Work Text:
Jim Kirk wasn’t the type of person to wish harm on anyone, but here and now, standing in the doorway of his new quarters, he had the very strong urge to strangle whoever had screwed up this badly.
“You must be–” He squinted at the nameplate mounted to the door. “Spork?”
“Spock,” the Vulcan staring back at him corrected flatly, “I believe this assignment is in error.”
There were two beds, two desks, and exactly one very uncomfortable-looking Vulcan already halfway through unpacking. His uniforms were folded with military precision, a small case of toiletries aligned at perfect right angles atop his dresser. There was no clutter. No personality. Jim already hated it.
“I filed for a single,” Spock continued, voice cool. “I was told by administration that my request was granted.”
“Yeah, well, I was told I’d be rooming with someone named 'S. Vok.'” Jim dropped his duffel unceremoniously onto the other bed. “Didn’t realize the ‘S’ stood for ‘supremely uptight.’”
Spock raised a single eyebrow. “You are James Kirk.”
“And you’re a mind reader now?”
“No. I am familiar with your disciplinary record.”
Jim grinned. “Ah. My reputation precedes me.”
“It precedes you, and in all statistical likelihood, will outlive you.”
Jim let out a low whistle. “Wow. Okay. That’s cold even for a Vulcan.”
Spock returned to unpacking, clearly unimpressed. “It is not a matter of coldness. It is a matter of fact.”
Jim flopped back onto the bed. The springs creaked in protest. “Well, facts are this: unless someone in admin miraculously finds a spare single dorm in the next twelve hours, we’re stuck with each other. So unless you wanna sleep in the science lab—”
“I already attempted to have the assignment corrected,” Spock interrupted. “No alternatives are presently available.”
“See? That wasn’t so hard. Cooperation. That’s the spirit.”
Spock ignored him. Jim rolled onto his side, propped up on one elbow, and watched as the Vulcan adjusted the angle of his desk lamp by three degrees.
This was going to be hell.
Deliberate, symmetrical hell.
Jim had never really minded sharing a space before. He’d grown up crammed into corners—farmhouses, starbases, refugee shelters. He could handle close quarters just fine.
What he couldn’t handle was this .
Spock sat cross-legged on the floor in the dim light, his posture impossibly straight, hands resting lightly on his knees, breathing in a rhythm so exact it could be measured by chronometer. It had been like this for twenty minutes. Jim lay on his bunk, one arm draped over his eyes, trying not to stare.
“Do you have to do that right now?” he muttered finally.
“I am meditating,” Spock replied, without opening his eyes.
“Yeah, I got that.” Jim rolled onto his side. “Just feels a little... intense. You kind of sound like a haunted air vent.”
Spock exhaled evenly. “Your capacity to anthropomorphize abstract phenomena is... extensive.”
“Thanks, I think.”
Spock said nothing. The silence stretched, heavy as gravity. Jim reached for his PADD, scrolled aimlessly, then gave up and tapped the console on his nightstand. Music filtered softly through the room—low, synth-heavy jazz from New Orleans, 2150s. Old enough to be soothing, not distracting.
Spock’s eyes snapped open. “Please lower the volume.”
Jim grinned. “Is that a request or a command, Commander?”
“I am not a commander. And I am requesting.” A beat. “For now.”
Jim snorted but turned the volume down.
Lights out came at 2200. Spock doused the overheads promptly at 2159. Jim didn’t bother fighting him on it. The room dimmed to a muted blue, the lights of San Francisco just barely visible through the window. Jim drifted off, failing in his struggle to keep his eyes open. Spock did not, somehow unable to fall asleep. It was quiet for a long time.
Then Jim twitched, his sheets rustling with the motion. Spock, lying perfectly still, turned his head toward the sound. Another rustle. A sharp intake of breath. Then a low, hoarse voice from the other side of the room—
“No. No—don’t—please—”
The words were slurred and breathless, as though pushed through clenched teeth. Spock sat up slightly, watching the silhouette of Jim’s body thrashing against the sheets.
He debated.
Then he rose and crossed the room, footsteps silent, and knelt beside the bed.
“Cadet Kirk,” he said softly, and when that didn’t work, “Jim.”
A sharper jerk. Jim bolted upright with a ragged gasp, eyes wide and unfocused. Sweat clung to his brow. Spock didn’t move.
“Get away from me,” Jim snapped, voice raw, instinctive. It took him a second to realize who he was speaking to.
Spock straightened. “You were experiencing a nightmare.”
Jim exhaled shakily. “I’m fine.”
“You were not.” Spock’s tone was neutral, but there was something beneath it. Concern, maybe. Or something adjacent. “May I inquire as to the cause?”
Jim scrubbed a hand over his face. “You may not.”
Spock tilted his head. “I see.”
There was a long pause.
Jim lay back down and turned his face to the wall. Spock waited a moment longer, then returned to his bed.
Neither of them slept much.
It started with pure boredom.
