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He managed three sighs—and half a dramatic huff—before Uhura gave up.
"Captain," she said pleasantly. The type of pleasant, Jim noted, that hinted strongly at imminent decapitation if he didn't immediately get on with explaining why, exactly, he was plaguing his incredibly talented and incredibly busy communications officer with incessant sighing.
Jim grinned. Uhura loved him, really. If she didn't, he'd already have been missing his head—or something else. They both knew she loved him, and he knew that she knew that she couldn't hide or deny it, and furthermore he knew that it annoyed her.
"Lieutenant Uhura," he said grandly. "Mind if I sit with you?"
She rolled her eyes. She did it expertly. "Go ahead."
See, if she really didn't love him, she would have ignored him. Jim was her friend. Maybe even a good friend.
He chewed triumphantly on a red cube. It had the consistency of watermelon and tasted strongly of chicken. It was Jim's favourite, even if it did make Spock grimace when he thought no one was watching him.
Speaking of…
"I need to talk to you about Spock," he announced.
Uhura gave him a look. It could have had any one of several meanings. Maybe, when don't you? Or, who doesn't? Or, what have you done now? Or, if she was feeling particularly insightful, what are you planning now?
"I need you to convince him to come to the club night on Saturday."
Taking a long, long sip of coffee, Uhura looked him up and down, slow enough that he felt a blush starting to creep over the back of his neck, hot and prickly. Communications officers had a way of looking at you like they could read everything you wanted to say and everything you really didn't, and Uhura was no exception. It made her perceptive, it made her brilliant, and sometimes it made Jim uncomfortable. There was no way not to be uncomfortable, Jim thought, when one of your best officers was fully and totally aware of your big, fat crush on their ex-boyfriend.
Double that when you were about to ask for their help seducing their ex-boyfriend.
Triple that when you'd already had their help several times, and so far managed to fail completely at managing any seduction at all.
"Why?"
"Because."
She was unimpressed. "Why?"
Damn you. "So I have at least sixty percent chance of buying him a drink and trying to flirt with him."
She snorted, entirely unsurprised. Like Jim said; she was too damn perceptive. "Thirty at best. Spock never drinks at the club."
"I—What?"
"You get thirty because he indulges you more than anyone else."
"No, I mean—" She was smirking. She definitely knew what Jim meant. He glared at her and barrelled on regardless. "You've seen him in a club before?"
"More than once. He likes them."
And again: "What?"
"Lucky for you, he was already planning on going."
Jim chewed another red cube. What a weird fucking morning.
***
The music was already pulsing when Jim arrived in the rec room, and it had been for hours. The senior officers had made a solemn pact to arrive late, to give the crew ample time to drink themselves into cheerful oblivion without the looming presence of their superiors, and Jim had privately decided to be latest of all. Everyone who wanted to avoid him had had plenty of time to leave by now, and he'd had equal time to psych himself up for the rest of the night. It was the best he could do.
He took a seat at the bar, and something rainbow-y that a suspiciously joyous ensign slid his way. It was hard to see anyone's face in the low light, but now and then he'd catch a flash of face he recognised stained by a coloured spotlight. There was Uhura, tinged purple, dancing with Scotty of all people—which was apparently a surprise to Jim and no one else. The way Scotty's hands stroked her hips as they swayed seemed familiar in its intimacy.
Chekov was only a few feet away, grass green, flirting happily with anyone willing to flirt back. Jim wondered idly whether he was serious about any of them and promptly decided it was none of his business; they day he got himself involved in the love lives of his ensigns would be the day he lost his mind for good. Still, he looked around for Sulu, as if he might be a mitigating influence, eventually finding him with a drink in one hand and a PADD in the other. Ben, Jim realised when he saw the lieutenant's smile, and was pleased. Sulu never did have enough time with his husband; it was good to see them get a date night of sorts.
Bones was… Ah. Bones was yellow, sat at a table with a mint julep, Yeoman Barrows, and a horrifically soppy expression. He caught Jim's eye. Jim lifted his drink in a toast.
"Good for you," he mouthed, as obviously as he could. Barrows was far too intelligent for Bones, and yet—
"Don't you fucking dare," Bones mouthed back, and Jim considered himself thoroughly told. He would not be visiting Bones' table any time soon.
That left only Spock, and Jim couldn't see him anywhere. It probably didn't help that he didn't know what he was looking for. He'd known that Uhura was planning on having her hair loose so it waved when she danced, and he'd known that she was planning to slip into the tightest skirt and shiniest top she'd saved from her Academy days, and that made her easier to spot. Chekov, meanwhile, had dug out a pair of truly awful leather pants that anyone could spot from a mile off, clearly going for the (misguided, perhaps) vintage look. Jim was in good jeans and a shirt with a few buttons undone, which maybe wasn't exciting but at least wasn't a uniform.
The point was, he'd known ahead of time what most of his friends were wearing, and it was easier to spot a person in a crowd when you knew what to look for. He didn't have a goddamn clue what Spock might consider appropriate for a club.
And that was assuming, of course, that Spock was definitely here. Uhura didn't usually decide to mess with Jim, but it wasn't outside of the realms of possibility, especially when he'd opened the initial conversation by irritating her on purpose. It was entirely plausible that Spock was comfortably tucked up in his own quarters, mediating or playing chess against the computer or doing whatever else he did when the loud, emotional Humans had a weekend night out.
Fuck. Fuck. He wasn't here.
"Damn it," he sighed, and swallowed the rest of his drink. Spock wasn't here. Two options remained: abandon all plans of seduction, or abandon the club and turn up at Spock's door for a quiet night in. He wasn't sure of either.
Sighing again, he stood. He could at least get a dance in while he decided.
