Archive of Our Own

Spock was cold, mildly but constantly . He had never gotten used to the chilly climate humans preferred, though he was always cold on the Enterprise. With one word, Spock could order the crew to raise the ship’s temperature, even by just a few degrees, even just in whatever room he happened to be in. But he was not the kind of captain to put his needs above his crew’s. He could bear discomfort, so he did. Even today, though it was an uncomfortable day in more ways than one. 

Spock stood before the transporter pad, hands behind his back where he gripped his wrists to trap his body heat. To the transporter technician behind him, it might have looked as though he were hiding his rank stripes. Though his gold tunic and unique appearance would identify him as the captain of this vessel as soon as Commander James Tiberius Kirk arrived.

Commander James Tiberius Kirk was the other source of discomfort Spock was tasked with enduring today. The mere idea of him caused Spock’s spine to straighten and his jaw to clench. Not because of anything Kirk himself had done (Spock hadn’t even met the man yet), but because Spock already knew how this would end. Starting today, Kirk would be his new first officer. Another new first officer. For a time, at least.

Kirk had come highly recommended for the role by Captain Garrovick of the Farragut, and while Spock had great respect for his fellow Starfleet captains, he knew that Kirk would be like all the others. He had resigned himself to it, in fact. Kirk would last a few months like Commander Czena, or a few weeks like Commander Parson, or a few days like Commander Bayek, or at worst a few seconds like Commander Dover. Then he and Spock would prove their inability to work together and Kirk would leave or Spock would dismiss him. Greeting the man now seemed like an unnecessary formality.

It was a running joke on the Enterprise, that Captain Spock went through first officers like tribbles went through quadrotriticale. Spock found no humor in it, however. Six people had come and gone from his side over the year and a half he had been captain. The first didn't care for Spock’s cool detachment, and disagreed with him on nearly every point. She made rash decisions, disobeyed orders, and ultimately requested a transfer. Another had put Spock on a pedestal from the moment they met, failed to contradict him or offer insight or feedback. Spock had dismissed that one from their post. 

He needed someone to challenge him, but not to disobey his command. He needed someone to respect him, but not to idolize him. He needed someone intelligent, confident, open-minded, humble, resilient, adaptable and —

Well, he had a list, anyway. That was just the start of it.

On paper, all six of his former first officers had been a perfect fit. But no one was perfect. Which was why Spock doubted that Kirk, with all his commendations and recommendations and medals and certifications, could be what he seemed from his file. 

But a captain needed a first officer. And for now, at least, Spock needed James Kirk.

Silence prickled through the transporter room, like the ship’s constant chill, as Spock stood in contemplation of the transporter pad. But he could not put off this duty for long. Already the technician behind him seemed to grow restless, his shoes squeaking on the sleek floor as he shifted.

And though Spock was Vulcan, and therefore did not sigh, he did take a deep breath before finally he spoke. 

“Beam him aboard,” he said, as grim as if ordering his own execution. 

The ensign seemed to startle, but with a muttered “Yes sir,” he brought the machine to life with a familiar whirr and hum.

Crystals of light swirled from the base of the transporter pad to its ceiling, a single circle alight and twirling in glimmers of white and yellow. Eddies of energy swirled around two polished shoes, building up from Kirk’s ankles a pair of crisp slacks, a science-blue uniform shirt, and the broad shoulders of a young human man. 

The light revealed Kirk inch by inch, and Spock’s eyes drifted at once to Kirk’s face when it was revealed. A charming wave of light brown hair fell over his forehead, and his golden eyes crinkled — a beaming expression that sounded a red alert in Spock’s head immediately.

When the glow of the transporter beam faded and the machine quieted once again, their eyes met. Kirk’s boyish smile grew impossibly wider. 

“Captain Spock,” he greeted, practically skipping off the pad to stand before Spock, as if he didn’t know he was being appraised. He held his hand aloft in the ta’al, and Spock did the same.

Already, Kirk made a more favorable impression than Commander Dover, who had rushed to shake Spock’s hand upon meeting him. Spock had nerve-pinched the man out of reflex. That had been the end of their short partnership, and both of them had been given formal reprimands. 

“Commander Kirk,” Spock greeted, relieved to have avoided a repeat of that particular incident. “Welcome aboard.” 

“Glad to be here, Captain Spock, Ensign Ramirez.” Kirk nodded to the transporter technician. Spock glanced over his shoulder at Ramirez, gratified that he wasn't the only one of them to look surprised.