Jim had gotten back early from piloting drills, sweaty, sore, and halfway to dead on his feet. Spock, of course, was off in some xenolinguistics lab doing whatever Vulcans did for fun (Jim suspected it involved conjugating verbs in extinct dialects). The room was quiet. Too quiet. He flopped into his desk chair. His PADD was out of charge. His back hurt. His legs hurt. His brain hurt. And then—there it was. Sitting on Spock’s side of the desk, screen dim but unlocked. A PADD.
Temptation was a hell of a thing.
Jim glanced toward the door. No footsteps. No shadow. He reached out and tapped the screen. It blinked awake with a neat, Vulcan-labeled interface. Folders stacked in clean rows. Academics. Nutrition Logs. Meditation Tracker. And then—
“Behavioral Notes – Subject KIRK, J.T.”
Jim blinked. "Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me."
He tapped it open.
Day 17: Cadet Kirk consumed two energy beverages before 0900 hours. Exhibited hyperactive behavior and performed poorly in class discussion. Possible correlation noted. Will continue observation.
Jim let out a scandalized laugh. “Oh my god, he’s tracking me like a science project.”
Day 23: Left damp towel on floor again. Despite verbal request, behavior persists. Possible resistance to authority? Further analysis required.
Jim cracked his knuckles and got to work.
That night, Spock returned from his seminar to find his PADD resting precisely where he’d left it.
He powered it on. Opened his notes.
Then paused.
Day 23: Left damp towel on floor again...
[Annotation in red, scrolling text]
Possible resistance to authority? OR possibly I was busy saving a fellow cadet from a plasma leak in the holodeck, no big deal, you're welcome, Mr. “I Fold My Socks with Geometric Malice.”
Spock blinked.
Further down:
Day 28: Cadet Kirk exhibited prolonged inattentiveness during academic review. Eyes unfocused, posture slouched. Possible exhaustion?
[Added in Jim’s handwriting]
Possible exhaustion = YES. Have you seen the chair in Astrophysics 207? It’s a war crime.
Spock read through the rest silently. His expression didn’t change, but something behind his eyes flickered. He reached the bottom of the file.
Jim had left one final note, center-aligned in bold blue font:
“Now accepting peer-reviewed evaluations of your behavior, Mister Spock. Please submit to [email protected]. See you at 0600.”
Spock stared at the screen for a full thirteen seconds.
Then he opened a new file.
Title: “Subject: KIRK, J.T. – Counter-Annotations.”
By week four, the log had evolved.
It wasn’t just Jim snooping anymore—it was a fully operational war zone, conducted entirely through dry scientific observation and savage counter-commentary.
Spock never confronted him, naturally. That would be illogical.
Instead, he simply adjusted.
Day 31: Cadet Kirk entered quarters at 0023, muttering to himself. Possibly intoxicated. Declined to answer when asked if he was well.
[Annotation in blue, informal typeface]
“Possibly intoxicated” is slander. I was serenading the stars and making memories, thanks. Also: I was well, until I opened the door and got hit by the scent of burning incense and moral superiority.Day 33: Cadet Kirk consumed three slices of replicated pizza, pepperoni. Left crusts on desk. Ants have not yet appeared but risk is rising. Cleaned them myself.
[Annotation in blue]
...wait, you cleaned them? You? Like, with your hands? Is this an apology? Should I be touched? Are we friends now? Blink once for yes.
Spock did not blink.
But the tone began to shift.
The logs got less clinical. The observations more... specific.
Day 36: Kirk laughed today in Advanced Tactics. The sound disrupted class. However, it was—pleasant.
[Annotation in blue]
You think my laugh is pleasant? Spock. Are you flirting with me in a psychological analysis?
No reply.
Until the next day.
Day 37: I do not flirt. Your laugh is merely statistically distinct from others in frequency and modulation. Also, you have food on your uniform.
[Annotation in red—Spock’s addition]
Again.
Jim nearly choked when he saw it. Spock was annotating his annotations now.
By week five, the entries were practically conversations.
Day 36: Kirk suffered a nightmare again. Third incident this week. I did not wake him this time. He did not speak of it.
[Annotation in blue—sloppier than usual]
Not a big deal. Happens sometimes.
Don’t put that in your little Vulcan diary. I’m fine.
Seriously. Delete it.
[Annotation in red—precisely typed]
Noted. But I will not delete it.
Jim stopped responding for a couple of days after that.
But Spock still updated the log.
Day 38: Kirk returned from drills with minor abrasion on left forearm. Did not seek medical attention. Treated it himself with incorrect antiseptic. Left gauze hanging off elbow.
Visible signs of fatigue. Recommending rest. Will not press.
On Day 39, Jim left a message with no context:
[Annotation in blue, blinking cursor at the bottom of the doc]
You’re not what I expected, you know.
That’s all. Carry on, Commander.
If Spock had feelings about it, he didn’t log them.
But the next day, Jim found a second PADD beside his own—one containing shared notes from Spock’s Linguistics seminar. Color-coded, cleanly organized, with a new folder marked “For Kirk.”
