’s eyes lessens even if he cannot discern precisely the issue, “I see. The synthesizer had not performed your request exactly, as it, too, did not possess the proper details to complete the order accurately.” He's certain Jim's also made this conclusion, though Spock’s explanation could not be stopped. It was his nature to dissect things, to work through them, understand them; a scientist, truly.

“A byproduct of your own assumptions—,” Spock tilts his head, deciding the circumstances for what it’s worth is, "Amusing."

Jim turns, laughs again, “That's a helluva way to say the same thing I just did," before he sits down, his forearms balancing on the edge of the table.

“I was merely attempting to decipher the humor placed in this circumstance; I believe I have found it.”

“I know. Trust me,” Jim says even though Spock does. “It made it funnier."

"Does this meal have significance to you? It is unfamiliar to me."

“I'm not surprised. It’s definitely an Earth thing. Call it comfort food." Jim explains, “It’s one of the first things I learned how to make on my own.”

Spock glances again at the bowl. It sits untouched despite Jim’s efforts in the first place but he makes no move to point out its neglect, pulling his eyes into his tea instead. Spock has no desire to direct attention to what is implied by the words Jim says, thinking briefly to before, when Sam Kirk said last to a younger brother, “Sorry, Jim,” and Jim whispered back, “That’s what they always say,” as he stared at the dirt turned to mud between his sneakers.

Spock sets his mug down. The sound of its ceramic edge glides across the table with a sharp scrape before Spock meets Jim's gaze head-on, “I would be curious as to your thoughts regarding Vulcan cuisine."

Jim looks to Spock thoughtfully, "Huh. That’s a lot of greenery right?”

“If by greenery, you are referring to a Vulcan equivalent to vegetarianism, then you are correct. However, I do not believe that description is mutually exclusive.” Spock says. Amusement crinkles softly at the corners of his mouth and flickers behind his eyes at the same time, “—It may be considered bland for your tastes. Vulcans are known to have a particularly sensitive palate.”

“Give me some credit, Spock. I think by now I've developed a pretty distinguished sense for subtlety.” Jim retorts, knowing and slippery, “Maybe I'll surprise us both." Jim sits back in his chair and spreads his knees, watching Spock watching him before suddenly he says, “Computer, raise the temperature five degrees."

The computer beeps in tri-tone, acknowledging the order.

Spock’s brow rises. At the room’s current temperature, the change is considerably higher than he knows is typical for human comfort. A part of him wishes to inquire, to seek the reasoning behind Jim’s intent to discomfort himself when Spock had certainly not requested it.

But Jim knows him, Spock realizes,

knows that Vulcan was a torrid planet of sun-scorched rock, filled with red clay and warm to the touch. He knows that it was sand and mountains, deep caverns and endless desert, hot, all the way across and everywhere into the shallows of its scattered seas. Jim knows that Spock had bathed, appreciatively, in its heat for many years, the love of it, in his blood; that it is a pleasing memory Spock takes with him where space is always so cold.

In space, Jim knows that Spock has endured its constant chill, how crisp and biting it is at both Spock’s muscles and the slender frame beneath Spock’s clothes and that he never complains.

On the ship, Spock had maintained both a layer of thermal clothing under his uniform and an elevated temperature inside his own quarters to combat it. But no matter his troubles, Spock has always felt it; in briefings or medical, through the halls or the hangar bay, inside the mess or the bridge. Spock feels it, just as he does the absence of his home-world.

Jim knows him, knows this. Spock knows it, too. And yet there is a part of him that wishes to inquire as to this action, to seek the reasoning behind Jim’s intent to discomfort himself when Spock had certainly not requested it if only to hear Jim say it.

Except already, every part of Spock’s body is soaking in the blasts of heat flooding in from the vents and he feels his elbows relax from the quiet clench of his muscles, his fingers, loosening from around his cup.

For several moments, Spock says nothing, watching Jim while Jim stares back. He tries to read the emotion written in Jim’s expression, the way Jim’s eyes have flinted beneath blonde lashes, liquid, and unreadable. He sets down his mug before quietly, questioningly, he breathes, “Jim?”

Only Jim doesn’t respond.

Jim just gets up, silent, save for the growing rate of Jim’s breaths and the march of Jim’s feet from his seat. Then Jim is surging against him, curling and crashing them together as he seeks out Spock’s bare skin with his palms. They crawl scorchingly beneath the hem of Spock’s shirt, fingers mapping the angles of bone just above Spock’s waistband, Jim’s mouth on his mouth before Jim exhales against it, “Spock.”

Earlier, before Ensign Durand from Security would call them to the transporter room, Spock had watched Jim from the space just inside Jim’s door. In his silence, Spock’s chest had swelled, his heart had pounded, and he realized there is something significant about this man he has somehow always known, but never cultivated.

Until Jim’s tongue is pressing against the seam of his lips, pushing and demanding entrance before Spock grants it. He parts them and immediately Jim licks inside, greedy and sweeping at the roof of Spock’s mouth and behind Spock’s teeth.

