Chapter Text
Jim was in quite the predicament.
The Enterprise had been assigned to visit a class-M planet, inhabited by an intelligent race that was not yet a member of the federation, only to find through a brief video message sent to the viewing screen that it had become tradition for the leading faction of the natives, a race of curiously gelatinous-looking humanoids, to threaten any visitors upon their arrival with a full-force attack.
“They are refusing additional visual contact, Captain,” Lt. Uhura reports, listening intently to alien dictator through her earpiece and quickly using a combination of the universal translator and her own linguistic skills to make sense of the imperfect translation. As she listens, her eyes widen, her expression dropping. Tension rises on the bridge.
“They have requested that the Captain - and only the Captain - beam down to sign a peace treaty immediately,” She pauses. “Or else they will attack in five minutes.”
To the surprise of the crew, Jim cracks a smile.
“A peace treaty? We hardly know them, who knows what such a document could entail?” He chuckles. “Surely, with such aggressive tendencies still ingrained in their behavior, they can’t possibly have weapons capable of getting through our shields - shields up, by the way, Mr. Sulu.”
The helmsman follows the order, visibly relaxing at Kirk’s nonchalant statement.
“Shields up, sir,” he smiles.
Spock, leaning over his instruments, is already conducting a scan of the planet surface for weapons. He represses an intake of breath at his findings.
“On the contrary, Captain, while they are behind in behavioral evolution, their missiles appear to be quite advanced - I assume the nations of the planet have been involved in somewhat of a nuclear arms race, not unlike that of Earth in the late twentieth century. They could, as you would say, blow us out of the sky.”
Jim thinks for a moment. They couldn’t simply retreat - the federation wouldn’t give up on acquiring a new member, and such a response would likely lead the natives to attack a future visiting starship without warning, before it was even shielded. They couldn’t negotiate from the bridge - obviously these people were very impatient, and they were already running out of time. But beaming down could be a trap, and even if it wasn’t, he wouldn’t sign a treaty, especially one that only represented a portion of the race, without extensive formal discussion - that would have to involve the federation, it would take weeks - and again, these people were not patient.
“Well then,” he decides, taking what he deems the best risk, “I’ll just... have to beam down and talk them out of all this nonsense.”
Spock’s heart skips a beat in his side. He thinks to himself.
T’hy’la, please, I cannot bear the possibility of you being hurt.
He knows as well, of course, that this could be a trap, that the dangers facing Jim were endless. As many times as the Captain had gotten his way in these situations, ever the diplomat, Spock could never stand him putting himself in harm’s way, it filled him worry that he couldn’t ignore even with his shields. Worry that stemmed from the weight of the deepest emotion he’d ever felt, tucked away in his conscious.
He raises an eyebrow, partially at Jim’s constant recklessness, partially at his own simmering feelings, and locks eyes with the Captain’s confident, hazel gaze.
“Refusing to sign the peace treaty will only beleaguer the natives unnecessarily-” he begins, expertly preventing his voice from trembling as his mind continues to race with concern.
“Mr. Spock,” Jim interrupts, “Chances are it’ll be alright, I’ve done this a millio-”
“The odds of the natives’ request hiding a trap or other malicious intent are approximately seventeen-thousand-five-hun-”
“Spock,” Jim exclaims, firmly, but with his usual friendly tone, “This is the only reasonable option. Lieutenant, inform Scotty to prepare the transporter, Mr. Spock, you’ve got the conn-”
Spock feels an, albeit illogical, flare of anger with Jim’s unchanging sense of disregard for his own safety in favor of diplomacy. Images of all the times Jim has been injured from such a risk, sometimes mortally, flash through his mind, making his heart thud yet again. If he gave into his human side, his eyes might start to water. He protests again, quickly - a bit too quickly - voice tinged with annoyance.
“Please, consider another course of action, ashayam,”
It slips out before he can stop it - immediately he’s mentally cursing himself to no end, the temperature on the bridge seems to rise a dozen degrees, Sulu and Chekov make a silent agreement to gossip about this later, Nyota gasps, clasping her hand to her mouth - covering a smile, unbeknownst to the crew - and Jim, Jim is obviously taken aback, his eyes widen and his head sharply turning just a few degrees to the left - 19.36, Spock calculates, mind still rampant with mortification.
“What...did you just call me?” he asks, rough, but perhaps hurt, seeming to have suddenly disregarded the beam down situation.
Spock can see Nyota shift in her seat, clamping her hand tighter over her mouth as she tries not to laugh, and he snaps his head toward her, begging her non-verbally not to say a word about this, not now, not ever.
With Jim’s confused stare still on Spock, she drops her hand, allowing Spock to see a second of her smile before straightening her face and clearing her throat. His secret is safe with her - for now.
“Captain, two minutes,” she warns.
Despite time being of the essence, Jim takes an additional moment to take Spock in again. They’re painfully face-to-face now, awkward and unsure.
“Right, Lieutenant,” he nods, turning to the turbolift. Just before leaving the bridge, he locks eyes with Spock one more time.
“Spock, the conn,” he says, softly this time.
And then, to Spock’s great confusion, Jim smiles.