Archive of Our Own

Observation #1: Captain Kirk’s close relationship with Doctor McCoy has not been diminished by the time he spent comatose.

1.39 weeks after awakening from his coma, the captain was released from the hospital, under the condition that he go through a psychological and physical evaluation to determine whether he was fit for duty. Additionally, a six-week period of shore leave had been forcibly imposed onto not only Captain Kirk, but the entire crew of the Enterprise while technicians completed repairs on the ship.

He was incredibly, to use the human term, ‘pissed off’ about it.

“Jim, goddamnit, you just spent two weeks complaining about being stuck in the hospital! Are you really going to complain about being let out?”

“1.39 weeks,” Spock said, and Dr. McCoy glared at him.

“I’m perfectly fine,” the captain insisted. “Giving me a psych eval is bullshit.”

Normally, Spock would agree. Kirk was one of the best captains under Starfleet’s command; he was loyal, charismatic, confident, and highly intelligent. His diplomacy skills were excellent. Although frequently reckless, his command performance had been more than adequate.

But then there was Khan to consider. Specifically, the lasting effects of a blood transfusion from a sociopathic superhuman to a high-ranking Starfleet official. Spock had been present for the past 1.39 weeks at Kirk’s side, since McCoy moved him from the operating table into a hospital bed, and had not observed any physical abnormalities. He did not believe that Kirk would become violent, but he could understand Starfleet’s concerns.

“It is logical that the admiralty would want to ensure your safety,” he attempted. “Until then, you might stay with a crewmate near headquarters. It is my understanding that you do not rent or own an apartment yourself.”

Kirk paused for a moment. “No. I think I’ll just stay with Bones.”

“Invite yourself, why don’t you,” the doctor grumbled, clearly pleased anyhow.

Spock tried to ignore the pang of disappointment that manifested at this. “That would be understandable, as you were housemates throughout your time as students.” Your familiarity with one another is enviable, he added mentally.

McCoy gave him an odd look, then turned back to Jim. “Just don’t expect any pampering. Joanna will probably be coming to stay at some point.”

“Aww, Jo?” Kirk’s face lit up. “Why wouldn’t I want to see my favorite niece?”

“You have to be a good influence,” Dr. McCoy instructed. “Exercise. Lots of sleep. Regular consumption of salad.”

“Bullshit. Like four-year-olds will eat salad if their elders do.”

“Like you know anything about child development.”

“I was a child once,” Captain Kirk sniped. “Do you think I ever even looked at a tomato?”

McCoy started to respond, but Kirk talked over him: “Never, unless it was in ketchup form—”

“Your cardiovascular health will not be thanking you for that—”

“What, like I’m going to make massive improvements to my body by eating vegetables? I sit in a fucking chair on the bridge half the time I’m awake!”

Despite the knowledge that Kirk and McCoy had simply forgotten about his presence, as they often did while in the company of one another, Spock felt quite out of place once the discussion about McCoy’s daughter began. He was unfamiliar with the concept of immediate family beyond his parents and Sybok; additionally, the reminder of parenthood indirectly led his thoughts to Amanda once more.

“If you require assistance in the future, please do not hesitate to contact me,” Spock said. “I will be at my apartment in San Francisco for the duration of our reprieve.”

Kirk and McCoy quieted. “Are you leaving already?” asked the former.

Spock inclined his head. “I will be assisting Starfleet in various projects over the next six weeks. Efficiency in collecting the materials required is—”

“Logical?” McCoy asked dryly.

“Cerebral,” Spock said. “‘Judicious’ or ‘sensible’ would also function.” He raised an eyebrow.

A snicker, then a soft smile from Kirk. “Understood. I’ll see you soon?” His voice upticked at the end, as though the six weeks to come would be an immeasurably long period of time and he was concerned whether or not Spock would return.

Of course, this was not a reasonable train of thought. Spock’s mind had been permanently made up from the moment he set his hand against Kirk’s through the glass onboard the Enterprise.

“Affirmative,” he said and left before he could do something contrary like remain at Kirk’s side until the moment he stepped over the threshold of McCoy’s home.

The following week passed in remarkable discomfort. For one thing, Spock had become accustomed to his crewmates; working without great noise and motion around him had proven difficult. He could not focus without some sort of background, and so he had taken to opening the windows of his apartment during the day so as to hear the busy streets while he scrolled on his padd. Unfortunately, this meant that the temperature of his home was far below comfortable for a Vulcan; he had taken to wearing multiple sweaters as a result.

While Spock was grateful for the opportunity to eat non-replicated food, he was quickly reminded of the tediousness of cooking. Additionally, it was even more difficult than it had been in the past to locate Vulcan ingredients on-planet. The ingredients to prepare lirs were becoming nigh-impossible to find at the interstellar market.

Nyota had contacted him multiple times, although she had not visited him. She intended to speak at a xenolinguistics convention being held in New York and had purchased two tickets; he had informed her of his obligations and stayed behind. She seemed upset by this, but Spock could not understand why: he was an active member of Starfleet, as was she; he had duties to perform regardless of whether or not they were stationed on Earth.

But after she left, he received no communication from her or any other crew member.

The emotion of loneliness was overwhelmingly human. Vulcans spent much of their lives either in the proximity of their bondmate or entirely alone; it was not atypical that he should be alone for extended periods of time. While enrolled in school on Vulcan, he had spent the majority of his time isolated, solving mathematical and scientific problems or memorizing lines of philosophical thought. If he could perform alone at thirteen, it should prove easy at twenty-nine.

He longed for a companion.

Chekov’s high voice calling out Keptin on the bridge, McCoy’s infinite complaints about the safety of various crew members, Nyota’s habit of singing to herself on the rare occasion it became quiet onboard… even Sulu and Kirk’s unfortunate habit of challenging each other to ‘arm-wrestling’ competitions over the top of the console, inevitably hitting a button that sent Montgomery Scott into aneurysm as he attempted to seal one randomly opened valve or another.

It has been 0.94 weeks, he reminded himself over a reheated bowl of plomeek soup one night, the hour far later than he expected it to be when he consumed dinner— he had become over-involved in his work. I am fully capable of lasting 5.06 additional weeks without companionship.

He wished he could blame it on his human half, but his mother had also been remarkably independent. Perhaps it was a personal fault of Spock’s. He huffed an aborted noise that would have been a sigh if he had allowed himself to express exasperation at that moment.

Dragging his spoon once again through his soup, his ears perked up. An abrupt knock on the front door was soon followed by aggressive pounding.

He stood and crossed the room swiftly, opening the door to reveal Captain Kirk on his doorstep, eyes bright and face flushed.

“It is unnecessary to knock repeatedly,” Spock informed him, pushing down his surprise. “Vulcans have superior hearing and as such, I knew of your arrival at the first noise.”

“Bones kicked me out. Can I come in?” Kirk stifled a hiccup, giggling at the way his voice slurred on Bones.

“You are intoxicated,” Spock observed. He stepped aside regardless.