“Are the two of you acquainted?” Spock asked, as Ramirez froze, seemingly shocked into silence that a superior officer had even acknowledged him. 

“Well, we are now, aren't we Mister Ramirez?” Kirk chuckled. It was a bright, musical thing, recalling Spock of wind chimes and soft bells. “I’ve been studying the crew roster,” he admitted brightly. “I wanted to be prepared for my first day.”

Some captains might find such preparation commendable, even endearing. But Spock couldn't help a surge of predictable disappointment. Kirk was one of those . Dazed and excited by the prospect of serving on the fleet's flagship, and desperate to prove himself. 

Spock began a mental countdown to Kirk’s departure. Three months, he decided. That's all this Kirk would be able to take. The reality of the Enterprise’s frequent dangers would prove too much for an idealist. Such was the case with Commander Czena, after all.

“I regret to inform you, Mister Kirk, but no preparation or study will ready you for work on the Enterprise.”

To his surprise, this didn't dim the shine of Kirk’s smile at all. Instead a honey flush of delight hit his cheeks. Spock blinked at him.

“That is exactly why I'm here, Captain. To experience the kinds of things I can only experience on this ship, with this crew. It’s an honor.” Spock did not fail to see the determination in Kirk’s eyes. “You won't regret this.”

Four months, Spock conceded. Kirk might last four months, if he could act on the determination he projected.

“That is yet to be seen,” Spock said. Before Kirk could respond, Spock turned toward the door. He didn’t need to motion for Kirk to follow him, because the second Spock made a move to leave the room, Kirk fell into step behind him like a puppy might run after its owner. 

“Nice to meet you, Ramirez,” Kirk said with a wave to the transporter technician. “Thank you for the beam-in!”

Spock held his wrists tighter behind his back.

It was protocol to give new crew members a tour of the ship, and especially important for one of the command team to become quickly acquainted with its layout and crew. But as Spock led Kirk around the Enterprise, aft to fore and back again, he came to understand that familiarizing Kirk with the ship would hardly be necessary.

Apparently the young commander’s preparation had included more than reviewing crew rosters. Blueprints, schematics, floorplans, maps, even the layout of the Jeffries tubes — Kirk had studied it all, and his memory was nearly Vulcan. As Spock led Kirk through endless hallways, labyrinthine and lively as a rabbit warren, Spock became rather convinced that Kirk knew more about the Enterprise than he himself did.

For some reason, this irritated Spock. Even annoyed him — a far from dignifying emotion for a Vulcan. 

So he could not suppress his relief when he finally came to a halt outside the final stop of their tour: Kirk's private quarters. Blandly, he gestured to the door. “And finally, your quarters, Commander. I wish you a restful night. Alpha shift begins at 0700 hours, so I expect —”

“Wait, Captain,” Kirk interrupted, and there was a smile on his lips. Spock wore a look of dull neutrality at best, and outright vexation at worst, so he failed to see how the commander could be smiling at him. “Garrovick wasn’t kidding; you really are straight to business.”

“Was the tour unsatisfactory in some way?”

Then, that sound again. Bells and whistles, Kirk’s chuckle. “No,” he rushed to say, “no it was fine. Just, I have a good sense of the ship, but I’d like to get to know you a little better.”

“Why?” Spock asked, not one to waste words.

“Because we’re going to be a team. Our working relationship will be more collaborative if we have some familiarity with each other.” It was a logical enough statement, but something under Kirk’s tone felt teasing . Spock was already the butt of one joke on this ship. He did not want to suffer another.  

When Spock didn’t answer, Kirk leaned casually against his room’s doorframe, nodded toward it as if in invitation. “Why don't you join me for some dinner? Quickest way to make friends is over a meal.” 

Kirk’s hazel eyes were bright and warm, big and entreating like a baby sehlat asking for a treat. 

Spock gripped his wrists behind his back again. Not because he was cold this time, but because — for a strange and uncomfortable moment — he felt a rush of warmth within him. 

“Very well,” he agreed, despite himself. 

Kirk’s smiles came easily, his laughter bubbling under his surface like a hot spring. And Spock supposed Kirk was correct. They could do with ‘getting to know each other.’ 

And they did.

That evening, as Kirk wolfed down two full fried chicken sandwiches and drank four cups of coffee, and Spock pecked at a tofu dish he didn’t quite have the appetite for, Spock learned a few things about his new first officer.