Their mouths war together as Spock grabs at Jim’s shoulders and Jim flexes his hands over Spock’s stomach and grabs at his waist. Jim is pulling them closer before shoving himself up, grinding their hips where Spock can feel Jim’s erection—hard and long and perfect—against his thigh. Someone makes a noise, hungry or desperate or both; it might even be Spock, he does not know for certain.

He does not care. It doesn’t matter.

It is fair.

But then Jim is wrenching himself back, his mouth red and his skin flushed pink across his cheeks, when he asks, “Have you ever done this before?”

To which, Spock does not answer. Instead, he leaves a trail of his lips along Jim’s chin and Jim’s chest as he kneels slowly to the floor. He stares at the heavy line at the front of Jim's fatigues and turns his face into it, breathing in the scent, musky and heady, and jimjimjim just behind the grey fabric.

Jim’s hands comb into Spock’s hair, threading tightly through dark, silken strands, branding into Spock’s skull. Jim sways forward into the touch, encouraging him, and before he can stop, Spock is mouthing at the head of Jim’s cock through his pants, finally answering, “Not like this.”

Because there is nothing like this.

This, that is desire and obsession. This, that is some simple feeling Spock cannot explain or control or ignore. This, that is water and sand, the ocean crashing and curling and meeting the shore. It is dangerous, and electrifying between them; poetic and beautiful, Jim’s face like the sun and the sea all at once.

[ He is half my soul,
as the poets say. ]

It has no name. It is all the names.

Spock tells Jim as much when he grapples his hands to Jim’s waist, looking up to find Jim’s eyes that remind him of the ocean.

But Jim’s pupils are dilated, his eyelids heavy with want and arousal and barely restrained anticipation when he tugs sharply at Spock’s hair and says, “Come on.”

Without hesitation, Spock yanks Jim’s fatigues and his briefs down around his thighs, turning them, shoving Jim down onto the sofa behind him. Jim’s cock points proudly into Spock’s face as Jim lands in the cushions and he leans into the skin between Jim’s thigh and Jim’s groin, taking Jim’s length against his cheek before he parts his lips and takes Jim into his mouth.

Jim moans, bucking slightly when he breathes, “God, look at you—,” and slides his middle and index fingers across Spock’s cheek where his cock glides inside.

Spock pushes himself deeper between Jim’s knees, his lips stretched and his jaw straining to take Jim’s cock most of the way to the root. He swallows around the heaviness on his tongue, the taste of precum bitter and salty and all he’s ever wanted before Spock pulls back and Jim shudders, then refills his mouth.

Fingers brush the points of Spock’s ears, lacing over the back of his neck. Then Jim is thrusting, orders Spock, “Don’t stop, just like that, come on, come on, come on,” and holds Spock’s head in place until he’s lifting his ass off the cushions, digging his heels into the floor and then he’s coming, spilling hotly down the back of Spock’s throat and Spock is rutting into the sofa.

“Spock,” Jim chokes, says like it’s the only thing that matters.

The force of Jim’s orgasm hits Spock like a battering ram. Pleasure and yes, and this, Spock, this, washes into every part of Spock’s skin, taking up every corner of Spock’s mind and blinding him with a white-hot nothingness that Spock chases, his cock straining in his pants as he strains up to meet it. His chest heaves and he grabs at Jim’s hips, draining every last bit Jim will give him before he’s sliding off, burying his face into the skin between Jim’s groin and Jim’s thigh.

Spock’s body quakes in echoes, his mouth green and swollen and shining with spit when he answers, “Jim,” and follows right after.

++

At the end of their five-year mission, Chekov is getting promoted again. In his time aboard the Enterprise, Pavel Chekov has taken the role of Chief Tactical Officer or Chief Engineer and sometimes Acting Captain.

Jim Kirk is the Captain of the ship, even after their mission is over. He is standing there proudly with his chest puffed and a smile on his face, radiant like the sun, when he shakes Chekov’s hand and says, “Congratulations, Lieutenant,” then gives a young boy now a man the strips he has earned.

Spock and Doctor McCoy are standing by Jim’s side. Spock’s hands are behind his back while the Doctor keeps his, at his front. Outside, Earth’s sol is shining over them, its rays, glistening in their caps and in Jim’s hair, turning the strands gold.

The rest of the crew is standing in neat rows beyond the stage, dressed in pressed grays and wearing grins that match both the Captain and Lieutenant Chekov’s. They clap their hands and Chekov smiles even wider, telling Jim and the crowd, “Thank you,” before he becomes the first to partake in the celebration later.

At the party, Lieutenant Chekov is leaning into a small group of other officers, his arm waving in the air as its liquid glitters and sloshes over the rim and onto the floor. Spock is next to Jim, who smiles when Ensign Lang leans forward and asks Chekov, “How’d you do it?”

“We have saying in Russia,” Chekov explains and Jim’s presence grows warm at Spock's side. It is nostalgia, Spock thinks, or pride, “He who never takes risks, will never drink champagne. And I tell you—,” Chekov pauses, takes a long sip of his glass. He brandishes the cup enthusiastically, slurring in his heavy accent, “The champagne is good!”

“Here, here!” The Captain chimes, raising his glass. The others join in and beside him, Spock has no glass to raise. Instead, the corners of Spock’s lips lift slightly, warm, in the knowledge that Jim will see his crew become their best.