Inside it:
Day 40: Acknowledged. You are not what I expected either.
The scenario was called Protocol 17A: Colonial Emergency Ethics .
It was billed as a command track simulation—an exercise in rapid decision-making under extreme resource scarcity. A planetary disaster. Famine. Civil unrest. Delegates turning on one another. A leadership vacuum and not enough time.
Jim didn’t read the scenario code too closely when he walked in.
He was too busy grinning at the lineup on the sim roster.
“Let me guess,” he said, dropping into the mock command chair with his usual swagger. “We’re co-captains? Or am I supposed to report to you, Commander Spock?”
Spock didn’t look up from the control interface. “I assume we are meant to share authority. I will lead science and logistics. You may handle diplomacy and tactical engagement.”
Jim smirked. “We’re gonna crash and burn.”
Spock’s eyebrow barely twitched. “Only if you are in charge of steering.”
The simulation began. A fungus had wiped out 85% of food production on the colony. Supply lines were offline. The comms were failing. Civilians were rioting.
Jim’s throat tightened.
The names were fake. The map layout was different. But the setup was the same. Too many people. Not enough food. A silent clock ticking in the corner of the screen.
Spock calmly calculated rations. “At the current rate of decay and consumption, we can sustain thirty-seven percent of the population for four weeks.”
The words rang in Jim’s ears like a death sentence.
He tried to respond. His voice came out thin.
“Can we increase hydroponic yield?” he asked. “What about trade routes? Divert other ships—”
“They are too far,” Spock replied. “We must act within the next 12.4 hours to avoid civil collapse.”
On the screen, a line of colonists screamed as another crowd stormed a food cache. The simulated security officers opened fire.
Jim’s hands trembled. He flexed them under the console, tried to steady his breathing. “There’s got to be a third option.”
Spock glanced over. “I am open to suggestions, Cadet Kirk.”
Jim opened his mouth. Then froze.
His vision tunneled.
The console warped. The red emergency overlay flashed too much like fire. Smoke filled his memory. Screams—real ones, not pre-programmed audio. The scent of burning flesh, the sound of someone sobbing for their mother. He was nine again. Hiding behind a dead hydro-cart. Watching neighbors, classmates, strangers be herded toward the field. One of them looked back. She looked just like—
“Cadet Kirk?”
Spock’s voice cut through, sharp but distant.
Jim stood too fast. The chair skidded back and hit the floor with a crash.
He stumbled out of the room, breathing ragged, hands clenched. Somewhere behind him, instructors were calling his name. He didn’t hear them.
He only heard Kodos.
That night, Spock didn’t mention the simulation. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t press. But he did glance at Jim’s hands when he returned to their dorm—still trembling slightly, still marked by half-moon fingernail gouges in his palms.
Jim saw the glance. He saw the restraint, too. So he said, casually, “If you’re gonna log this in your little PADD diary, make sure you get my good side.”
Spock, from his desk: “I have not updated the file.”
Jim shrugged. “Why not?”
Spock’s voice was quiet. “Because today was not data.”
Jim didn’t sleep.
The next day, after class, he checked the cadet scheduling system to request a new sim module.
Something caught his eye.
A line in the system notes:
Formal Complaint Filed – Simulation Protocol 17A – Use of Unauthorized Colonial Tragedy Scenario, Cadet Kirk Assignment (Private Record)
Starfleet Academy
Office of Cadet Affairs – Curriculum Oversight Division
Submitted By: Cadet Spock, S’chn T’gai
Command & Science Track, Class of 2254
Stardate: 2252.34Subject: Request for Immediate Review and Suspension of Simulation Protocol 17A (Colonial Emergency Ethics)
To Whom It May Concern,
I am writing to formally request a comprehensive review and immediate suspension of Simulation Protocol 17A, currently used in Advanced Command Simulations under the Colonial Emergency Ethics module.
While the scenario is labeled as hypothetical and anonymized, a detailed analysis reveals that Protocol 17A bears striking resemblance to the real historical events of the Tarsus IV Massacre in 2246—a tragedy widely acknowledged as one of the most barbarous humanitarian failures in Federation history.
The decision to integrate this content into a live simulation without prior briefing or opt-out accommodations poses not only ethical concerns, but significant risk of psychological harm—particularly for cadets who may have personal connections to the events or their aftermath.
Cadet James T. Kirk experienced acute psychological distress during the exercise. To my knowledge, no assessment was made beforehand to ensure participant well-being. While I am unaware of Cadet Kirk’s full medical or personal history, the severity of his reaction warrants concern and raises questions about informed participation in trauma-replica scenarios.
I strongly recommend:
- An immediate suspension of Protocol 17A pending investigation.
- A formal review of all simulation materials for potential trauma-triggering content.
- That cadets be allowed to opt out of any simulation closely mirroring real historical atrocities.
- That any cadet who experienced adverse effects during this scenario be offered counseling and support without stigma or disciplinary consequence.