One, Kirk was observant, and sharply intuitive. Before the door had even closed behind them, Kirk raised the temperature in his quarters. “You seem cold,” he had said with a smile, when Spock gave him an inquisitive look. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

Two, Kirk thought himself a comedian, or at least seemed to enjoy what he believed was humor. Kirk had asked Spock’s beverage order, and Spock had said tea; it would have been a perfectly normal interaction with anyone else. “Well you should call security, then,” Kirk had said with a glint in his eye, and Spock raised an eyebrow.

“Why?”

“You're about to get mugged !” Kirk laughed, louder than his chuckle but no less musical.

In moments a mug had been set in front of Spock, full of something green and floral. Kirk didn't partake, but he looked pleased when Spock drank it, even if Spock only did so to stop himself from dismissing Kirk on the spot. “I need about a bucket of coffee to wind down for the day,” Kirk had said. “So the tea is all yours.”

Three, and related: Kirk was energetic. He gestured as he spoke, twirled his mug around the table in idle circles, bounced his leg up and down until his chair shook. Spock grew tired merely watching him, but that energy never waned.

Four, Kirk expressed himself honestly, perhaps to a fault. “Everyone I talked to about this assignment said you were scary,” he said at one point in the evening. “You don't seem scary to me.”

Scary, people called him. Cold. Stubborn. Stoic. He could only be confused that Kirk had begun to develop a differing opinion of him.

And finally five, Kirk was a social creature. Also perhaps to a fault. And he wanted to be social with Spock , of all people. He suggested a game of chess before Spock retired for the evening, and remarked on the convenience of their shared bathroom and Spock’s quarters just next door. He said, “Call me ‘Jim’ off duty. I hope we can be friends,” with a grin so wide it could have been a crescent moon hanging in Earth’s sky. 

He asked Spock if he wanted to stay after dinner. To “hang out.”

Spock did not want to call Kirk “Jim,” and he did not want to “hang out.” In fact, as he closed the door to his own quarters at the end of too long an evening in Kirk’s company, he nearly allowed himself to sigh, wholly unbecoming though it may have been, especially for the second time in one day.

Of his own volition and determination, Kirk might last four months aboard the Enterprise. If Spock had his way, their partnership might end quite a bit sooner.

Though Kirk had said that Spock didn't scare him, Spock sensed in himself a growing fear of Kirk .

Whatever alarms the sight of Kirk’s face had set off in Spock’s mind, they had yet to abate. In fact, despite the night's conversation and Kirk’s easy familiarity, they only intensified. 

Maybe Spock was the problem after all. 

The red alert wailed in his ears, and Spock gripped his swimming head. The floor beneath him was cold, hard, and already he could tell his wrist had snapped, blood seeping to stain his gold sleeve green. 

Something sparked and sizzled nearby as the ship gave another violent lurch, and someone else on the bridge shouted. Spock’s head and neck and wrist and back throbbed with the pain of impact, and his vision faded dangerously at its edges.

He had to stand, to act. He was the captain. The ship was under attack. He had to stand, to move, to lead, to  —

“Medical team to the bridge; the captain is injured.” Kirk’s voice — calm but firm — rose above the blare of the alarm, cut through the fog in Spock’s skull like a lighthouse beam, though Spock barely recognized it as the voice of his new first officer.

“Sulu, evasive maneuvers,” Kirk continued. “Uhura, hail them again.”

“No response, Commander!”

Spock cracked open his bleary eyes, vision wavering over a blue blur of a person, standing by Spock’s empty chair. As he blinked, the figure came into focus — and of course it was Kirk, staring at the viewscreen with a look of steely certainty in his eyes.

“Phasers,” Spock groaned at him, head hurting too much to think, too much to suppress. He shifted, tried to struggle to his feet without the aid of his snapped wrist, but Kirk knelt at his side. He set a hand on Spock’s shoulder, warm, firm, and it kept Spock down. The violent lurching of his brain in his skull seemed to slow while Kirk had hold of him.

“Wait Captain, not yet,” Kirk said. Spock didn’t know if he meant to halt Spock standing, or belay the order to ready phasers. “They’re targeting nonessential areas of the ship. Their intention isn’t to hurt us. I think they’re trying to scare us away.”

“It is working, sir!” Chekov shouted from the navigational station. 

“Hold steady, Chekov.”

Another crash shook the bridge as something made impact, and Spock grit his teeth. He tried to stand, but all his limbs prickled with pain and his head felt like a boat tossed on troubled seas, and Kirk kept his hand solid and unmoving on Spock’s shoulder. 

“Are you sure, Kirk?” Spock asked, a full sentence at least. But unconsciousness threatened to take him the harder he tried to push it away. 