++

At the start of their second tour, the Enterprise gleams at them, every window and flashing light in her hull, like a hundred brilliant teeth smiling down at them from the stars. She is newly repaired, the damage and scorch lines on her belly and hull from their last few adventures as Jim calls them—or unfortunate but necessary skirmishes as Spock does—wiped clean like they never existed.

Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott assures them when they arrive, “Aye, she’s good as new, sirs.”

Jim claps him on the back and grins, “Wouldn’t doubt it for a second, Scotty. Thanks.”

Inside the ship, Jim is still wearing that same smile on his face. They turn a corner and Jim puts his hand on the wall, feeling the hum of the Enterprise as if she’s there, alive, and breathing underneath his palms. He looks at Spock standing by his side, realizing Spock has been watching and says, “It’s good to be home.”

Considering this, Spock's mind supplies him with an old Earth adage that his mother told him once. She said, “Home is not a place, dear. It’s what you make it.”

At four years old, Spock held back his frown. He thought of their home in Shi’Khar, the walls that surrounded them, when he replied, “That is illogical, Mother, as we are standing in it.”

It was not until recently that Spock has fully understood its meaning. Not as a child, when his tormentors told him, “You are neither Vulcan or Human and therefore have no place in this universe,” or as an adult, when a troubled Romulan said, “I stand apart; as does your Vulcan crew member,” and Spock’s planet was destroyed.

But further than that.

Spock glances about the hallway where the panels are gleaming, white and pristine, and thinks of before—when an older brother turned his back on his younger one and walked and walked and walked, disappearing finally, against the corn stalks beside the road. He looked at Jim then and said, “I will not leave you.”

He thinks of even earlier, too, or perhaps, it is later—when the walls were crumbling all around them and there was fire and a pole in Jim’s chest; when Jim was bleeding all over the floor and on his hands and Spock’s hands. Spock, who stays there and bleeds with him; when Jim was dying, and again, Spock said, “I am not leaving you.”

They say that home is not a place, as his mother once said, but what you make it.

Jim closes a hand on Spock’s shoulder and lets it linger for a moment before falling away. On their way to the bridge, they walk shoulder to shoulder, so close together, they could be touching. It is warm.

“It’s good to be home,” Jim said.

Spock does not remind him, they never left.

++

Six months later, the universe takes a turn to remind them of where they are, despite the expanding one they have made for one another.

It happens three days after they have landed on a planet called Lumenestra, where for five of the planet’s six seasons, the sun is hidden and the surface is lit by artificial light dimmed low like a million tiny flames across the globe.

The Prime Minister, Liana, tells them that the soft light is better for their sensitive vision, that after so many thousands of years, their people have grown strong without the force of their long cloaking sun.

Spock regards the uniqueness of their evolution as, “Fascinating,” to which Jim smiles, radiant like the fires that flicker around them.

Jim’s voice is full of wonder when he tells Liana, “It’s beautiful here,” and thanks her for her hospitality before they leave to explore on their own.

They make it less than a quarter-mile, striding together in silence by the edges of F’wula, the Lake of Dreams, when suddenly Jim stops. Half covered by shadows, Spock watches as Jim hunches his shoulders and rubs at his chest. The heel of Jim’s hand scrubs above his heart, passing over his right lung, and scrunches his features in confusion.

Spock can feel Jim’s distress, nearly mirroring Jim’s expression as he tilts his face, “Jim, what is wrong?”

Jim straightens, breathing deep through his teeth. He laughs, something sharp and almost wicked that cuts straight through Spock’s chest, “I’m dying.”

++

And then Kirk is grunting and arching his back, hissing through bloodied teeth. Spock looks from Kirk’s face to the two-inch-thick pole that has nailed the Captain through his breast, piercing his left lung and pinning him to the floor. Inadvertently, Spock’s fingers tighten their grip on Jim’s thighs. “Captain, we must—.”

“No. Not we,” Kirk coughs, his throat bobbing nearly into his chin, “You. You gotta go. And it’s…” He trails off.

++

“I am not leaving, Jim.”

++

“I am aware,” Spock says curtly, meeting those edges with a sword of his own.

“We can’t,” Jim licks his lips, looking toward the night sky. The stars blink back and flicker like a reflection of the candles on the planet’s surface, “—do this forever. No matter how badly we want to, Spock. What we’re doing here, we can’t—, it’s not—.” Jim blinks at him furiously.

“It is everything, Jim.”

“But it’s not even real.” Jim spits, lashing out into the air with a slice of his hands.

Spock stares at him, sensing Jim’s anger as it rides in on a tide. In the distance, the wind picks up and at the edges of the world, it grows ever darker, “How so?” he asks, challenging Jim when he steps forward, feeling every ounce of rock beneath his feet.

It does not matter the specifics or how it works or how their minds should function given such an infinite space. Between them, what is theirs is a complex one; a complicated landscape of blues and whites, and golds and reds. They are always giving and taking here, feeding off of one another and ever-expanding, wherein another place outside of here, they were told to starve.