Kirk came inside and leaned his back against the wall, fingers pulling clumsily at the laces of his boots. The cuffs and knees of his jeans were dirty, as though he had tripped and fallen somewhere along the way to Spock’s building. There were holes in both knees, as well as a large scrape on his exposed elbow; there was no coat to be found on his person.

“Can’t get these damn things off,” he muttered, head rolling on his neck. “Don’t you want to know why I’m here?”

“Allow me.” Spock lowered himself to his knees and began to untie the knots.

“Bones kicked me out because he says I’m being–” –the captain paused to hiccup again– “--a bad influence on Jo.” His expression turned distinctly pouty. “Just because I won’t… I won’t go on jogs with them or whatever.”

“I am almost certain that there is a deeper reason for your exile from Doctor McCoy’s residence than this,” Spock responded. He gripped the bottom of Kirk’s left shoe and pulled it free from his foot, then turned his attention to the other.

Captain Kirk waved a hand about. “The drinking doesn’t help either. Hypocrite.”

“The doctor does consume alcohol at a frankly alarming rate,” Spock agreed.

“He thinks I’m depressed. He thinks I’m not gonna pass my psych eval.”

Spock looked up at Kirk, struggling to maintain a neutral expression. What if Kirk did not pass? He tried to picture another captain leading the Enterprise, but he could not. It was Captain Kirk or nobody; he was sure this was non-negotiable also in the minds of his fellow crew members.

“What do you think?” Spock asked eventually.

Kirk’s jaw set. “I think he’s being a bitch because his ex-wife has a new boyfriend.” Then he nearly kneed Spock in the face, suddenly dropping to the floor, sitting so that they were eye-to-eye. “What do you think?”

The vulnerability in Kirk’s eyes was familiar, but he had seen it only once before: when Kirk was dying, his palm pressed up against Spock’s through the glass on their beloved starship.

“I think you are my captain,” Spock said softly, “and they would be fools to remove you from the position you currently hold onboard the Enterprise.”

Jim held his gaze for a moment, then looked down, a small and private smile pulling at the corners of his lips. His cheeks were ruddy with drink, Spock noted, but he appeared to be more-or-less in possession of his mental facilities; if not his fine motor skills. His breath smelled strongly of alcohol.

“It would be unwise to return you to Doctor McCoy’s residence in this condition. I have a spare bedroom if you would be comfortable remaining here for the night.”

Kirk nodded, his head lolling lazily on his shoulders as he met Spock’s eyes again. “He wouldn’t want to see me, anyway.”

I am almost certain that is not true, thought Spock, but took hold of Kirk’s bicep anyway and hauled him to his feet. “Come. I will contact the doctor in the morning.”

The captain went along happily. Spock had little trouble guiding him to the bedroom; he felt it would be an invasion of privacy to further involve himself and so he bid Kirk good night and retired to his own room.

When he contacted Doctor McCoy in the morning, he heard a very different story.

“Jim’s got it in his head that he’s a bad person because he does all this dumb shit in front of Jo,” McCoy ranted, his face small and grainy over telecomm. “I try to tell him, hey, maybe you should take a bike ride instead of playing holo games on the couch for the fifth day in a row, and he acts like I think he just kicked a puppy instead of making a choice that he’s allowed to make, as an adult man. He’s just so convinced that he’s doing everything wrong.”

Spock made a noise in agreement. It was all he had time to contribute.

“And yes, I think he’s depressed. Without his starship, without his crew… well, it’s his purpose now. You must understand that. I have my daughter, but he’s got nothing down here that’s of interest to him, otherwise, he wouldn’t have enlisted in the first place.” McCoy sighed heavily. “I think we need a break from each other. I want some time with my daughter before I spend another four years without her, and he needs someone to pay attention to him.”

“I have a higher amount of spare room in my home, as well as a higher amount of spare time in which I could entertain the captain,” Spock agreed. “He is welcome to stay with me as long as he may desire.”

McCoy was silent for a moment, then smirked. “Oh, he’ll be fine. Don’t you worry about desire.”

Spock raised an eyebrow, waiting for an explanation.

“Oh, never mind,” the doctor said. “Why am I unloading all of this on you anyway?”

“We have a semi-close working relationship. I have been told this frequently leads to a semi-close personal relationship.”

“Dear God, I’m actually friends with you.”

Kirk chose that moment to walk into Spock’s kitchen, still in jeans but shirtless, scratching at his belly with one hand and pressing his fingertips to his temple with the other.

“Captain Kirk has awakened,” Spock told McCoy. “I will correspond with you further at a later date.”

“Please don’t,” said McCoy dryly, but Spock hung up on him without responding and turned to Kirk.

“Is your head in a great deal of pain?”

“Hangover,” Kirk grunted. “Do you have any aspirin?”

“Vulcans do not suffer from headaches except in rare circumstances. I am certain I do not.”

Kirk groaned, then winced and poked at his temples once more. “Just my luck.”

“It is not a matter of luck, Captain,” Spock began, but Kirk frowned at him and he ceased speaking.

“We’re off-duty. Call me Jim.”

Spock hesitated. “I would find that difficult. It is illogical to refer to you by one name while we are on-duty and another while we are off-duty.”

“I’m an illogical kind of guy,” said Jim, smiling briefly at him before beginning to rifle through Spock’s cupboards.

Spock watched Jim pour himself a glass of water from the tap. “I have spoken to Doctor McCoy. He advises that you stay here with me for the time being, if you consent to this.”

Jim’s eyes widened. He set down the glass, then picked it up again. “Wha— that’s okay with you?”

“It would be sensible.”

“It’ll be terrible, though,” Jim protested. “I’m a terrible roommate. Ask anybody. Ask Bones!”

“Bones was the one who advised this,” Spock pointed out. “He tells me you are a good cook.”

Jim shook his head incredulously. “I can make mac n’ cheese and pigs in a blanket.”

“While I do not consume pigs, I would not be opposed to sampling the other dish.” Spock hesitated. “I am finding it difficult to provide meals for myself.”

A slow, gleeful smile. “You’re telling me you can’t cook?”

“I do not find it difficult to produce tea. Or soup.”

“Have you been drinking tea and eating soup all week?” Sudden concern. Jim’s mood swings had always been fascinating to Spock.

“Yes. Your dissatisfaction with this is a source of confusion to me, as plomeek soup is highly nutritious.”

Jim was shaking his head again. “Absolutely not. I’m staying, if only to make sure you eat something other than plomeek soup for the next five weeks.”

“4.98,” Spock said. “Additionally, I have multiple projects from Starfleet that they have requested my assistance on. It will be pleasant to have a companion in the house with intellectual ability, so that I may be able to request a second opinion on my analysis.”

It may have been Spock’s imagination, but Jim seemed to puff up a little at that. “See, there’s plenty of reasons to keep me around.”

Observation #2: The best way to convince the captain to do something is to convince him it was his idea in the first place.