Kirk looked to him. “No,” he said, “But I suggest —” 

“Give the order,” Spock interrupted. 

It pained Spock to release his control, but he was useless to his crew right now. Kirk had determined a best course of action, and Spock couldn’t think to contradict him. To advise him. To give his own orders.

Kirk nodded before shooting to his feet and stepping to the back of the helmsman’s seat. The absence of his touch unsettled Spock, who steeled himself against a rush of nausea. 

“Sulu, bring us backwards, full impulse,” Kirk ordered. “If they won't let us tell them, then show them we mean no harm.”

Spock stared from his place on the floor, attempting to reconcile this man with the one he had met just yesterday, who cracked bad jokes and irritated Spock into sighing, who Spock had predicted would balk in the face of real danger.

And instead he was shining. 

Spock didn't hear the turbolift open, nor the rapid footfalls coming toward him. But he felt Doctor McCoy’s hands on his shoulders where the warmth of Kirk’s touch was fading. McCoy guided him to sit straight. He couldn't move, couldn't even look at the doctor. 

Because Kirk was speaking, relaying orders with confidence, clarity, purpose. And the crew who had only met him this morning rushed to obey. 

Spock didn’t know he was staring until Kirk glanced his way and caught his eyes. 

“Captain—”

McCoy waved Kirk away as he wrestled Spock to his feet. Spock did his best to stand on his own, legs shaking, the pain in his head and neck spiking with each movement. He couldn’t take command like this, and McCoy seemed to know it. “I’m taking the Captain to sickbay,” he said, in a tone that brokered no room for argument. 

“Understood,” Kirk said. Then, to Spock: “Any orders?”

Spock met Kirk’s eyes, and for a moment the bridge faded away. The red alert quieted, the threat of further fire ceased, and all Spock saw was Kirk. That determination in his eyes hadn’t faded — might never fade — and it gave Spock a sense of peace. 

Looking at Kirk now, something rose warm in Spock’s chest that he hadn’t felt in a long time.

“Mister Kirk, you have the conn,” he ordered. 

Trust.

“So I guess they’re like salmon,” Kirk was saying, gesturing enthusiastically from his perch on the edge of Spock’s biobed. “They return to this section of the quadrant each year to lay their eggs in orbit around Kannikus VI. The commander of their vessel apologizes for firing on us, by the way. Said they thought we were here to eat their kids. I don’t know about you, but the egg of a sentient reptilian species that incubates their young in the vacuum of space does not sound like a balanced breakfast to me."

Spock was staring at him again. Since McCoy had shuffled Spock to sickbay and Kirk had taken charge, he had been overcome with thoughts of Kirk’s effortless command, and such thoughts only intensified by the time the conflict ended and Kirk came down to ‘check on’ him. 

If he had to name the nature of these thoughts, he would call it shame. 

“Ah, apologies, Captain,” Kirk said when he realized Spock was not about to respond. “I can save all this for the official report and let you —”

“Kirk,” Spock interrupted. He paused. Then, “Jim, I should say.”

Jim gave no indication that he was surprised nor pleased by the use of the nickname, but Spock sensed both in him anyway. “Yes?”

“You did well,” Spock said. It wasn’t difficult to say, but it was unfamiliar. Uncomfortable. Kirk had earned Spock’s discomfort. “Thank you.” 

Jim’s smile crested over Spock like a sunrise. Spock blinked into it, vision clearing until something appeared to him on the horizon of his mind; something that he didn’t know how to describe because it had never existed before this moment. Light, and air, and awe. 

“Thank you, Captain.”

Jim’s voice sounded familiar, warm. When Spock spoke, he feared his would sound the same. “You may call me Spock, off duty.”

“Spock, then,” Jim said. “You know you scared the hell out of me, right, Spock?”

“You said I was not ‘scary.’” 

“I mean when you nearly passed out.” Jim’s tone was like that of a fretting mother. 

“You did not appear to be scared.” Spock did not dwell on the ember in his chest that flared, just slightly, at the thought of Jim worrying for him. “In fact, I believe your calm demeanor helped the crew — and myself — remain focused.”

“They were worried about you too,” Jim said. “The crew, I mean. You’re a great captain, Spock.”

“And you have the makings of a fine first officer.” He was no longer surprised that the statement was true. In the past 24 hours, his opinion of Commander Kirk — Jim — had transformed into something unrecognizable.

Even Spock could admit he had made a mistake, judging Jim as quickly and decisively as he had.

“I know this was a bumpy first day, you getting injured and all,” Jim said. He seemed almost shy as he rubbed the back of his neck. “But … we’re going to make a good team, you and I.”