“These events we have shared, whether they are memories or ones we have created together, they are ours to live for as long as we are able,” for minutes or seconds, he does not say, “How, is irrelevant when otherwise we would have nothing,” when he would have nothing when what they have are years inside a link they have sewn on purpose or by accident, he does not say either. He does not care, “Do these experiences mean so little to you?”

“No. That’s not what I meant.” Jim states pointedly, then crosses his arms. He shifts from foot to foot, a telling sign that Jim is nervous or afraid. But Spock does not require its visual to know what steals the light from this place.

Spock takes another step. He leaves his hands at his sides despite the urge to touch, to soothe, creeping into the tips of his fingers. He leans in close enough to feel Jim’s breath against his face. It is warm, “Then what, Jim?”

Jim huffs, the scent of Jim’s morning coffee mingling between the slim gap of their mouths, “It’s just—,” he drops his hands, glancing away into the darkness. Spock watches the tiny flames of Lumenestra dance across Jim’s handsome face as Jim adds softly, “It’s not fair.”

“It is not.” He says simply, “However…”

Jim turns back, looking at him, searching through Spock’s very katra as if he is willing Spock to do or say something before something cracks and never comes through—the moment, seemingly infinite—before Jim can ask Spock, “What?” and keep his voice from trembling into the air.

“These things…” Spock reaches out then, grabbing Jim’s hand when need becomes a compulsion he can no longer withstand. Inside the gilded cage of where they are staring at one another, Spock interlaces their fingers and does not let go, uncertain he ever could, “What I feel,” he says, hearing Jim release a breath, “They are real to me. Are they not for you?”

Around them, the lights soar and grow bigger, dancing inside the deep, dark brown of Spock’s eyes as Jim’s glitter with this eviscerating, nameless thing living between them. Jim squeezes Spock’s hand, “No. I mean. Yes. Yes, of course it is. Spock, I—.”

“Then that is all that matters.”

Jim nods, tugging at Spock’s hand until they are standing flush. Slowly, in the distance, the sun which stays hidden for five of the six seasons on this planet cloaked in darkness and a million, tiny flames breaks the horizon. Jim presses his forehead to Spock’s, apologetic, in the way that he exhales against Spock’s lips, “Okay.” Jim swallows, “Okay. Stay with me.”

“Of course, Jim.”

++

On shore leave, weeks later, on the lush planet of Luxan VI, Jim fucks Spock like he once fucked Spock’s mouth on the sofa in his quarters.

In the darkness, Jim joined them, moving slowly and torturously, before he leaned down and asked in Spock’s ear, “Have you ever done this before?” if only to hear Spock say it.

With his hands fisted in the sheets, Spock turned his face and said, “Only with you.”

The admission makes Jim groan into Spock’s shoulder blades, Jim’s hands, desperate and possessive and scrambling over Spock’s arms and his sides and his waist. Jim scores green lines into his skin and licks behind his ear, telling him, “You feel so good—,” as Jim jerks his hips and thrusts into Spock’s body, pushing him down into the bed.

Full minutes pass where Jim is rocking them together, telling him that he is needed, that he wanted and loved. He lets Jim’s words curl into his chest, feeling them shudder down his spine as he gasps and grits his teeth into the mattress.

There’s no lie in it. No tremor of doubt in what Jim tells him; there can be no secrets here. But Spock finds himself reaching behind him to cradle the back of Jim’s head to revel in it —how full it is—anyway, holding onto the sounds of Jim’s breathing as he pushes back those same sentiments through the edges of his fingertips.

“Yes—,” Spock hisses and Jim rolls against him, presses his lips into the hollow behind an ear. Jim kisses the smooth space of skin there, whispers, “Let go,” before he drags his mouth along the curved shell.

Spock pants, dispelling the spots in front of his eyes. He can feel the brute strength of Jim’s desire bleeding over from Jim's skin, hungry and electric, as firm hands grip at his hips, then drives in harder, faster, and deeper. He lets himself sink into the sensation, passive to Jim’s intensity until Jim stutters and gasps.

“Spock,” Jim says, falling apart.

Heat fills Spock’s body, spilling like sunlight into every dark corner of his mind. Jim presses himself on top of him, kissing him on his shoulder. The weight on his back shifts and the pressure on his hips turns to one of encouragement when Jim says, “C’mere,” and slips away.

Carefully, Spock turns around, folding Jim’s legs against either side of his chest. Jim’s eyes are heavy, like two thin strips of cobalt somehow full with adoration, too, when Spock finds them staring up at him.

They groan together when Spock pushes inside and breathes, “Jim,” against Jim’s lips. He fucks Jim slower than Jim did in reverse, oversensitized, their bodies still slick from sweat and a greedy sort of exploration when all this began.

Between Jim’s knees, Jim urges Spock on, tracing his fingers over Spock’s face and the seam of Spock’s mouth with teasing care. Spock flicks his tongue in response, tasting the silver tang of lubricant and the salt of Jim’s skin.

Jim crawls those same fingers down Spock’s neck, soughing, “Mine,” against his mouth, then kneading and threading through the fine, dark hair on his chest. It doesn’t take long for Spock to follow Jim over the edge, moving then stilling, connected, until they’re both lying in pieces, intertwined with one another, then side by side in the mess of Jim’s sheets.