Observation #3: The captain does not tidy the kitchen while in the process of cooking.

Jim made him dinner– a strange concoction, cheese and cream sauce and pasta, the last of which he referred to as mac and ate in its raw, dry state despite the negative effects such an action must have had on his fragile human teeth. He used every single dish in Spock’s kitchen and deposited them into the sink, then feigned unawareness while they consumed the food.

“While pleasant to the taste buds, I do not think this meal has as high a nutritional value as plomeek soup,” Spock told him.

“It’s mac n’ cheese,” Jim said, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “It doesn’t need to be nutritious.”

Spock considered this. “I suppose that the taste makes up for the lack of nutritional quality.”

“Do they even have cheese on Vulcan?” Jim mused.

“They did not,” Spock said. A sharp pang went through him at the unwelcome reminder of his planet’s destruction. His mother’s death. He set down his fork.

“Shit, Spock. I didn’t mean to bring it up.” He sounded apologetic. Out of Spock’s peripherals, he could see Jim shifting in his seat.

“It is no matter,” he said, intending to change the subject. Kaiidth. What is, is; what has been done cannot be undone. It was illogical to dwell on matters beyond his control.

Jim took a deep breath. “No, you know what? I’ve been insensitive about Vulcan since it happened.” He leaned forward, trying to catch Spock’s eye. “I didn’t mean a word I said on the bridge that day, you know that, right?”

Spock quirked an eyebrow. “Afterward, I deduced that you had been provoking me in an attempt to gain control of the captaincy. I concluded it was not personal.”

“You’re right,” Jim said, smiling faintly. “But it was still wrong, and I won’t pretend that I wasn’t enjoying it.”

“Elaborate.”

Jim scratched the back of his neck. “Well, I was… angry. You threw me off the ship and basically straight into the mouths of some fucked-up ice monsters.” His face flushed slightly. “And there was the whole thing with Uhura.”

Nyota. It had been 3.9 days since they had last exchanged communication. He would have to send her a message later and request information on how the convention was unfolding. “Nyota does not begrudge you your past behavior, and neither do I. Apologies are unnecessary and illogical.”

“Is that her opinion, too?”

“Unlikely.”

Jim chuckled. “I guess I owe her a comm, then.”

“She is currently involved in a xenolinguistics convention in New York. It is unlikely that she will respond, as we have not spoken in 3.91 days.”

Jim’s eyebrows raised. He swiped a finger through the remnants of cheese sauce in his bowl and licked it clean. “And you’ve been together, what, a year?”

“396.79 days.”

“Doesn’t that strike you as bizarre?”

Spock averted his eyes from Jim’s mouth. “I am not concerned.”

Observation #6: Jim does not wear a towel upon exiting the shower, sonic or otherwise.

For some unknown reason, Jim was incapable of remembering to bring his bath towel when he went to take a shower.

Instead of finding a way to remind himself of this simple task, he preferred to run the length of Spock’s two-bedroom apartment, from the bathroom at one end of the hallway to his room at the other end of the hallway (and through the main room, where Spock was generally at his desk analyzing data).

After the fourth day of doing so, Spock confronted him.

“Jim, I must confess that I find it distracting when you finish your daily shower,” Spock told him once he emerged from his bedroom, clad in borrowed clothes– they had yet to receive their surviving belongings from the Enterprise.

Jim smirked. “Distracting?”

“Yes. Having an adult male running naked through your living room and giggling is highly inconducive to completing scientific analysis.”

Picking out a coffee mug, Jim shuffled over to the kettle Spock had put on and poured himself a cup of tea. “What are you working on, anyway?”

Spock scrolled to the top of the page he was reading. “Representatives of New Vulcan have been cooperating with Starfleet to organize repopulation efforts. Multiple organizations on the planet have had sperm donation clinics for some time, as well as seeking to provide other fertility services for biologically female Vulcans, but the efforts have been disorganized at best. Not to mention the malpractice that medical officials are concerned may occur if the wrong Vulcan were to become involved with one of these groups.”

“So you’re analyzing sperm?” Spock looked up and Jim averted his gaze, face flushing.

“No,” he explained, “I am analyzing data on the effectiveness of different organizations in their repopulation efforts. Starfleet wishes to sponsor one of these organizations and make them the ‘official’ clinic for fertility on New Vulcan, at least for the foreseeable future.”

Jim hummed, sipping his tea. “Where are they getting the funds for that?” He grimaced. “This is disgusting.”

Spock took the mug from his hand. “I could’ve told you that Vulcan tea would be undesirable to your human palate,” he murmured, quietly amused, and took a drink himself. “They have made an arrangement with New Vulcan. A certain number of Vulcan children must enlist in Starfleet upon the conclusion of their formal education.”

Jim hopped up on the kitchen counter, dangling his legs over the edge and glancing at Spock’s padd over his shoulder. His hair was damp. He smelled like soap. “I’m sure that’ll make Sarek very happy.”

“To have thousands of Vulcans following in the footsteps of his wayward son? Highly unlikely.”

“Sarcasm,” Jim said absently. “Hey, this is interesting, the clinic run by human ambassadors has the highest success rate overall.”

“It is because Vulcans do not think humans are intelligent enough to interfere with repopulation efforts in a consequential manner,” said Spock. “Also, many find the human form to be highly desirable.”

Jim blinked at him. “What?”

“It is specifically the rounded ears.”

“But you think we’re stupid?”

“I did not say that I think you are stupid. It is a generally held belief by many, especially those who had never been off-planet before the destruction of Vulcan. And do not concern yourself– Vulcans may believe humans are unintelligent, but they also find them greatly sexually attractive.”

Jim flushed bright pink. “There’s a lot to unpack there.”

Spock did not make note of it, but another observation: after this conversation, Jim touched the tops of his ears 1.7 times a minute on average. Spock did not make note of, or even observe, the fact that Jim generally did this while looking at Spock.

Observation #9: Although by all accounts a waste of time and mental prowess, Jim is highly skilled at holo games.

McCoy and Jim had apparently resolved their conflict, because when Spock returned from the market the following day, both were planted firmly on his couch with controllers in hand, staring at the holo screen as though it contained the definitive answers to all of science’s unanswerable questions.

“Spock!” Jim called out, moving his head but not his eyes. “Come play with us!”

“What, and have somebody else kick my ass at Mario Kart?” McCoy grumbled.

“Ignore Bones, he’s a crotchety old man who can’t figure out controls that aren’t twenty-first century-style Nintendo,” Jim said cheerfully.

“I am afraid I do not know of this Nintendo.” Spock set his paper bag of groceries down on the kitchen table.

Jim spun around, jaw dropping. Behind him, McCoy aimed a shell at his kart and he went flying off the side of Rainbow Road. “Wait, you’ve never played Mario Kart?”

“Children raised in the Vulcan tradition do not have an abundance of recreational time.”

“Sometimes I forget that you were raised in the galaxy’s most depressing meerkat colony,” McCoy said.