- In the event of prior knowledge of Cadet Kirk’s connection to Tarsus IV, a formal apology be provided.
Signed,
Cadet S’chn T’gai Spock
Science Division, Command Track
Jim stared at it.
He read it three times.
And for the first time in weeks, he didn’t have a sarcastic response.
He just sat down on his bunk, pulled out the PADD that had once been a battleground, and opened a new entry.
Day 69: Vulcan cadet submitted complaint to Starfleet Command on my behalf. Did not inform me. May actually have a heart. Or a soul. Or both. Further research required.
Also, I think I owe him a drink.
[Annotation in red, appended one hour later]
If I possess a heart, it is not for public inquiry. Nor was the complaint intended as currency to be exchanged for beverages of questionable nutritional value.
Nevertheless, I find your proposed research... not unwelcome.
For once, the room was warm when Spock returned.
Not just in temperature, though the thermostat had clearly been adjusted. The usual chill that clung to San Francisco evenings had been replaced by something distinctly... comfortable. Ambient warmth lingered in the air—set precisely to the Vulcan equivalent of cozy.
More notably: a cup of tea was waiting on his desk.
Steam curled gently from the mug, unmistakably a Terran blend. Cinnamon, perhaps. Jim Kirk’s scent profile lingered faintly in the air—sweat from drills, some vaguely citrus cologne he pretended not to use, and the sharper note of replicated chili fries.
Spock blinked once.
Jim was sprawled on his bunk, one arm behind his head, pretending to be engrossed in a padd that wasn’t even on.
He didn’t look up. “Room felt cold. Figured you’d be in soon.”
Spock stepped inside, eyeing the tea. “You adjusted the environmental controls.”
Jim shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep anyway.”
Spock studied him. “The room is now calibrated to my preferred ambient range.”
“Yeah. I know.” Jim finally looked up. “Consider it a thank you.”
Spock paused, just briefly, before crossing to his desk. He picked up the mug and sat with his usual precision.
“The gesture is appreciated.”
Jim grinned. “Don’t get used to it.”
“I will make no assumptions.”
Spock turned a page on his datapad. “I had assumed you would be late. You often are after Thursday drills.”
“Cut out early,” Jim said. “Didn’t feel like listening to Peters talk about spatial maneuvering like he invented the concept.”
“Peters believes he is the first being in the quadrant to discover that thrust and altitude control are related.”
Jim smiled into his bunk pillow. “That was almost a joke, Spock.”
Spock inclined his head. “I am capable of humor.”
“Yeah? What do you call that thing you do with your eyebrow every time I say something vaguely emotional?”
“A reflex.”
“Sure. A reflex .”
It was quiet for a moment before Jim’s self-control inevitably ran out. He turned his head to look at Spock. “You didn’t have to file that complaint.”
Spock looked up, carefully neutral. “I am aware.”
Jim nodded. “But you did.”
A pause.
Spock set the datapad down. “The scenario was inappropriate. Even if your connection to it had not been as personal as it clearly was, its construction was ethically flawed. I would have filed the same report regardless.”
“But it was personal.”
Another pause. Another almost-flicker in Spock’s eyes.
“Yes.”
Jim pressed his face deeper into his pillow. “Thanks.”
Spock didn’t respond. But his posture eased—just slightly. Like he’d been holding his breath since the sim and had finally decided it was safe to let it go.
Jim looked at him, really looked, and saw something new there, something that looked a whole awful lot like understanding.
Or the beginning of it.
“You know,” Jim said casually, “I was gonna change your lock screen again as revenge. But now I feel kind of bad about it, and I don’t think I will.”
Spock arched a brow. “It was most illogical of you to assume I would not develop countermeasures.”
Jim blinked. “Wait—have you been reverse-hacking me?”
Spock picked up his datapad. “You will find your personal PADD now requires a password in Ancient High Vulcan.”
Jim made a sound of absolute betrayal. “You monster.”
“You may wish to begin studying your declensions.”
Jim laughed, for real this time. Loud and bright and helpless.
Spock didn’t smile, not completely, but the corner of his mouth twitched, and his eyes softened a little.
It looked nice.
The night snuck up on them.
What started as an innocent study session had turned into a sprawling discussion on Federation policy, and then somehow— naturally, inevitably —evolved into one of their famous late-night debates. Spock sat at his desk, legs folded beneath him, hands steepled as he considered Jim’s argument about frontier expansion and cultural interference. Jim, lying stomach-down on his bed, feet swinging in the air like an indignant teenager, gestured wildly with a stylus.
“No, see, you’re missing the point,” he insisted, eyes bright. “I’m not saying colonization is always good, I’m saying sometimes the Prime Directive prevents us from helping people when they actually want it. You can’t just let a civilization collapse because of a technicality.”
Spock raised a brow. “You are advocating for conditional intervention.”
“I’m advocating for compassion, ” Jim said, throwing a pillow in Spock’s direction. It hit the Vulcan in the shoulder and slid to the floor.