Boneless, a strong arm pulls him into the warmth of Jim’s chest and for a moment Spock considers that perhaps in another time, another way, he might have asked Jim to meld with him. But somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he tells himself this is enough. That Jim is there, here, everywhere, and the bond he had not anticipated to form, even at the end of all things, hums with delight.

Spock turns to Jim and assures him quietly, “Yours,” and kisses him in the darkness.

++

With two fingers at the lip of the curtain, Jim is staring through the crack in the cloth, a single strip of light illuminating his face.

Outside, there are over two dozen rows of white seats, neatly adorned in green vines and white flowers. It smells of dry earth and the heat, honeysuckle, and a trace amount of sun-scorched oregano and the whole thing is entirely saccharine. Spock is standing behind him and to the left, watching as Jim steps away to let the curtain fall back, concealing them safely behind it.

Jim turns and adjusts the collar of his dress grays, “It’s getting pretty full out there, Spock.”

Spock barely moves when he replies, “As befitting for a union such as theirs. I understand the ceremony should be beginning shortly.”

“Yeah,” Jim pats down the front of his chest then decides the collar of Spock’s uniform also requires adjustment. Spock gives him a look to express as much but unsurprisingly, Jim ignores it, declaring both his excitement and disbelief all at once instead, “Can you believe it? I mean Scotty and Uhura.” Jim’s thumb brushes beneath the jut of Spock’s chin once, then smoothes his palms down Spock’s chest, “It’s not weird for you though, is it? Watching your ex get married?”

Spock regards Jim carefully, pondering this line of questioning as he does, “Nyota and I parted amicably many years ago, Jim.” He says, aware of the imprecision in his response, “Her friendship is of great importance to me; I am, as you say, happy for her.”

“Really?” Jim squints, teasing.

“Yes. She was quite—,” Spock pauses, thinking of the correct phrasing, “Taken, with Mister Scott after the incident on Alveria Two. She had expressed her desire to me in private, approximately fifteen point two days prior to the conclusion of our first five-year mission before deciding to pursue him.”

“Wow.” Jim drags the vowels of the term with what is surely, exaggerated surprise. His amusement is clear on his face, “You know, I gotta give it to you for the whole staying-friends-with-your-ex thing. That never worked out for me. Like ever. Except I don’t know, maybe Carol—.”

Spock’s eyes narrow.

“Okay, never mind that. Tell me what else you guys talk about then, huh? Languages, right? Your favorite holovids, potential love interests, and all that, eyeshadow—how close am I?”

On the other side of the tent, there is commotion, the sounds of people gathering, and a nervous groom awaiting his bride. They will need to vacate as to not make Jim late for the start. Spock intends to retrieve a front-row seat as the Captain officiates the matrimony of two of their closest friends.

“We discuss many things, Jim.” The corners of Spock’s lips lift slightly and with that, he turns to leave.

“Right, I get that but like what exactly? I need specifics.” Jim starts to follow then promptly aborts his movements, his face contorting somewhere between arrogance and horror as a thought seems to arrive in his mind, “Wait, did you guys ever talk about me?”

Spock says nothing, reaching for the cloth to allow them outside.

“Oh, come on,” Jim urges, inflection bordering on concern or desperation. Spock believes it is both, “Spock. Seriously, did you guys talk about me? You did, didn’t you?” Jim rounds on Spock at the opening in the tent, whispering, “You tell her about, the uh, that time you, er, we had? Like that kinda stuff? Don’t get me wrong, that was a hell of a three days on lockdown together, but that’s a little bit personal for you—us, don’t you think?”

Spock raises a brow, unimpressed. He walks out and the cloth barrier closes in Jim’s face. Immediately, Jim’s hands cleave through the seam, flinging the material out of his way.

“Spock.” Jim protests but never finishes. Spock does not give Jim the chance.

Outside, every seat is filled but the one Spock has yet to occupy. At the altar, Montgomery Scott is waiting, palms sweaty, his skin flushed red. As Spock takes his chair, Jim scatters to the front of the aisle, huffed and breathless while he steals a glance at Spock. After a moment, music plays. It is a quiet melody that Spock recognizes the couple having danced to once, on the ship, after the incident on Alveria Two.

The crowd stands as Nyota enters and Spock meets Jim’s gaze briefly before turning around, blue eyes bright, with this nameless thing living between them. Admiration and pride. Devotion and something more than that.

It has no names. It is all the names.

It is love.

++

Jim is in his mid-fifties when he refuses a position as Rear Admiral to tour the Enterprise a third time.

By now, Spock has noticed the onset of graying hair amidst the blonde strands at the back and sides of Jim’s head. It will take much longer for Spock himself to attain the same features, still young, for a Vulcan his age.

Before the start of their shift, when they are still in bed and Spock has just stirred from a rare night of sleep, Jim asks him in the darkness, “It doesn’t bother you right?”

Spock’s reply is immediate even if he has yet to fully rouse from his dreams, “It does not.”

Without opening his eyes, Spock reaches for the arm around his waist. He strokes the light hairs on Jim’s forearm.

“I’d say you were lying, except,” Jim presses his lips to Spock’s bare shoulder, “I know you’re not.”