“Come here, you’ll pick it up fast.”

Spock did not pick it up fast. It was unlike any game that he had played on Vulcan as a child or even any that he had seen while in residency at Starfleet. The oversaturation of colors and noises made its designation for the human race obvious. Additionally, the controller vibrated under his hands whenever he made a mistake, which served as an extreme distraction.

“Never thought I’d see the day that I won a game of Mario Kart,” McCoy said smugly.

“You didn’t win,” Jim pointed out, “you lost against me. You just beat Spock.”

Spock, who was hyperfocused on finishing his third lap without dropping off of the track, said nothing.

“I consider that a victory anyhow.”

Jim’s hand darted out and wrapped around Spock’s shoulder firmly, using it as leverage to stand. “I’m gonna get a beer. You want one, Bones?”

“Sure,” Bones agreed, glancing at a notification on his comm.

The touch distracted Spock once again. His kart went flying pathetically off of the track and the controller shook against his palm.

“This game is foolish,” Spock said. McCoy snickered.

Observation #12: Jim is prone to eavesdropping.

On the eighth day without contact from Nyota, she called his telecommunicator.

Alone in his bedroom, about to begin a session of meditation, he answered on the first ring. “Nyota. It is good to hear from you.”

Her pleasantly symmetrical face appeared on the screen. “Good to hear from me?”

“Yes. Have I said something amiss?” Spock shifted where he was sitting cross-legged on his floor.

“It’s not about what you’ve said, Spock,” she sighed. “When were you going to tell me that Kirk is living with you?”

“It did not seem necessary.”

“We’ve been together for more than a year–”

“398.8 days.”

“--and you’ve never even invited me to see your apartment.”

“There was not ample opportunity onboard a starship.”

Nyota sighed, more harshly this time. “That’s not the point, Spock. The point is that you never… you never think of me first. You didn’t ask me to stay with you instead of going to the convention. But Leonard says you didn’t think twice about inviting Kirk.”

“It made sense for him to stay with me,” Spock protested. “He is recovering from a serious injury and needs to be monitored. Having a companion is pleasant while I am working. We are both benefiting from the arrangement.”

A sad smile flitted across Nyota’s face and stuck. “A companion?”

“He does chores. He cooks for me.”

“Spock, sometimes I think you’re the most oblivious person in the known universe.”

“I am not a person,” Spock pointed out.

“Vulcan,” Nyota conceded. “Have you ever thought that maybe your girlfriend could do those things for you, too? That maybe I would want to?”

“You are in perfect health and your mind is at peak performance. There is no reason for you to provide these services for me; you put your skills to better use by visiting New York.” Spock’s ears perked up– a noise in the hallway. Jim.

“Jim is perfectly healthy and we both know that,” Nyota argued. Her tone was becoming impatient. “Starfleet is just keeping him cooped up for bureaucratic reasons.”

“I agree wholeheartedly.”

“Then why are you letting him play housewife to you?”

A second noise from outside the door– Jim had inhaled sharply. And forgotten about Vulcans’ superior hearing, evidently. “He is not my partner; you are.”

Nyota shook her head. Even on his comm, Spock could glimpse the shininess of her eyes. “I don’t think so, Spock. We should… I think we should break up.”

Spock tilted his head. “I do not understand your reasoning.”

“It’ll be easier for both of us,” she said. A hand came up and wiped at her eyes, and then descended toward the end call button. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

The call ended. Spock sat there, cross-legged on his floor and staring at his dim reflection in the blackness of his telecommunicator’s screen. His eyebrows were raised– he was surprised, after all, he had been under the impression that their romantic relationship had been satisfactory for her as well as for him –but he was not teary as she was.

Perhaps I should be more upset. But it was illogical to be upset; the termination of their involvement made sense if Nyota was unhappy.

And she was correct, he supposed, in saying that he had neglected her. He had not invited her, because he had wanted Jim to come to stay in his apartment, possibly before he had realized it himself. Since Jim had been brought out of surgery, Spock had entertained thoughts of bringing Jim to his home and providing shelter for him while he recovered; he had imagined long nights filled with three-dimensional chess games and inane chatter, and days of Spock working and Jim leaning over his shoulder, smelling like soap and breathing his cool breath on Spock’s bare neck as he did on the bridge.

When he tried to imagine Nyota in his apartment, he had difficulty. Every image of her there– laying on his couch, sitting and eating at his table, peeking through the shutters to check the weather before going out for a walk –all of these images were Jim, not her.

She does not belong here, he concluded. To terminate their involvement was logical. If he could not picture her in his present accommodations, there was no reason to imagine a future for their relationship.

Spock stood and strode to the door, intending to visit the kitchen and retrieve a match. He would light his incense and proceed with mediation despite this recent development; there was no further reason to dwell on it.

When he opened the door, Jim nearly fell on him with a yelp.

“What are you doing?” Spock asked, catching Jim by the shoulders and righting him.

“Uh,” Jim said eloquently. “Nothing?” He would not maintain eye contact.

“Eavesdropping,” Spock concluded. He stepped around Jim and headed for the kitchen.

“I was not!” Jim exclaimed, following. “I leaned against the door for balance, because I was trying to look at the bottom of one of my socks, to see if it had a hole because it kinda felt like there was a hole in the bottom of the right one but it turned out there wasn’t actually a hole–”

“Nyota has terminated our involvement,” Spock said.

Jim stopped in his tracks, then started walking again, stopping in the doorframe and watching as Spock opened a drawer and took out a matchbox. “What, really?”

“You do not seem surprised.” He shook out a match.

Jim leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. “Whaaat? Why, I’ll be damned!”

Spock raised an eyebrow, unamused. “She believes that I value you over her.”

Jim went silent.

“She is probably correct,” Spock mused, placing the box back in the drawer and closing it. He turned to face Jim. “I cannot picture her in my apartment. Is that abnormal?”

The captain bit his lip. “I don’t know. I don’t think so if you’re dating. I’ve never really… dated anybody, though.”

“You have not been in a committed romantic relationship?”

“Romantic? Hell, no,” Jim said, laughing somewhat bitterly.

“Fascinating.”

“Fascinating?”

“Surprising,” Spock amended.

“I don’t know why you think so,” Jim said. “It seems pretty obvious why I’m not.”

Spock shook his head dismissively. “You have many positive traits, both physical and mental. Any humanoid you desired, you could easily enrapture.”

Jim laughed nervously. “The things you say sometimes.”

Spock shifted his weight, attempting to be selective with his words. “I just meant that you would not struggle to find a partner.”

“Probably not,” Jim murmured, his eyes lingering on Spock’s hand, holding the match. “But I couldn’t have anybody I wanted.” His gaze slipped back up to meet Spock’s.

The thought of Jim desiring another made something under Spock’s skin itch. “Excuse me.” He stepped around Jim and hurried back down the hall toward his room, ignoring Jim’s voice as he called after Spock.