Spock retrieved it calmly. “Emotion is not a reliable foundation for interstellar governance.”
Jim propped himself up on his elbows. “Yeah, well, the Federation was founded on emotion. On hope. On the belief that we could be better.”
Spock studied him for a long moment.
Then: “That is... not an illogical statement.”
Jim blinked. “Did you just agree with me?”
“I believe I agreed with a portion of your premise.”
“Well, I’m calling that a win.”
Silence settled for a while, quiet but not empty. There was the hum of campus hovercraft outside their window, the soft whir of the temperature regulator, and the occasional tap of Spock’s stylus on his datapad.
Then Jim said, offhandedly, “You know I didn’t talk for almost a year after Tarsus?”
Spock froze.
It was the kind of thing that wasn’t meant to be said. Not out loud, at least. Jim didn’t even seem to realize he’d said it. His voice had gone distant, soft around the edges.
“My mom thought I was broken,” he went on. “She tried everything. Therapists. Speech specialists. One guy tried to hypnotize me. But I just—I couldn’t find the point of talking. What was there to say?”
Spock didn’t speak. He didn’t dare interrupt. He just listened.
Jim rubbed the back of his neck. “I remember this one guy—Federation social worker—told me I was lucky to survive. That a lot of kids didn’t. He said it like I should be grateful.” A sharp breath. “I wanted to punch him.”
Spock’s voice, when it came, was low and careful. “You were a child.”
Jim shrugged. “Kids remember more than people think.”
Then, just like that, he blinked and shook his head, laughing under his breath. “Sorry. I don’t know why I said all that.”
“You do not need to apologize.”
Jim glanced at him. There was something unreadable in his expression—tension, yes, but not shame. Something like... relief. Like maybe he’d been waiting to say it to someone, even if he hadn’t meant to.
“It’s funny,” he said. “I don’t talk about Tarsus. Ever. I’ve had roommates, girlfriends, people I’ve known for years—and I’ve never brought it up.”
Spock tilted his head. “And yet you told me.”
Jim met his gaze for a moment. Then looked away.
“Yeah. I did.”
He stood, suddenly restless. “I’m gonna go grab something from the mess. You want anything?”
Spock didn’t answer right away.
Then, softly: “Whatever you’re having is sufficient.”
Jim smiled. It was crooked and tired and maybe a little sad.
“Okay. Be back in five.”
The door hissed shut behind him.
Spock sat for a long time, staring at the spot where Jim had been.
Then he turned back to his PADD, opened a private file, and typed:
Day 76: He trusts me.
It started with a chirp.
Spock ignored it. He was in the middle of a deep-dive translation of a pre-Reform Vulcan dialect and had finally reached a linguistic segment he didn’t already have memorized.
The chirp came again. Louder this time.
He exhaled sharply, set his datapad aside, and tapped the comm.
[Incoming transmission – J.T. KIRK]
Spock frowned. Kirk had left hours ago with Cadet Mallory and several other Command track students to “blow off steam.” Spock had declined the invitation with a firm “I do not steam,” which Jim had found hilarious.
Spock pressed accept.
The screen flickered. Then Jim’s face appeared, way too close to the camera and upside-down.
“Spock!” he said, delighted. “Hi.”
Spock blinked. “You are intoxicated.”
“Little bit,” Jim slurred, holding up two fingers, which wobbled into four. “I lost my coat. Then I lost my coat again. Pretty sure it’s the same coat.”
“Where are you?”
“Uh…” Jim spun the camera. The feed showed neon lights, a fire escape, a suspiciously unconscious Andorian, and something that might’ve been a sandwich—or a small dog.
“Never mind,” Spock said tightly. “Remain where you are. I am on my way.”
Jim grinned. “You’re the best roommate ever, you know that?”
Spock did not reply.
Finding Jim was not difficult. Retrieving him, however, required navigating a swarm of rowdy cadets, a malfunctioning hovercab, and one attempted street performance involving “jazz hands and honest vulnerability.”
By the time Spock got him back to their dorm, Jim was draped over his shoulder like a half-sedated targ.
“You smell like poor decisions,” Spock muttered, easing him down onto the bed.
Jim giggled. “You smell like... cinnamon and superiority.”
Spock opened his mouth, closed it again, and reached for a glass of water.
“I don’t feel good,” Jim added helpfully.
“Then you should not have consumed six syntheholic beverages and attempted a keg stand on a table made of plastic crates.”
Jim flopped backward dramatically. “You watched me?”
“I did not have a choice.”
“Were you worried?” Jim asked, squinting up at him with flushed cheeks and mussed hair.
Spock hesitated. “I was... concerned.”
Jim smiled, soft and loopy. “That’s Vulcan for you care, right?”
Spock opened his mouth to object—and then Jim reached up and brushed his fingers along Spock’s wrist.
Three fingers.
A slow slide from pulse point to palm.
Spock froze.
The room tilted.