As Spock had deduced, Jim was indeed observant. 

Spock needed someone observant. He needed someone intelligent, confident, open-minded, humble, resilient, adaptable…

Well. He needed Commander James Tiberius Kirk. At least, for now.

“I believe we will.”

And they did. 

The next week, Spock saved Jim’s life from a creature in the woods of a strange new planet, incapacitating the creature and carrying Jim to safety on his back. Jim didn't let the experience scare him. Rather, he laughed about it in Sickbay when all was resolved. Jim was resilient. 

Later that month, Jim worked with Spock for five consecutive hours, parsing through the details of new away mission regulations and their implications. His insights were not just welcome, but necessary, and Spock found himself more prepared for the next new world than he had ever been. Jim was intelligent.

The next month, they started playing chess together. Jim proclaimed proudly that he had been captain of Riverside High’s chess club, but he didn't gloat when he won — though he won every single game. Jim was confident. Jim was humble.

Not too long after that, an emergency with the warp core necessitated Jim’s expertise. For a few hours, he shed the titles of science officer and first officer, and crawled through tubes and burned himself on wires and helped the engineering team get the core back online. Jim was adaptable.

The next year, Jim invited Spock to his quarters for an anniversary dinner — an anniversary Spock thought they would never reach. Jim had been Spock's first officer for a year. A full year. And they ate together and recalled their strangest missions, and Jim laughed so bright and warm that Spock thought he could curl up beside him like a campfire and feel protected from the dark and the cold and the wilderness. 

Somehow, Jim had seen something in Spock worthy of friendship. Jim was not just open-minded, but actively curious, and Spock felt honored that he had been a subject of that curiosity.

After that, they began to eat dinner together nearly every night in Jim’s quarters, under the pretense of work. But while Jim would stick his nose in a DataPADD night after night, fidgeting with the stylus, hyperfocused … Spock would observe him in his quiet simplicity. 

He would remember the alarm bells that rang in his head when he first saw Jim’s smile, and he would finally understand why. 

Because that smile could ruin him if he let it. 

He didn't let it.

Instead, that smile became his source of strength. Meeting Jim each morning in their adjoining bathroom just to brush their teeth in silence together; working through a complicated first contact mission with all the diplomacy and finery that made Spock so tense; navigating the halls of an unfamiliar starbase, just the two of them, getting hopelessly lost and both pretending they weren't  — Spock always found himself turning to Jim’s smile for comfort, certainty, warmth.

Spock’s affection grew so naturally, like a flower sprouting, rising, blooming and turning its face to the sun, that Spock could never bring himself to pluck it from its roots.

A long two years after first meeting Jim, Spock finally began to acknowledge the word he had thus far avoided: Love . 

By the time he understood that he loved Jim in every way it was possible to love a person, the force of his feelings did not surprise him. It was inevitable.

Jim had been Spock’s missing piece. Where Spock faltered, Jim stood strong. Where Spock questioned, Jim answered. Where Spock feared, Jim helped him regain his courage. Their compatibility was unmatched in Spock’s experience. Unmatchable, in Spock’s opinion.

Now, three years into their partnership, Spock was in love, deeply and constantly . Jim could not possibly reciprocate, but Spock tolerated that truth like he tolerated the cold. He was not the kind of person to put his needs above Jim’s. He could bear discomfort, so he did. He had to.

After three years, he could not fathom Jim ever leaving his side. 

Spock was warm. He was always warm in Jim’s quarters. Jim kept the temperature hot enough to feel nearly Vulcan, and always assured Spock that he had begun to like it that way, too. Spock questioned his motives (Jim was too considerate for his own good), but the warmth was welcome. Always, as it was tonight.

Jim placed a mug of tea in front of Spock on the desk, coming to sit across from him with his own cup of coffee, so similar to their first night, and so different. He smiled over the lip of his cup as he took a sip, and seemed to let out a breath of relief.

“Another long day,” he said as he set the mug down. He twisted it absently by its handle as Spock stared. “I think we’re overdue for some shore leave.” 

“You have more than enough leave accrued for a period of respite,” Spock pointed out, and Jim grinned at him.

“So do you. More than me, even. I’m not taking a vacation until you take a vacation.” 

“You mean to suggest we will vacation together?” 

Jim gifted Spock his laugh — that laugh more beautiful than any piece of music composed by man or Vulcan — and raised his mug as if in toast. 

“Oh sure, why not? I'll take you to the farm to meet my parents.” 