It was unwise to allow himself to express jealousy, especially in regards to his captain. The likelihood of Jim reciprocating his attraction was low; in fact, it was more likely that Jim was referring to Nyota when he spoke of being unable to pursue the subject of his interest. With Spock out of the way, they would surely become involved soon– in Spock’s experience, it was rare that a humanoid attracted to males was able to resist the captain for long… but he would not allow himself to express jealousy at this, even in the privacy of his own room.

He lit his incense and closed his eyes, encouraging his mind to go blank. But he found that he was now able to picture Nyota in his apartment– laying in Jim’s arms on the couch while Spock read data charts. Nyota sitting on the table and Jim standing between her legs while Spock ate dinner. Their bodies pressed together against the doorframe in the kitchen while Spock rifled through the drawers for a match he could not locate.

Spock pressed the heels of his palms hard into his eyes and rubbed.

Do not be illogical. You cannot control Nyota and Jim’s feelings or actions. Neither of them would be so bold as to do such things. Or so unkind.

But the images haunted him regardless.

Observation #29: Jim gets antsy when he does not experience fresh air for multiple days.

“Come on,” Jim whined, “let’s go for a walk or something.”

“I am finishing this data set. I will be with you in a few minutes.”

“Actually a few minutes, or a few minutes in Spock-speak?”

“What is Spock-speak?” Spock asked, eyes stuck on his padd. “I am fluent in Standard and Vulcan.”

Jim laughed softly, suddenly much closer. His hand closed around the top of Spock’s padd and gently tugged it from his grip. Spock could have stopped it, if he truly desired– they both knew his strength was far superior to Jim’s. But, admittedly, he was becoming fatigued from the long hours of staring at screens. He looked up, meeting Jim’s vivid blue eyes.

“It’s an expression, babe,” Jim said. “Means that you have your own sense of time.”

Spock was still trying to process babe when Jim wrapped his hand around Spock’s wrist and tugged him to his feet. “Seriously, let’s go,” Jim said. “I’m bored as hell.”

Spock furrowed his brow. “Hell, in the traditional Christian sense, is considered to be the opposite of bor–”

Jim interlocked their fingers, pressing his palm against Spock’s, and Spock abruptly stopped talking in favor of attempting to contain a whine.

Jim looked over his shoulder at him. “Something wrong?” His expression appeared innocent, but his eyes were twinkling.

Spock withdrew his hand, clearing his throat and pretending he could not feel, buzzing like static electricity on his hand, exactly where Jim’s fingers had pressed against his. “Your cultural insensitivity is remarkable,” he said stiffly. “Let us go.”

Turning on his heel and marching out of the apartment, his hands folded behind him, he missed his captain’s sharp sigh of disappointment.

They made their way through the San Francisco streets with little trouble. Jim kept watching passing hoverbikes, and Spock abruptly remembered that Jim had possessed one before enlisting– not that he had ever seen it; he believed Nyota had mentioned it to him once in passing. It was strange, in hindsight, how often he had asked her about the captain rather than herself. Strange, perhaps, but telling.

“Do you miss your hoverbike?” Spock asked.

Jim’s head swiveled to face him, looking surprised: Spock was correct, they had never spoken of it. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “Not like I have much use for it off-planet, though. Or on the Enterprise.”

“It would prove difficult to store.”

“Bones would kill me if I rode it onboard,” Jim said. “But Scotty would kill me worse.”

“I would hope that no crew members would commit acts of violence against their captain, especially not those that you have personal relationships with,” Spock said flatly.

Jim glanced at him, then over at a young couple, leading a large and fluffy Earthen dog on a leash. “Spock,” he said, “it’s only an expression. They wouldn’t actually kill me.”

“Forgive me for being uncomfortable with the subject.”

Jim sighed, scraping a hand through his hair. “I know it’s hard for you to hear about that shit, but it’s in the past now, right? Don’t Vulcans have an expression for that?”

“Kaiidth,” Spock murmured.

“Exactly. I have to be able to joke about it eventually, right?”

“I find it difficult to joke about your safety. It is of the highest priority to me.”

Jim stopped suddenly. Spock took a few more steps, then, realizing that Jim had not continued with him, stopped and turned. “What is wrong?” he asked.

The captain simply shook his head. “You’re just… too much sometimes,” he muttered, then smiled. It looked forced.

“I will endeavor to be less,” Spock said hesitantly. He folded his hands behind his back, feeling pinned in place by Jim’s eyes.

Jim shook his head a second time. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Vulcans do not worry.”

“You’re worried about my safety,” he pointed out, and then looked surprised at himself.

“That is true,” he acqueisced. Hesitating, he closed the distance between them, and slowly reached out to link his arm through Jim’s. He had not been so public in his affections since he was a child, holding the skirt of his mother’s robes while they wandered through the open-air markets on Vulcan. He gave Jim plenty of time to move away, but when he didn’t, a look of pleased shock on his sweet face, Spock pulled him into his side and began to walk again.

“I am only half-Vulcan.”

Observation #40: Jim has an eclectic taste in music; however, his favorite musician is a twentieth-century artist called Beastie Boys.

Spock did not like Beastie Boys.

He did like the joy Jim seemed to experience when he listened to their music on full volume in the main room of Spock’s apartment, so he tolerated the loud, strange tune coming out of his speakers.

Spock underwent classical training on the Vulcan lyre from an extremely young age. It was his father’s chosen instrument, and his father before him. He had an excellent ear– perfect pitch, in fact –even for a Vulcan, and was considered to be a virtuoso on the instrument when he was a resident of Vulcan, despite being generally rejected by his peers in all fields.

He could not find anything redeemable in this music, but Jim would alternately sing, dance, and ‘air-guitar’ (a concept that had to be explained to Spock multiple times before he fully understood it) to the songs of Beastie Boys.

“I used to listen to them when I was a kid because Frank hated them,” Jim informed him. “And anything Frank hated, I loved.”

“Frank was your stepfather.”

“Yeah. I drove his car off a cliff because he locked me in my room for four days.”

“Excuse me?”

Frank was, by Jim’s account, emotionally and physically abusive throughout the entirety of their relationship. And he didn’t seem to realize that the events he was describing were abuse— that it wasn’t normal for a stepfather to threaten to take his child’s dinner away as punishment for failing grades, and especially not when the child was a Tarsus IV survivor. Jim had a tendency to downplay things, including Tarsus IV, as though they had merely ‘sucked’ or been ‘lame as hell’ rather than life-altering events.

“I have repeatedly thought about beating Frank to death instead of Harrison,” Spock told him one day, comfortable saying so with Sabotage playing over the top of his words.

“What?” Jim shouted back.

So while you sit back and wonder why / I got this fuckin’ thorn in my side… / Oh my God, it’s a mirage / I’m tellin’ y’all, it’s sabotage…

Spock waved a hand at him as if to say never mind, feeling oddly human.