The contact was brief—barely a second—but it might as well have been an eternity. Through the pads of Jim’s fingers, a rush of feeling hit Spock like a seismic wave: warmth, affection, chaotic joy, ache, trust so blinding it made Spock’s knees lock.
He pulled away sharply. His hands trembled.
Jim blinked up at him, hazy and smiling. “Hey. You okay?”
“You—” Spock’s voice faltered. “You initiated a touch of... significance.”
“Huh?”
Spock swallowed hard. “On Vulcan, what you just did is considered... intimate.”
Jim squinted. “Like, how intimate?”
Spock didn’t answer.
Jim's expression shifted. He reached up again—this time slower, more deliberate, his fingertips grazing Spock’s cheek in a way that was unmistakably human.
Spock didn’t move. Couldn’t move.
The air between them shimmered. Their faces were too close, breaths mingling. Spock could feel the heat of Jim’s skin, could almost hear the erratic drumbeat of his heart.
And then Jim whispered, “You’ve got really pretty eyes,” and promptly passed out.
Jim woke up facedown on his bed, tasting shame and spearmint toothpaste.
His mouth felt like it had been sandblasted. His head ached. There was a glass of water on his nightstand and two little blue capsules neatly aligned beside it.
He groaned.
Spock’s bed was empty. As usual. Probably off meditating or plotting academic excellence.
Jim sat up, wiped his face, and blinked at the PADD blinking on his desk.
Unread Note: From S. Spock
You consumed excessive synthehol. You should hydrate.
In future, I recommend avoiding tactile gestures whose cultural implications you do not understand.
I remain… unsurprised that you are unaware.
You touched my wrist. You touched my face.
I assume you do not recall.
It is—acceptable.
Jim stared.
The hangover evaporated.
“Oh. Shit. ”
Dr. Leonard McCoy was elbow-deep in inventory when the door to the Academy med lab burst open.
He didn’t look up. “If it’s not gushing blood or actively on fire, come back in an hour.”
“It’s worse,” Jim said hoarsely.
Bones turned, one eyebrow already climbing into orbit. Jim stood there in the doorway, rumpled and pale, hair wild, one shoe missing, and an expression that said my entire world just ended and also possibly I proposed to a Klingon warlord by accident.
McCoy sighed. “What did you break this time?”
“My dignity,” Jim croaked.
“Ah,” Bones said. “A repeat injury.”
Jim staggered forward and collapsed onto the nearest biobed like it was a confessional booth. “I think I Vulcan-kissed my roommate.”
There was a beat of silence. One of Bones’ medical scanners chirped softly. A hypo hissed. Somewhere in the distance, a nurse sneezed.
Bones blinked. “...Do you want to elaborate, or should I just start throwing hypos and hope for the best?”
Jim pushed off the biobed and started pacing. “Okay, so I went out with Mallory and Chen and that idiot Foster—you know, the one with the hair—and I had, like, three drinks. No, four. There was something green in one of them. I think it glowed.”
“I’m calling that drink number five,” Bones muttered.
“And then I lost my coat. Twice. Same coat. And I might’ve tried to karaoke something by The Monkees—unclear. Anyway, I called Spock.”
“Why?”
“Because I trust him!”
McCoy smirked. “That’s friendship, Jim. Or charity.”
“And I was being—” Jim flailed a hand, “— me . I was doing the whole charming, handsy, too-affectionate thing. And I touched his wrist .”
“...Okay?”
“No, not okay ! I touched it like it was just a normal thing to do, and apparently on Vulcan that’s some kind of intimate gesture, and then I touched his face, and now I’ve proposed to him or bonded for life or triggered a mating ritual, I DON’T KNOW—”
“Jesus Christ, sit down before you hyperventilate.”
Jim dropped onto the nearest exam table like a puppet with its strings cut.
McCoy handed him a cup of water. “Okay. Walk me through it. You touched his wrist ?”
Jim nodded miserably. “Like, three fingers. Right over the pulse point. And then his cheek. I think I might’ve brushed the ear a little.”
McCoy winced. “Wow. You really committed. ”
“I didn’t know! ”
“You have a Vulcan roommate and you didn’t research any of the cultural boundaries?”
“I was gonna! Eventually!”
“Jim.” McCoy crossed his arms. “I say this with all the love in my heart: you are a goddamn idiot.”
Jim groaned and flopped backward onto the table, staring at the ceiling. “I think I seduced him.”
“Unknowingly.”
“Yes.”
“Accidentally.”
“Yes.”
“While hammered.”
“YES.”
“And now?”
Jim covered his face with both hands. “Now he sent me a note this morning that reads like a legal deposition and ends with ‘it is—acceptable.’ Bones, what the hell does acceptable mean?! Is that Vulcan for ‘get bent’ or ‘let’s elope’?”
“Depends on the eyebrow angle,” McCoy deadpanned, “It could mean ‘I hate you, please die,’ or ‘ravish me right now, you absolute heathen.’”
Jim dropped his hands. “I can’t face him. I cannot walk into that room and be like, ‘Sorry for groping your cultural erogenous zones in a deeply personal fashion.’”