His laugh faded into an amused little chortle, but Spock found no humor in the suggestion. It could be nice, in fact. To spend time with Jim off duty, off the ship, off on some world — even Earth — where they could exist together in simple serenity. Spock tended to long for such solitude with Jim.

“Then I must show you Shi’khar,” Spock offered. It was only fair if Jim opened his life and family to Spock that he should do the same. “It may be a less forgiving climate than Iowa, for a human, but it is beautiful.” 

Jim looked pleased with the arrangement for a moment, and his pleasure caused the same in Spock. If Jim was happy, Spock could only ever be. Already, Spock began to sift through the calendar in his head. A week, or two, when the ship could spare its command team. It would likely be after their five-year mission concluded, but that wasn't so far away now.

Surak help him, Spock was looking forward to it.

But then the smile fell from Jim’s face, little by little, like twilight encroaching. He blinked at Spock, assessing him, always seeing something in him that Spock didn't even know he was capable of expressing.

“Wait,” Jim said, tone indecipherable. “You're serious.”

“Of course,” Spock replied, as if he could be anything but. A stone fist of doubt snatched the balloon rising in Spock’s chest, and dragged it back to the ground. “Are you … not?”

“Spock,” Jim began, in a tone of voice that had always preceded bad news. “I’m sorry, I was just joking.”

Spock’s stomach lurched. Of course, Jim liked to joke. Sometimes even at Spock's expense. It had become a hallmark of their friendship over the years, good-natured and companionable. But this joke was not funny. 

“I see,” Spock said. That was seemingly enough for Jim to interpret every emotion that flickered over Spock’s face, including his hurt.

“It is not like that,” Jim said quickly, setting down his mug. “Whatever you're thinking, it's not like that.”

“I apologize for misinterpreting your intent,” Spock said.

“No, don't apologize, please. It’s not —” Jim paused, breathed, impatient with himself. “It's… complicated.”

“What is complicated?” Spock asked, nearly incredulous. Jim had never met a knot too complicated to slice through. When Jim didn’t immediately answer, Spock leveled his eyes at his first officer — his friend. “You do not seem yourself.” 

Something in Jim’s resolve crumbled. He held Spock’s eyes for a moment — solid and intent — and then dropped his gaze to the table. “Okay. Right. I suppose we’re doing this now, then.” Spock held his breath as Jim continued. “There's something we need to talk about, Spock.” 

Spock was unaware of any issues that required their joint attention — nothing but the chess game they had abandoned earlier that day, still sitting unfinished beside them. Nerves rose inside him, unbidden and inexplicable. By Jim’s demeanor, the subject must have been grim indeed.

“Please speak your mind, Jim,” Spock prompted gently. Jim stared at his coffee like a scrying pool. 

“I’ve been putting this off,” Jim admitted. “Maybe too long. But if we’re talking about taking shore leave together, I just …” He pinched the bridge of his nose, a common gesture when he was stressed. Spock wanted to take his hand, soothe any worry that had eked its way into Jim’s mind. He didn’t. “I don't want you to mislead you,” Jim finally finished.

The blood rushed from Spock’s face, and a sense of cold gripped him, even in the warmth of Jim’s quarters and company. 

Had Jim discovered Spock’s feelings for him? Spock neither needed nor wanted Jim to know the depths of his affections. But Jim always saw through him. That was what made them such a spectacular team. If Jim knew how Spock felt, of course he would want to make it clear to Spock that their friendship would be nothing more.

“Explain,” Spock prompted. It was the only thing he could think to say.

Jim grimaced, still refusing to meet Spock's eyes. “Okay, okay. I … just give me a moment.” Reluctantly, Jim grabbed his DataPADD from the table beside them, turned it on, and held it wordlessly to Spock. “It's all in here,” he said quietly.

Spock took it as though Jim were handing him a live bomb. “What is this?” He asked without reading it.

“Spock, please,” Jim gestured to the PADD. 

Spock could never deny a request of Jim’s.

When he finally lowered his eyes to the PADD, the reason for Jim’s reluctance slapped Spock with world-shattering clarity. The first words on the screen were enough to knock the breath from Spock’s lungs, and though he knew his face would not betray his shock, Jim could probably hear his rapid heartbeat.

He could never deny a request of Jim’s. But a transfer request?

Spock had to deny it. Spock had to say —

“No,” he said firmly, before he even realized the word had fought its way from his lips. 