The dance floor was a heaving throng, a breathing mass of bodies shifting and writhing and moving and spinning and dancing. Jim loved it. He loved it the same way he'd loved it in Riverside, loved how the beat shuddered it's way into his bones and it into his pulse, loved how it slunk into everyone, made everyone reckless, moving with abandon. They were here, and they were alive. Despite everything, despite every fucking thing, they were alive.
Jim took a breath and plunged in. At once he was engulfed by the crow—his crowd, his crew, his, his, his—and swallowed up in the dance. He clasped hands with someone whose face he couldn't see and span them around, let them spin him, and then he was off, deeper in. He could almost forget Spock like this, smiling broad and bright and waving through people until he was close enough to the speakers that Bones would shout at him about it, later.
In the middle of it all, the lights and the music and the press of bodies, it was hard to focus on anything. Still, he saw the crowd in the corner, huddled together and clearly enthralled, and he couldn't help but be curious.
He pushed his way through, close enough that he could see through the gaps between the bodies, and stopped dead.
Holy shit.
Spock?
Spock was in the centre of it. Spock. Spock, dancing in the centre of the crowd, looking entirely at ease, like he didn't every day of the week. He was dancing with any member of his department as they stepped up, scrupulously avoiding physical contact but clearly enjoying himself. He was beautiful, graceful, ethereal in black shirt and jeans, body swaying, lips quirking, eyes half-lidded. His second, C'Tira, stepped up to the plate, flicking her tail as she laughed, matching him move for move.
"Holy shit," Jim whispered.
He looked around until he caught Uhura's eyes. He hoped his bewilderment could be read from across the room; he hoped she understood what he was going through.
Even across the room, she understood, and Jim knew that she understood. Because she fucking winked.
"Holy shit," he said again, louder. Spock was still dancing, oblivious to the crisis he'd sparked in his captain. One of his ensigns was with him now, a shy young Tellarite who'd had Spock worrying about confidence and group dynamics and team building exercises for two whole weeks.
Clearly not a problem anymore. Spock had prettly clearly put her at ease.
Fuck, that's hot.
"Captain?"
He jolted, reverie broken, and turned to face—Lieutenant Noel. Ship psychiatrist. He clenched his fists behind his back and hoped she wouldn't notice he was half-hard thinking about how his half-Vulcan first officer had somehow learned people skills and was now, somehow, even more fucking competent than he had been at the start of the mission. "Lieutenant."
"Helen," she corrected.
"Helen," he agreed. "Did you…?" It seemed rude to finish, want something?
"No," she said. She looked him up and down. "But it looked like you might."
Fuck.
"You keep staring at people dancing. Do you want to dance with someone?"
"I—" Relief was overwhelming.
"If you do," she said, "you really should just ask."
"Right. Right."
Well, when someone was right, they were right.
Deftly ignoring what Helen had really been suggesting, Jim made his way to the circle. Spock spotted him first, freezing, and his smile grew for a split second before he suppressed it. "Jim."
"Spock," he said, and nodded at the science officers. "Can I cut in?"
Spock tilted his head and, as one, the officers dispersed. If Bones had seen, it would have added fuel to his theory that Spock was teaching them telepathy, but Jim wasn't really care about Bones at the moment. He was entirely consumed in looking at Spock and trying to ignore how C'Tira squeezed Spock's arm and mouthed "good luck" as she left.
"I can't believe I didn't know you could dance," he said. Not his smoothest line.
Spock raised an eyebrow. "You never asked."
"Ass," Jim laughed, and took a step closer. Closer than the officers had dared, but they hadn't been trying to hold a conversation as they moved. At least, that was Jim's excuse. "Why would I have asked?"
"I really could not say."
In Jim's defence—or not—he didn't start off by pushing it. When Spock started to dance, he simply tried to mirror him without looking too much like an idiot. He started off with nothing but a grin and insatiable joy that they were here and Spock was dancing. That was all it was to start.
But then… Well.
It wasn't anything, really. It was nothing at all to inch a little closer so that, every now and then, his hand brushed against the fabric of Spock's shirt. Or against his wrist. Or Spock's hand was stroke Jim's.
And then it wasn't much at all to let his fingertips graze Spock's palm, and to look up from under his lashes to see if Spock had gone green or not. He hadn't, but that didn't stop him pressing his fingers to Jim's.
And it wasn't much from there to end up practically chest-to-chest, dancing in a way that, in hindsight, Jim probably wouldn't want his crew to see, with his arms over Spock's shoulders and Spock's hands on Jim's waist, and his half-hard cock closer to his first officer than should ever have been permitted in public.
"Fuck," said Jim, suddenly realising what he was doing.
Spock looked unspeakably pleased. He slid his thigh between Jim's legs and it was like being struck by lightning.
"Fuck."
It felt almost natural, how Spock's grip tightened. Jim—made a sound that was not a squeak, or a sigh, and certainly not a yelp.
"It is gratifying to know Uhura's reports were accurate," Spock said.
Jim couldn't answer. He was trying not to grind his hips too noticeably as his blood throbbed.
"If you are amenable," he went on, "we could go to my quarters."
Jim was feeling very amenable.
Spock's quarters were almost entirely bare, but Jim wasn't in the mood to tease him about it. He'd get to that later—right now, Spock was walking him back until he it the wall, and Jim's attention was entirely taken up.
"Hey," he said stupidly.
Spock kissed him. Gentle, sweet, all-consuming; Jim sighed into it, found himself chasing it when Spock broke away.
"I had a plan," Jim heard himself say.
Spock tilted his head. "Did it involve this?"
"No, not yet."
"Then I believe my plan might be superior."
Well, Jim thought. When you're right, you're right.