He went back to his padd. They had been planetside for 3.6 weeks, which meant they had roughly 2.4 weeks remaining— and while Spock had nearly completed the research outlined for him when he agreed to assist Starfleet’s Earthen science department, he thought he would miss living here. This was, of course, in large part due to Jim’s residency. Although Spock felt most comfortable onboard the Enterprise— his true home, and Jim’s as well —he would miss Jim cooking authentic food for him, rather than using a replicator for every meal; he would miss taking walks, and he would even miss hearing Beastie Boys through every wall of his house. Whether a curse or a blessing, he could not be sure, but the Enterprise had soundproof walls.

After the next observation, he considered it to be a blessing that his home did not.

Observation #41: Jim suffers from frequent nightmares.

Late that night, long after Jim had stated that he was retiring to bed, Spock heard a whimpering noise coming from the second bedroom. Although he knew it to be an invasion of privacy, Spock crossed the hall and cracked open the door, peering inside at the dark form laying atop the twin-sized mattress.

The moonlight, streaming in through the open window, showed just enough that Spock could observe that Jim had kicked off both top sheet and comforter; he had tossed and turned enough that one of his pillows had landed on the floor. The loud whimpering was coming from Jim, yes, but his eyes were squeezed firmly shut: he was not consciously making it.

Spock crossed the room quickly and took hold of Jim’s shoulders. “Jim?”

He could see pearls of sweat on Jim’s face and his bare collarbone, pale in the moonlight. “Jim,” he said insistently, “wake up.”

Jim whimpered again, louder this time, and balled his fists. Where Spock’s thumbs met Jim’s skin, he was getting glimpses of Jim’s dreams— a tall, broad man in a human-style suitcoat, eating a pear and leaning down to laugh in a younger Jim’s face, the half-chewed chunks of fruit in the man’s mouth mocking him. Then the man was stepping on Jim’s stomach, and emaciated as he was, each individual rib was showing, even under his t-shirt…

Spock could not stand to watch any longer. He shook his friend’s shoulders as aggressively as he dared.

Jim began to flail, eyes shooting wide and one of his fists swinging forward to catch Spock in the face. Spock grabbed hold of Jim’s wrists before he could give him a bloody lip and held him down in his bed, sitting down firmly on his legs.

“Wha— get off me, what’s happening? Get off!”

“You are in my apartment in San Francisco, on the planet Earth,” Spock said calmly, staring Jim in the face despite the disturbing, abnormal quality of his wild eyes. He is under there somewhere. “We are on leave from the Enterprise, the starship you are in command of. You are twenty-six years old. We had mac n’ cheese for dinner; it is the third time you have prepared it this week.”

Jim’s chest was still heaving, but he had stopped struggling. Spock took this as a good sign. “You have not seen Governor Kodos since you were thirteen years old. This is more than half your life. You do not want for food. The other people who left Tarsus IV with you are safe. One is enlisted in Starfleet himself.”

“Kevin Riley,” Jim said softly. He leaned his head back against his pillows, blinking for the first time since his eyes opened.

“Yes,” Spock confirmed. “He is safe and so are you.”

Another moment of silence, Jim closing his eyes and inhaling and exhaling deeply. Then he opened his eyes again, sitting up underneath Spock. “Jesus Christ, Spock, I’m sorry.”

“Apologies are unnecessary.” He climbed off Jim, intending to move away so that Jim might get some additional sleep before the morning came: it wouldn’t be long now.

“Wait,” Jim said, clutching at Spock’s wrist. “Stay with me.”

Spock looked at him, searching his desperate expression for hints of humor or malice. Finding none, he swung his leg back onto the bed, sliding down until he lay beside Jim, facing the captain (if Jim had not been facing the ceiling).

“Touch telepathy,” Jim said. “That’s how you knew what I was dreaming about?”

“Please forgive my indiscretion. It was out of a desire to assist.”

Jim turned his head to face Spock, his smile lopsided and tired. “If apologies are unnecessary, isn’t forgiveness unnecessary too?”

Spock stiffened. “I should not have done such a thing,” he said, trying not to let regret seep into his tone. “I do not wish to further your discomfort. Please excuse me.”

Moving to get up again, he was surprised when Jim grabbed hold of his arm again and forcibly yanked him back into bed. When he turned his head, their noses were mere inches apart.

“That’s not what I meant,” said Jim. “Thanks.”

“You do not need to thank me.”

Jim scoffed. “What are you allowed to say, in Vulcan culture?”

“That is not a Vulcan standard. That is a Spock-standard.”

He surprised Jim into a laugh. “You’re something else.”

“I do not understand that expression,” he confessed. Jim looked over at him, eyes soft and catching the moonlight, and Spock suddenly understood what humans meant when they described someone as beautiful. He had only ever found people aesthetically pleasing or symmetrical; Jim was both of these things and also beautiful.

Their noses brushed together when Jim laughed once more. “Would it be weird to say that I don’t either?”

“It would be most illogical to use a colloquialism that you do not understand,” Spock confirmed.

“I’m an illogical kind of guy.”

Spock thought he might be, too. You would have to be illogical to allow yourself to fall asleep in bed with your friend and captain, his hands wrapped around yours, oblivious to the meaning of his actions.

Following the night that Spock woke Jim from his nightmare, Jim was abnormally shy, refusing to meet Spock’s eyes and flushing whenever Spock addressed him; when Spock brought him a cup of tea after lunch, Jim nearly knocked it over in his flustered attempt at a thank-you.

The apartment had been remarkably quiet all day, Jim dozing on the couch and Spock in the kitchen, pacing back and forth by the window as he ran over statistics in his head. It was a rare sunny day, golden light streaming in and warming his skin luxuriously. For once, he was wearing a single turtleneck, rather than a turtleneck, pullover sweater, and buttoned-up cardigan.

Jim wore a Starfleet t-shirt and smiled in his sleep, turning his face into the sun.

Spock felt the tension lines in his brow ease when he allowed his gaze to rest on Jim. He was glad to see his captain getting rest, after the disruption of last night. In the back of his mind, vague worry about future (and past) instances of nightmares niggled, but Spock attempted to remain focused on the image laid out before him: one of peace. Tranquility.

Observation #42: Jim is never tranquil for long.

“I’m bored again,” Jim declared the following morning, hair tousled in a way that made it difficult for Spock to safely look at him.

“I have plenty of work you could assist me on.”

Jim stuck out his tongue. “You sound like my mom.” He tugged at the hem of his sleep shirt, one of Spock’s regulation undershirts that he had worn as a professor. Spock was doing his best to ignore… everything about that.

“As I have never encountered Winona Kirk, I cannot confirm or deny her influence.” He sipped his tea and watched Jim’s back as he poured his own mug.

“Sometimes I think you just like to mess with me,” Jim muttered, pushing a stack of papers to the side and hoisting himself atop the counter, right beside Spock’s padd. If it had been anyone else, Spock is nearly certain that he would have introduced them to the concept of a chair; as it stood, Spock was undeniably fond of this habit of Jim’s.