“No?” Jim parroted, he sat straighter in his seat. “Spock —”

“I do not understand,” Spock said coolly, rage and fear warring inside him. “Our five-year mission is nearly complete and a transfer at this time would be wholly disruptive. We have been commended 48 times for our work as a command team, and a further 117 times for our work as a crew. You often express your contentment with your role on this ship. Moreover, you have been…” Spock stopped himself short, because he couldn't finish that sentence. Not aloud. 

You have been everything I wanted and needed. You have been happy. You have been by my side for three years. You have been my strength and my heart all this time and you — 

“I know,” Jim said, and he shoved back from the table to stand, to pace. 

Maybe he did know. Maybe that was why he wanted to leave.

Spock stood, too. He tossed the PADD on the desk, and moved to meet Jim in the center of the room, to block his path, to make sure Jim saw him.

“Jim, if I have harmed our relationship, even irredeemably, please allow me to apologize.”

“What? Spock, no, it's not you.”

“You are my seventh first officer,” Spock said, his voice threatening to shake. “You are the one I trusted to stay. If it is not my doing, then what —”

“Spock, it's not you.” Jim grabbed his shoulder, caught Spock’s eyes and refused to let go. Just as he had that day on the bridge when he proved himself. And every day since, when he proved himself to be everything Spock had been seeking.

There was a long pause, a heavy silence, just their breath and the blood rushing through Spock’s ears. 

Jim would leave him. Jim wanted to leave him.

“Then you must tell me,” Spock said, calmer now on the surface as a storm stirred up his skies inside. “Why?” 

Jim’s fingers curled tighter into Spock’s shirt, hand hot where it gripped him. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I want to tell you,” he said, and Spock believed him. Jim was honest, perhaps to a fault. 

“You must.” 

“Spock, please. Make this easy on me.” Jim tried to smile. It was a ghost of the grin that had first taken Spock’s breath.

“I refuse,” Spock said firmly, and Jim let him go, staring at him in disbelief. “You are Commander James Tiberius Kirk. I have never known you to care whether something was easy before risking life and limb for it.” 

“It's more than life and limb this time,” Jim protested.

“Are you in trouble?” Spock asked. He took a step forward, and Jim took one back. “I can assist —”

“Not with this!” 

“Jim —” 

“Alright!” Jim practically shouted. “All right. It is you, alright? It's everything about you.” Spock’s heart sank, his stomach clenched. 

No. No . How had he pushed away the single being in the universe who fit his jagged edges? 

“Jim —”

But before Spock’s grief could sweep him away, Jim threw his hands in the air, despairing. “It's how kind you are to me. How funny, and — and brilliant , and how well we get along. It's how handsome you are, and you have absolutely no idea, do you? You make me so comfortable, and happy, and it's terrible, because you've absolutely spoiled me. I always want more of you.”

Spock stared. Jim’s steam drifted away, slow, his shoulders falling. “I need to transfer, Spock,” he said mournfully. “If I can't stop loving you, and believe me I have tried , then it is only fair to you that I take my feelings and go. I love the Enterprise. I love my job. I love working with the crew and — and you. But I also love you , and I can't live like this. We can’t take shore leave together. We can’t serve together. Not while I want more from you than you will ever be willing to give.” Jim paused, took a deep and steadying breath. “So. There. You got it out of me after all. Are you happy?”

Silence fell around them like rain, and Spock blinked, unable to identify happiness in the myriad emotions that churned like an ocean inside him. He could identify awe, shock, disbelief, longing …  hope, even, that this was true .

But Spock could not feel happiness until Jim heard Spock’s truth, too. Until Jim understood that they could both be happy.

“See?” Jim said. He laid a hand on the table behind him, steadied himself as if the confession had weakened him. “This is why I didn't want to tell you. I didn't want you to look at me like …” he tossed a hand in Spock’s direction. “Like that.” 

“How am I looking at you, Jim?” 

“Like you’re uncomfortable. Like that first day we met, like I’m some suspicious stranger, like you don’t…” He paused, then, quieter, “trust me."

Jim stared at Spock as Spock stared at him, and Spock marveled that for all this damn staring they had somehow never seen each other.

He saw Jim now. Resplendent. Scared.

“I have failed you indeed if you believe that is how I feel,” Spock managed to say. He was frozen with disbelief, but he had to speak, didn’t he? He had to tell Jim. Ater all this time, he had to tell him. “I have made assumptions that have caused you harm, and I have not been honest with you, as you always are with me. Please, allow me to rectify this.”

“What?” Jim asked numbly. 