“It is only natural, Jim,” Spock says, shifting. He turns around inside the cage of Jim’s arm and faces him. Even at five percent, Spock can see the light like silver lines in Jim’s hair, “And it is not unappealing.”

Jim kisses him, sweeping over naked skin to take Spock’s face into his hands and encourage Spock on top of him.

Wordlessly, Spock tells Jim that Alpha shift will begin in forty-three minutes, that they must get up and see past their morning ablutions quickly or they will be late for an important call they have arranged with Starfleet.

But neither of them move to save for where Jim moves beneath Spock. Not for a while, not until they have to.

++

On the bridge, the view screen displays their communique with the newly promoted Captain of the USS Excelsior, whose familiar face fills them with memories of a time not too long ago.

Jim looks proud when he stands on the bridge, then takes the command chair, molding his body inside of its white, pristine lines. Jim sits in the seat like he is a part of it, like he was made for it. He belongs there, Spock thinks, glancing at the grin on Jim’s face, bright and warm and radiant like the sun.

“Captain Sulu,” Jim greets, voice crisp and clear as he speaks with unbridled esteem for the officer on the other end of the call.

“Captain Kirk,” Sulu replies. He nods to Spock, standing by the center seat, “Commander.”

“It is pleasing to see you again, Captain,” Spock says then spreads his feet. He waits at parade rest at Jim’s side, where he belongs, just as Jim does on the bridge of the Enterprise.

“Gotta say, I’ve been looking forward to this little rendezvous. It’s been a long time.”

“As have we.” Jim crosses his legs and leans back in the chair, stretching his elbows before smiling at the screen, “So, tell me, what can we do for an old friend?”

“For me?” Sulu smiles back and there are creases at the corners of his eyes, “Oh no, Kirk. This is about what I can do for you. Retirement’s a big deal, I would think, and having been assigned to lead you on your final voyage, I should say,” he pauses, smiling again with all of his teeth, “That it is my honor, sir.”

Spock feels the warmth spreading through Jim’s face without needing to see it, his own lips upturned at their corners when he nods to both Captains and retreats to his station. He hears Jim give Sulu his thanks, turning his command on Helmsman Luis to say, “Lay in a course for New Vulcan, Lieutenant,” as the view screen goes black and the ship hums in its preparation for warp.

The familiar buzz of the ship’s engines ingrains itself into his memories, masking Spock’s quiet anticipation, his anxiousness in the next few years they might have left. Outside of the silver walls of the Enterprise, space and the stars begin to blur, eventually morphing into red rock and more green than Vulcan-That-Was had ever been.

They step foot there first, exploring their second home—a modest place where Jim sits by the fire, reading glasses slipped down his nose as Spock meditates on the floor—, before years later, they would move on to their third and final home.

On New Vulcan, the atmosphere is not as hot as Spock remembers of his former homeworld, nor as dry or as sandy or as red. In the backyard, Spock has attempted to grow a garden, a squared-off area filled with favinits and hla’meth, various cacti and roses, his mother’s favorite. He realizes he should have paid more attention as a child, thinking to all those years ago, when he walked through the backdoors of his home in Shi’Khar and to the edges of his mother’s garden and reminded her, “This is illogical.”

“What is, Spock?” She would ask, gentle and patient, as if Spock had never asked her this question before.

“Why do you insist on these species of plants? As they have originated from Earth, cultivation will be difficult if not unsuccessful.” He replied, staring out into the small section of green grass, so stark against the crimson dust of the desert coating the edges of her flowers’ petals. Spock’s mouth would frown at them.

There were many things she had tried to flourish within its six by six-foot square—flora from Earth that, by any other hand, would perhaps struggle to grow beneath the heat of Vulcan’s unforgiving climate. The flowers did not belong here, he had decided at some point, all of them,
too tenuous to maintain.

But she would only smile at him, the look on her face, soft and sad. His mother would ask him in return, “Why don’t you come see?” encouraging him to look upon the things she worked so hard to blossom in that tiny, green space and every time, he would, hoping to understand.

Upon closer inspection, Spock had found sunflowers and orchids and all colors of roses. Though, they were not alone along the sand. Between each plant would be a Vulcan one, favinits and kal’ta and k’rhtha, too. He looked at her, the frown more evident on his face, when he said, “I do not understand.”

Her smile grew larger, less sad, before explaining, “Because they remind me of Earth, dear. And Vulcan. And you. I want you to see that while it might be hard, these things can live together.”

It was a lesson that, for many years, Spock did not understand. Though, now, he believes he is starting to.

Spock does the same when they move to Earth, where they spend years in Iowa and the land is lush and green for miles and the air is cooler and much easier for Spock’s little garden to grow.

It is late in the afternoon when he senses Jim from somewhere inside the house. Spock gets up from tending to the leaves spilling over the wire fencing, his movements calmer, his body older, by the time he climbs the stairs to their bedroom and meets Jim lying in bed.

“Hey there, beautiful,” Jim says. He sounds tired.

“Adun, you should be resting.”

Jim waves him off, “Nah, there’ll be plenty of—,” he wheezes, chest shuddering under the covers, “That later, I think.”