“What would relieve your boredom?” Spock asked, scanning the headings of Starfleet’s latest communication about the efforts to populate New Vulcan’s ecosystem with creatures native to Vulcan-that-was. His eyes lingered momentarily on sehlat and he turned off his padd.

Jim cocked his head for a moment, appearing to think deeply, then shrugged.

“Your assistance is noted,” Spock said dryly.

Jim grinned and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Give me something to do.”

Spock thought for a moment, then shrugged.

Jim burst out laughing. “You shit. I’ve never seen you do that before.”

“To use the human expression, there is a first time for everything.” Spock scooped up his padd and stood. He would deposit his research in his bedroom before visiting Starfleet headquarters. I must address their concerns about native Vulcan species becoming invasive on New Vulcan.

“Who are you and what have you done with Spock?” Jim called after him. Spock kept his private, fond smile to himself.

When he returned from the school, Jim was in possession of a ball of yarn and two thin metal objects. He had managed to tie the yarn to the metal pieces in multiple places; the knots were of various sizes and shapes.

Spock blinked. “What are you doing?”

“Joanna is into knitting,” Jim said, not taking his eyes off of the project laid out in front of him. “I borrowed some of her supplies.”

“And what is the purpose of this?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out.” Jim looked up, winking exaggeratedly.

“I do not understand,” muttered Spock, his ears feeling hot. “Is it similar to Vulcan weaving?”

“Yeah, I guess that would be the closest thing you guys have to knit. It’s not like you need wool on Vulcan.”

“Linen is the most commonly used fabric in the construction of clothing,” said Spock, “although that might change in light of the cold nighttime temperatures on New Vulcan.”

“I’ll make you a scarf so you can stay warm while you visit Sarek.”

Spock must have unknowingly made a face because Jim laughed, his head leaning back against the couch cushions and into a patch of light, the hints of gold in his hair emphasized. Lovely, Spock thought, and then chastised himself for sentimentality.

“I would be grateful for anything you took the time to make for me,” he reassured Jim, and turned to sit down at the kitchen table. Jim’s soft, warm smile was missed.

Over the course of the next three nights, Jim had an equivalent amount of nightmares, leading to Spock’s next observation.

Observation #57: Jim is extremely tactile. Anxiety, anger, and sadness may all be soothed through physical touch.

When he poured Jim his morning mug of tea, his friend seemed flustered once again— embarrassed by his own vulnerability. “Thanks, Spock,” he murmured, refusing to make eye contact.

Spock, on a whim, reached over and squeezed his shoulder firmly. “Gratitude is unnecessary.”

Jim’s eyes went very round. Then he smiled, small and private, and hopped up on the counter. “Whatever you say.”

The day passed slowly, Spock drinking tea and reading reports and messaging back and forth with Nyota, which was stilted and awkward at first but quickly becoming comfortable. She had gone to visit her family in Africa for a few days, then returned to San Francisco, where she was staying with some old friends from her time as a student. In all the photos from the convention, even after the fateful call, she looked happy.

“Whatcha reading?” Jim asked him, leaning over his shoulder. His hair was wet– human preference for water showers over sonic showers never ceased to confound Spock –and he was dripping onto Spock’s telecommunicator.

Spock wiped the water droplets off the screen with his sleeve. “Communications from Nyota. She has returned to the state after visiting her family and fulfilling her role in the convention.”

Jim was quiet for a moment. Spock listened to his soft breath, and, fainter, the sound of his heartbeat in his throat, audible where he leaned close to Spock’s ear.

“She looks happy,” he said finally.

“Yes,” agreed Spock. “I am glad.”

“How can you be glad?” blurted Jim, straightening. “I mean, she dumped you!”

Spock looked up at him quizzically. “There is no reason to feel resentment when I possess no control over Nyota’s decision.”

“You don’t want to… I don’t know, win her back or something?”

“You appear agitated,” Spock noted. “Why?”

Jim huffed. “It doesn’t make any sense to me! She…” he paused, as though searching for the right words. His voice was slightly bitter when he spoke again. “She had what she wanted.”

“She was not content with me; therefore, she did not possess what she desired,” Spock stated. He tried to ignore the insistent tug in his stomach that told him Jim’s bitterness was out of a desire for Nyota. Jealousy is an insecure emotion. I am in control.

Jim ran a hand through his hair. “I guess I just can’t understand,” he said, staring down at Spock. “I mean, she had you.”

Spock blinked up at him; then, concluding physical contact was the only way to secure Jim’s attention, rested his hand on the nearer of Jim’s hips. He hooked a finger through the belt loop of his jeans and tugged. “There is no reason to be upset on my behalf.”

Wide blue eyes stared down at his hand, then at him.

“I am content,” Spock insisted.

“Uhhuh,” Jim murmured, sounding vaguely dazed, and said nothing more for some time.

After that, physical contact was a regular occurrence between the two of them. Spock considered this to be a victory in that he got to be close to Jim. On the other hand, he was becoming convinced that it would be impossible to resist the urge to confess to his captain the next time their fingers brushed over the chess board; the next time Jim put his feet in Spock’s lap while watching a holo-video; the next time Jim woke up and stumbled out into the kitchen, sleep-warm and soft, and wrapped his arms around Spock’s waist from behind, his face pressed sweetly into the nape of Spock’s neck in a manner that seemed to promise this is the closest you will ever get.

Observation #61: Jim and McCoy lose control over the volume of their voices when they are together.

“You haven’t told him yet?”

Something indiscernible in response, then a loud groan from McCoy.

“What do they put in that corn in Iowa, boy? Are you all this stupid?”

“If by stupid you mean self-preserving, then yeah.”

“You don’t have a lick of self-preservation in your body. I’ve seen you on a hoverbike.”

“Touche.”

“Listen, Jim. …you’re not listening.”

“I’m trying to finish this curtain for Spock.”

“I’ve never seen anybody with knitted curtains in my life. Put… put that down and listen.”

“Fine, fine. Jesus.”

“Despite my better judgment, I want to see you happy instead of put in prison for crimes against civilization. And really despite my better judgment, I want to see Spock happy too, even though he’s a green-blooded hobgoblin without a lick of humanity in him– I don’t care who his mother was. You could tell me he was bred by computers and I would believe you.”

“So much for that medical degree.”

“Shut up. Anyway, the point is, I want you both to be happy. Which means getting your shit together and defining whatever the hell you two have going on here.”

“There is no thing, I told you, Bones.”

“I might look it, but I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“There isn’t.” A beat of silence. “I don’t think he even realizes what he’s doing to me.”

“He ain’t doing anything to you, that’s what I’m trying to say! You’re the one thinking and thinking about whatever he’s doing and not just asking him what he means by it.”

“I don’t want to lose all of this by asking.”

…

“Is that selfish?”

A cup, or maybe a beer glass, set down with a clunk. “No. But you can’t keep making him curtains and napping on his chest if you’re not going to tell him the truth.”

“That was one time!”