Spock took a step forward. This time, Jim could not step back. “If I had the courage to tell you when these… feelings first made themselves known to me, perhaps I could have spared us both. But I must tell you now.”  Spock should have said it before. A thousand times. He had thought he was content in their friendship, but that could only be the case if his feelings were unrequited. But Spock saw now, the mirror image of his love in Jim. 

“I also love you, Jim,” he finally said. A confession, a concession, a necessity. Freedom.  “I have loved you for longer than even I may ever know. Perhaps since the day we met, if I had been strong enough to admit to it then. But you have made me stronger. Loving you has made me stronger.”

“Did you just say…” Jim started, unable to finish. Hope bloomed in his eyes, spread its petals to the corners of his lips, and Spock wanted to brush the curl from Jim’s forehead so he could see every inch of it.

And he did.

With a final step forward, he brought a hand to Jim’s hairline and slowly — achingly slowly — pushed it back. “I love you, Jim. Deeply. Ardently.”

Spock had thought the disbelief of love returned would paralyze Jim as it had him, but Jim was resilient, quick to recover. No sooner had the words left Spock’s mouth than Jim grabbed Spock by the biceps and yanked him forward.

Their lips met, more gentle than Jim’s grip, and Spock closed his eyes against the rush of feeling. Spock had never kissed someone in this way, never thought he would want to until Jim. But Jim urged Spock’s lips open with his own and drank Spock in, and Spock tasted the bitter coffee on Jim’s breath. And suddenly he wanted this more than he’d ever known he could.

With the hand in Jim’s hair, he cradled Jim’s head, kept him close. His other hand cupped Jim’s jaw and teased Jim’s meld points, the brush of their skin electric. Jim made a small noise of delight into Spock’s mouth, and Spock swallowed it, pushed closer — impossibly closer. 

When Jim pulled back, eyes wide and heart hammering loudly in his chest where they pressed together, Spock felt dazed, undone.

“Jim,” he half-whispered, croaked, choked on the emotion rising in his throat. “I formally deny your transfer request. You may not and will not leave my side.” 

“Never,” Jim said, breathless himself. “Where’s that PADD? I’ll toss it in the antimatter converter, shoot it out an airlock, something.” He smiled, their faces still too close for Spock to see the look in its entirety, but through the touch of their skin he could feel it. In Jim’s voice, he could feel it. 

They stayed like that for many moments, Jim’s hand falling to take Spock’s in a Vulcan kiss, though Jim likely didn’t recognize it as such. Spock stroked his fingertips, lazy, indulgent, awed. He placed a human kiss to Jim’s cheek, the curve of his jaw, the lobe of his ear, and Jim shuddered beautifully.

“I should have told you,” Jim said after a time, tilting his face to breathe the admission against Spock’s ear. “If you were anyone else, I would have.”

“What was different?” Spock asked, only idly curious with the distraction of Jim’s proximity, his intoxicating warmth.

“Everything’s different with you, Spock,” Jim said. “You’re not just someone I love. You’re my friend, my captain, my partner. I’d have rather lost you by my choice than by yours, and that was silly of me. And, well, rude. You deserved a choice.”

“And I would rather have loved you in silence, kept you at arm's length than dare to tell you. You also deserved a choice, Jim.”

Though he didn’t want to do so, Spock pulled back just a little, just so when he urged Jim to lift his head, he could look deeply into those honey eyes. Jim smiled sadly, and said, “I’m sorry.”

“As am I.” 

The sun of Jim’s smile broke through the clouds, and he held Spock’s hand tighter. Flushed, Spock attempted not to look as shy as he felt at the intimacy of their touch. 

“Now that our apologies are out of the way,” Jim said, “what are we going to do now? I'm not supposed to date a superior officer, you know. Starfleet may require me to transfer after all.”

“Regulation is vague on that matter,” Spock said. “And in any case I refuse to undergo another search for a new first officer.”

Jim’s laugh caught Spock off guard, but in the most beautiful way. He found himself nearly smiling. 

“Stuck with me, then?” Jim asked, hopeful.

“And honored to be,” Spock replied.

Jim leaned in to kiss him again, slow and sweet. Spock knew he would need practice in this, but he did not think he would mind the effort. 

He would serve beside this man, live alongside him, cherish him, stand on equal footing despite their ranks. In a partner, a first officer, a lover, a friend, Spock needed someone observant, funny, social, considerate, curious, bright, strong, and  —

Well, he needed James Tiberius Kirk. Forever, it seemed. In every way he could have him.

“We are going to be so happy together, you and I,” Jim whispered against his lips, certain. And sure.

And they were.