Bones sighed. “You didn’t grope anything. You touched him. While drunk. He’s a grown Vulcan. He didn’t initiate a duel. That’s a good sign.”
“I don’t even remember most of it,” Jim admitted, voice quieter. “Just the feeling. Like it meant something.”
McCoy leaned on the table, softer now. “Then maybe it did. You won’t know unless you talk to him. Also you should definitely apologize for practically accosting him.”
Jim gave him a look. “That sounds dangerously like reasonable advice.”
“I’m rationing it. Don’t get used to it.”
They sat in silence for a beat. Then McCoy added, “Also, next time you’re planning to seduce your emotionally repressed roommate, could you give me a heads-up? I’d like to have some popcorn handy.”
Jim groaned again. “You’re the worst.”
Bones grinned. “You’re just lucky I’m the best at it.”
The sun had just begun to rise over San Francisco’s skyline when Spock keyed in the long-range communication sequence.
It was early—exceedingly early for a personal call—but his mother answered after only two rings, her face blinking into view on the terminal.
“Spock!” Amanda smiled, still in her robe, a steaming cup of tea in hand. “You’re up early. Or... haven’t slept?”
Spock inclined his head. “It is agreeable to see you, Mother.”
Her smile faded slightly. “Oh no. What happened?”
Spock hesitated.
Amanda waited.
Finally, he said, “I... require your counsel. Regarding a cultural misalignment.”
Her expression softened into something maternal and unsurprised. “Does this cultural misalignment have a name?”
Spock looked away. “James.”
Amanda exhaled slowly. “I see. Jim? Your roommate?”
Spock nodded once. “He contacted me while intoxicated and requested retrieval. I located him outside a recreational establishment and returned him to our dormitory.”
Amanda waited.
“He was tactile,” Spock continued, as if reading from a medical report. “This in itself is not unusual—he is often so. However, in his inebriated state, he initiated contact of a... highly significant nature.”
Amanda blinked. “How significant?”
Spock’s voice dropped. “He brushed three fingers across the inside of my wrist. And later, the side of my face.”
Her lips parted in a small “oh.”
“I did not initiate contact,” Spock said quickly. “But I... did not stop it.”
Amanda studied him carefully. “Spock. That kind of touch—especially from someone you care about—is meant to be accepted. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“He does not remember.”
Amanda’s expression softened. “Oh, sweetheart.”
Spock lowered his gaze, struggling to contain the fractal crack of emotion behind his usually implacable mask. “It was not the contact itself that unsettled me. It was... what I felt.”
Amanda waited, patient and quiet.
“I experienced what I believe to be an emotional echo,” he said. “Brief but overwhelming. I felt his thoughts. His feelings. They were... clear.”
“What did you feel?”
Spock swallowed, visibly struggling. “Affection. Trust. A desire for safety. And...” He exhaled. “I believe he is my t’hy’la. ”
Amanda inhaled sharply.
“Oh, Spock.”
Spock’s voice was thin. “I have considered the possibility for some time. But the moment he touched me—there was certainty. I had no doubt.”
She leaned forward, even though it was only a projection. “Do you think he knows?”
Spock shook his head. “No. I believe it was unintentional. A gesture made in the absence of cultural understanding.”
Amanda nodded slowly. “And you’re afraid that if you tell him, it will push him away.”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to tell him?”
Spock hesitated. “Yes. But I do not wish for him to feel obligated. If he reciprocates, it must be his choice.”
Amanda gave him the softest, gentlest smile.
“You’re doing everything right,” she said. “But you can’t carry the weight of this alone forever. You may be Vulcan—but you are also mine . And I know my son. I know what love looks like on you.”
Spock looked away, blinking once—slow, controlled.
“Give him time,” she added. “But don’t hide. Don’t shrink yourself out of fear that he won’t choose you.”
“I am uncertain how to proceed.”
“Start by being honest,” Amanda said. “He’s braver than most. But so are you.”
The comm line crackled gently.
“I love you,” she added.
Spock nodded. “I love you as well, Mother.”
“Tell me how it goes.”
“I will.”
The door to their dorm hissed open at exactly 1843.
Jim stepped inside slowly, as if the room might explode. He hadn’t seen Spock all day—not in class, not in the halls, not even in the library, which was basically his natural habitat.
Jim had changed clothes twice. Brushed his teeth three times. Googled “Vulcan cultural mating practices” until his search history looked like a xenolinguistics crime scene. He had rehearsed seven different versions of an apology, five of which started with “I swear I didn’t mean to seduce you.”
Now, standing in the doorway, he realized he remembered none of them.
Spock was already there.
He was seated at his desk, back straight, hands folded neatly in front of him. His gaze lifted the moment Jim entered. He did not look angry. He looked... calm. Measured. But something in his posture was too precise—like he was trying very hard to seem unaffected.
Jim closed the door.