Spock sits down on the edge of the mattress, and it dips with his weight. He rests his hand on Jim’s chest, moving his fingers and the side of his thumb over the spot that has brought them here in the first place.

“I don’t regret this, you know,” Jim says. His eyes are clouded, drifting, fading away.

Spock doesn’t answer. Instead, he finds Jim’s hand beneath the blanket and breathes when their fingers lace but Jim doesn’t squeeze back. He’s unable to, so Spock does it for him. Under their hands, Jim’s heart rate is dropping, each beat softer, quieter, as he closes blue eyes that remind Spock of the ocean, of waves curling and crashing before the shore, and for a single, infinite moment, he imagines Jim is simply going to sleep.

“Thank you.” Jim murmurs and Spock, for all his renewed pain—for all these terrible, twisting things that clutch around his ribs and squeezes where Jim could not, for all these things that burn behind his throat and sting him, leaving him raw and naked and terrified in the darkness behind his eyelids—does not shatter when he reassures his Captain he would do anything, when Jim sighs under their hands and never wakens, or even when he feels the moment it happens and says, “Of course, T’hy’la.”

++

A lifetime has passed before Spock is looking at him again.

And as Spock retracts from that place, easing carefully back to where they came from, where the building was collapsing all around them and there’s a pole in Jim’s chest and blood on his hands, the lines of old age on Jim’s face are smoothing, disappearing, until Jim’s returned to what he was all those years ago.

It is a painful reminder of the friendship that would have been robbed of them. A relationship that they would have never known or had, had Spock not done what he did. But it’s in this that Spock considers he has still let Jim down. Not so much in his choosing to form the illusion with the touch of his fingertips, but rather his failure in maintaining the lie that told them everything.

With a long exhale, Spock’s hand drops to his lap, curling his fingers loosely on top of his thighs. He should not regret this decision, the decision to stay, or forge their thoughts together.

He should feel gratitude as Jim did. He should feel relieved, he insists, because now, he knows the outcome of the statement Jim made earlier before they left to the surface of Ceta III and Jim stopped him at the door to say, “Just so we’re clear; we’re talking about this when we get back.” And Spock responded, “About what precisely, Captain?”

“This,” Kirk gestured between their chests, then clarified breathlessly, “Us.”

“Us.”

“Yeah, Spock. Us.”

Except right now, when Spock leans back on his heels, with heat from the fire and melted metal coating his uniform in ash and unshed tears, the Captain’s eyes are staring into Spock or into nothing, his eyes, glossy and blank with lines of dried salt streaking down his empty face.

Right now, Jim, his friend, his ni’ kine, his shield brother, and his lover, too, is dead.

And later, after Spock has returned to the ship and they have collected Jim’s body, after he informs the senior staff and then the crew, after he writes a report to Starfleet and attempts to call Jim’s mother, Winona, somewhere in deep space—that Spock will reflect that he will live and die twice without Jim at his side and himself at Jim’s.

And later, when Spock is sitting on the floor of his quarters, staring at the wall, he tries to meditate, tries to unclench his hands on his knees where they have turned into fists and tries to simply review the day ahead of him as he always does, to clear his mind, and forget his entire life and Jim’s life—

Jim, who is dead, who no longer smiles bright and radiant like the sun. Jim, who died, and took all things soft and beautiful with him when he left Spock all alone.

Spock moves his hands so that they rest not on his legs but on the floor of the ship, his fingers twitching against the Enterprise. He cannot do this, he thinks, he knows, he chastises himself, for believing for even a single moment he would be fine,

fine, which has variable definitions,

which is unacceptable,

which is not fair.

“It is not fair,” He says or whispers or screams or cries or nothing at all. Dimly, he realizes he has gone from cross-legged to kneeling, bending over, and curling forward down on the floor. He squeezes his eyes shut, breathing labored, his chest tight, and thinks again how stupidly, horribly illogical of him, to mourn something he simultaneously had too much and not enough of.

He hates Jim, who was never his. He hates himself, who was never Jim’s. They were neither of those things, and yet—for minutes or seconds, they were everything to each other. He is—

Alone, Spock breathes shallowly in the darkness of his room, staring again, at the wall across from his bed before rising to his feet to seek people or distractions. He does not hate Jim, he knows, acknowledges to himself. Though, he feels acutely that what he had once, inside a dream they had created for one another, he will never have again.

The rest of his life will not be as his counterpart told him it would, but it may be tolerable—not acceptable, he reminds, not fair, but only just so—and perhaps, he considers as he straightens his tunic and walks out the door, that it is all he is going to get.

++

But in a universe where Spock defies his captain and fate, where he does not stay and simultaneously, does not leave, things happen differently.

Instead, it’s Jim, throwing his hand out and yelling, “Spock. Stop,” as he clasps clumsily at Spock’s forearm. There’s blood on Jim’s fingers and it makes them slippery against the skin of Spock’s hand when they weave into Spock’s. Jim interlocks them together, gripping tightly despite how difficult Spock imagines it is for Jim to even breathe, “Just. Stop. I’m not making it out of here. We both know that.”