“One time too many, if he thinks you’re just friends. Or if he’s head-over-heels for you and thinks you don’t love him back.”

“I don’t know how he couldn’t know.”

“He’s Spock.”

The topic then meandered casually along, but Spock stood staring at his closed bedroom door for some time, attempting to comprehend what he had just heard.

“Can’t we talk about something else?”

“I thought you would be excited that repairs are nearly done,” Spock said. “This timeline is 1.57 weeks ahead of schedule. Since you have completed your psychiatric and physical evaluations, we will soon have completed shore leave and will be able to leave the planet once again.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m excited to be offplanet again. I just don’t want to go yet.”

“I do not understand.”

Humans had unusual emotions at the best of times, but Jim seemed to simultaneously fear boarding the Enterprise again and long for it. Spock assumed it would be one or the other: fear would be understandable, even expected, after his death. Excitement would be in-character, as Jim loved his ‘silver lady’ more than anything else.

To feel both confused Spock. He, although he did not show it or speak of it, felt dread: he would be giving up the domesticity he had come to love, although he should not have grown so accustomed to it. By inviting Jim into his home, he had accepted responsibility for the burden he would now have to shoulder; he should have known this from the beginning.

“I’m enjoying the lack of routine,” Jim explained. “It’s nice to do whatever I want, whenever I want. And eat real food. And pet dogs on the street, if I want to, and sleep whenever, and…”

“You miss Earth,” Spock realized.

Jim shrugged one shoulder, scooping Spock’s padd out of his lap and glancing at the display. “Somewhat. I miss being in space, too. Getting to look out the window and see stars, right there, and getting to work as a team.” A little smile in Spock’s direction. “Not that I don’t like working with you. It’s just different, two people versus three-hundred something.”

Spock didn’t bother to give him the exact number. “I suppose I see where you are coming from.”

“But you find it illogical,” Jim murmured, leaning a hip against the table and sipping at his tea (Earl Grey, purchased from a tea shop down the street). “You don’t miss the Enterprise?”

“Not the same aspects that you miss.” He hesitated, looking down at his padd. “If it was the two of us permanently, I could still live and work quite comfortably. I would not miss our crewmates in a professional capacity.”

Jim’s eyes were wide when he met them. A moment of electricity passed between them, and then his captain set down his mug of tea on the table, not even bothering to get a coaster. Spock would normally complain, but he found that he was unable to look away from Jim’s face.

So he had not misinterpreted the conversation he had overheard.

“You have to stop saying things like that,” Jim told him. “I might get the wrong idea.”

“I do not say anything without intention,” he responded, feeling bold. “The idea you have is, in all likelihood, right.”

Jim stared at him for a moment longer. “Are you serious?”

“We both know I do not joke.”

“Spock,” Jim began, and did not bother to finish his sentence. Instead, he grabbed hold of Spock’s face and brought their lips together with such enthusiasm it could almost be called violence.

Yes, Spock thought victoriously, wrapping his arms around Jim’s waist and standing, pulling their bodies together. He thought of the way that they had pressed their hands together through the glass of the radioactive chamber while Jim was dying, and as if to spite the glass, pulled Jim even closer: he would not allow there to be space between them if there did not have to be.

He could feel Jim’s euphoria, and then appeared a flood of images: bitter, all-encompassing jealousy when Jim saw Uhura kissing him goodbye on their rescue mission for Pike, accompanied by shameful joy when he learned they had split up. Waves and waves of desire, lust, all different moments. Something as simple as Spock’s shoulders stretching out the fabric of a turtleneck, or saying the words sexually attractive.

“Why would you find that ‘hot?’” Spock asked, breaking the kiss momentarily; Jim chased his lips.

“Because it’s you,” Jim said impatiently, fisting the collar of Spock’s shirt and dragging him closer. “Now shut up and kiss me.”

Spock made a muffled noise against his mouth and groaned when Jim ran his tongue over his bottom lip. When Jim pulled Spock’s chair out from the table and deposited himself into Spock’s lap, he completely forgot about any further protest he might have had.

Observation #63: Jim Kirk is an excellent kisser.

Jim was lying naked, nestled in Spock’s sheets when Spock returned with a glass of water for him. His sweaty hair was tousled, eyes glued to Spock’s bare legs and chest. Spock averted his gaze shyly when Jim whistled in appreciation.

“You have already seen my body extensively,” Spock muttered, handing him the water. “There is no need to do such a thing.”

“No,” Jim agreed, “but it makes you blush.” He smiled fondly and flicked the burning tip of one of Spock’s ears.

Spock settled on the edge of the bed, catching Jim’s eye. “I do not wish there to be any miscommunication about my intentions,” he said, reaching out and resting his hand on Jim’s hipbone where it peeked out from under Spock’s comforter.

A smile pulled at Jim’s lips. Maybe he would miss one thing about Earth— the sunlight was again hitting Jim’s hair through the open window, casting his face in gold. Spock reached up and ran his fingers through Jim’s hair; Jim made a soft noise and leaned into the touch.

“You know what I want,” Jim said. “I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give.” His eyes slipped shut, then opened again, and now there was a note of hesitation in them; perhaps fear.

“I often forget you are psi-null,” Spock told him, scratching at his scalp. Jim hummed happily. “Otherwise, you would know the depth of my feelings for you.”

Jim raised his eyebrows. “Is that so?”

“I would have you if you would allow it.”

A flash of affection and joy, projecting off of Jim, quickly squashed into a tiny, private little smile. “I’m already yours.”

Spock sighed his relief.

Observation #70: Jim is telling everyone who will listen that I am his boyfriend.

Observation #98: Jim’s favorite pastime on the bridge is attempting to make me blush. He is successful 78.94% of the time.

Observation #103: Jim loses at chess 89.8% of the time. This is a marked increase over our pre-relationship games; however, he seems happy to lose as long as he receives a consolation prize.

Observation #117: Jim’s hands shake whenever he says ‘I love you.’

Observation #160: Having moved into the captain’s quarters, I have confirmed that Jim listens to all music, not just Beastie Boys, at unpleasantly high volumes.

Observation #233: Leonard and Jim have code-names for everybody onboard the ship; mine is alternately Shrek or the Goblin depending on Leonard’s level of grumpiness. Both of these are highly unamusing.

Observation #267: Whenever the Enterprise is threatened by enemy fire, Jim’s automatic reaction is to place an arm across my chest.

Observation #290: Jim, Nyota, and Dr. McCoy have been engaging in a higher-than-usual amount of whispering lately. The friendship between Jim and Nyota is a pleasant surprise to me.

Observation #318: Upon Chekov’s return to Earth, Jim was inconsolable for a week. He still wrote him a letter of recommendation for a higher position on the command chain.

Observation #325: Sulu and Nyota continually ask me about my preferred metals and precious stones. I have no theory as to why this is, but Jim seems to find it embarrassing.

Observation #359: Whenever Jim looks at the ring on my finger, he cannot cease grinning.