Spock’s eyes narrow, staring hard into Jim’s eyes while Jim begs and pleads and orders Spock to listen with his. Sharply, he glances away, following the line of the pole from where it has not quite snapped from the wall to where it punctures Jim through his back. He assesses the amount of force he must use to separate it from the frayed metal tubing he can see toward the ceiling. It is part of an archaic ventilation system, he realizes, identifying several weak points in the right angle ten inches up from Jim’s back.

“Spock, what’re you doing? I said, go!” Jim barks, though it costs him. He coughs viciously and visibly trembles in pain.

“No.” Spock bites back, defies, and gets to his feet.

++

Later, after seventeen hours in surgery and Doctor McCoy has yelled and ordered and threatened Spock to, “Get the hell out my med bay, Spock, or I swear t’God after I save Jim’s ass and then kill him myself, m’comin’ after you next!” and Spock, begrudgingly returns to the bridge, checking in at precise intervals of every two hours, the Doctor finally allows Spock into his office and says, “Have a seat.”

Spock does, “Report, Doctor.”

“Oh, I’m fine, Spock. It was just seventeen plus hours of picking tiny ass slivers of metal out of the Captain’s chest and back, emergency thoracotomy then extensive reconstructive surgery, and I don’t know, nearly losing Jim twice on the table, wasn’t too bad, I guess. Thanks for asking.”

Spock says nothing for several moments as McCoy slumps into the seat on the other side of his desk. The Doctor reaches into a lower drawer without preamble, pulling free a large bottle of amber liquid and surprisingly, two glasses before setting them on the desk. He’s pouring into the second, Spock’s, when he says, “He’s asleep. Been out for a little while now. But he’s alive.”

Spock nods, eyes hard on the liquor he has no intention of drinking.

“That was a hell of a thing you did down there, Spock.” McCoy plants his elbows on his desk. He stares into his cup, then takes a long drink, swallowing around the scent of bourbon that fills the air, “Could’ve accelerated the blood loss or killed him in seconds when you pulled that damn thing out of him.” He looks up.

“I do not regret my choices,” Spock says, meeting McCoy’s gaze directly.

The Doctor pauses in his next sip, lowering the glass. He looks at Spock as if studying him as if he is trying to understand something Spock did or did not say. Twisting his forearm, he even leans forward, fingers stroking the wedges in the crystal at its base. He seems to have found whatever he was looking for when he leans back and says, “Good,” then finishes what is left in the glass.

Something loosens in the tightly coiled muscles of Spock’s neck and arms and back, not quite slouching when he exhales and his hands imbricate in his lap.

“Well, go on then,” McCoy says suddenly, gesturing toward the door.

Almost immediately, Spock makes a move to stand. Half-way through, however, he aborts his actions, covering his impatience, his gracelessness, by angling forward at the edge of his seat. For a moment, he is frozen, staring at McCoy sincerely as he says, “Thank you, Doctor,” for many reasons, he is certain—Leonard understands.

Spock only just hears the soft, “Yeah, yeah,” as he is leaving the office and, hardly waiting for the door to swish shut, beelines toward the partition separating the Captain from everyone else in the medical bay. On the other side of the sound-proof barrier, the lights are dim, filled with the rhythmic sound of beeping machines and the gentle cadence of Jim’s breathing in the dark.

He walks around the left to the edge of the bed, palm flat on the surface of the Captain’s linen blanket by an unmoving hand. Spock turns his eyes to look at it, to memorize its shape, the texture of calluses and fine, blonde hairs on Jim’s skin when he hears, quietly, “Hey.”

“Captain,” Spock says, alert and upright and—

“Stop,” Jim’s voice sounds hoarse, still too quiet, save for keen Vulcan hearing, “Stop that.” Jim takes a deep breath, chest rising as he arches from the bed, rousing from sleep, “Call me Jim, remember? You said you would.”

“Yes, Jim,” Spock says, unwilling to debate an agreement he may or may not have made.

“You defied my orders. Down there.”

“Yes,” Spock leans down a fraction, though there is no malice or seriousness when his eyebrow rises and he says, “And as I recall, you are fully free to employ whatever punishment you see fit for my insubordination.”

Jim makes a noise like laughter behind sealed lips. The corners rise lazily into a smile, still bright, Spock thinks, still radiant, like that of the sun, “I can think of a few things. But uh, they are definitely not what you’re thinking.”

Spock tilts his head, his eyes narrowed, knowing and slippery, as Jim has often done to him, “I would not be so certain.”

“Oh my god, I fucking knew it.” Jim laughs, louder, more real, this time. Alive, “You’re soft on me.”

He straightens, “I am no such thing.”

“Sure, Spock.” Jim slides his eyes away, flinting them, and suddenly, his hand is on Spock’s, “But just so you know, I didn’t forget. Even when you were pissing me off, not doing a damn thing I said, the opposite actually, and saved my life.” Jim squeezes his hand, opening his eyes a little bit wider to meet Spock’s gaze, “When I get outta here, we’re talking about this.”

“This, Jim?” Spock already knows the answer and yet he asks it anyway. If only to hear Jim say it.

“This,” Jim juts his chin at Spock, gesturing between them, then clarifies, “Us.”

“Us.” Spock parrots.

“Yeah, Spock. Us.”

And Spock agrees, “Of course, Jim,” because now, he can find no reason not to.