“I didn’t mean to touch you like that,” he said quickly. “Last night—I was drunk, and stupid, and I didn't know what I was doing, and I’m really sorry if I crossed a line.”
Spock rose smoothly to his feet. “You did not cross a line.”
Jim blinked. “I didn’t?”
Spock stepped closer. “You touched me in a way that, on Vulcan, is considered intimate. Yes.”
Jim winced. “Yeah, that part I got.”
“But it was not unwelcome.”
Jim’s heart stuttered. “Oh.”
Spock’s gaze held his. “You do not remember it.”
“I remember pieces,” Jim admitted. “Your voice. The heat of your skin. The way it felt like the world went still for a second.” He swallowed. “I remember feeling... safe.”
Spock was quiet for a moment. Then he said, very softly, “I remember everything.”
Jim took a step closer. “I freaked out today. Not because I regretted it, but because I didn’t know if you did.”
“I did not,” Spock said, and there was something raw behind it. Something trembling just beneath the surface.
Jim exhaled. “Okay.”
A pause. A breath.
Then, quieter: “So what now?”
Spock didn’t speak. Instead, he reached out with two fingers—index and middle—hesitating just inches from Jim’s hand.
Jim looked down at them, then back up at him.
And then, very slowly, he raised his own fingers and pressed them to Spock’s.
The connection flared like a match struck in the dark.
Heat. Emotion. The burn of it. Everything they hadn’t said came flooding through that single touch. Trust. Longing. A gravitational pull neither of them had words for.
Jim let out a soft gasp. “Is that...?”
“An ozh'esta ,” Spock murmured. “A Vulcan kiss.”
Jim’s eyes were wide. “That’s a hell of a kiss.”
Spock stepped forward, hand still connected. “There is another variety you may be more familiar with.”
And then he leaned in and kissed Jim the human way—firm and gentle and devastating.
Jim melted into it, hands sliding into Spock’s hair, lips parting against his, the heat between them sharp and immediate. They kissed like they’d been trying not to for months, like it had been aching just beneath their skin all this time.
The touch turned urgent. Spock’s breath hitched as Jim’s mouth trailed along his jaw, and then lower. Their hands fumbled with uniform fastenings, laughter and gasps tangled in the quiet space.
Spock’s bed was closer.
Jim backed him toward it, not breaking the kiss, not even trying.
And for the first time in months, neither of them was holding back.
Jim woke slowly.
There was a moment—barely a second—where his brain hadn’t caught up to his body. Where everything was soft and warm and weightless, and he didn’t remember why.
Then Spock shifted beside him.
And it all came rushing back.
The kiss. The bed. The way Spock’s hands trembled just slightly when Jim whispered his name. The way their foreheads touched, breath mingling. The way it had felt like something inevitable had finally fallen into place.
He turned onto his side.
Spock was already awake, of course. Lying on his back, arms folded across his stomach like a statue, staring up at the ceiling.
Jim took a breath. “Morning.”
Spock turned his head slightly. “Good morning.”
A pause.
“Did we…” Jim gestured vaguely between them. “We did , right?”
“Yes,” Spock said. “And it was not a dream.”
Jim let out a slow exhale. “Okay. Just checking.”
Another pause.
Then, quietly: “Do you regret it?”
Spock turned fully to face him. “No.”
Jim blinked. “Really?”
“I am Vulcan,” Spock said softly. “I do not act on impulse. And I do not regret that which I have chosen with intention.”
Jim laughed—relieved and a little stunned. “Spock, you know you just said I wanted to in about fourteen syllables.”
Spock didn’t smile, but his eyes warmed. “Your interpretation is... not incorrect.”
They lay there for a while, the quiet humming between them as natural as breathing.
Then Jim rolled onto his back, hand brushing Spock’s under the sheets.
“So what now?” he asked.
Spock didn’t hesitate. “Now we proceed.”
Jim quirked a brow. “Proceed?”
“With this.” Spock shifted closer. “With you.”
Jim turned to look at him, suddenly and fully. “You want that?”
“I believe I have always wanted that.”
Jim smiled, bright and helpless. “Good.”
And then he leaned in, and kissed him again—not desperate or hurried this time, just slow and sure, like anchoring something already theirs.
If anyone asked, nothing had changed.
Jim still showed up late to class three days out of five. Spock still corrected him without mercy during tactical exercises. They still argued over whose turn it was to clean the replicator filters and whether or not chess was a real sport.
But under the surface—where it mattered—everything had changed.
Spock no longer flinched when Jim brushed against him in the hallway. He didn’t pause when Jim leaned over his shoulder to read off his datapad, voice low and teasing. And Jim? Jim started saying “we” instead of “I” when talking about assignments. About plans. About the future.
They weren’t hiding, exactly. They just weren’t broadcasting.
Cadet Hartley saw them exit the gym together at 0630 and raised an eyebrow. Spock raised one back.
Cadet Mallory asked why Jim had suddenly developed an interest in logic puzzles. Jim smiled and said, “Turns out they’re more fun when they come with a side of sexual tension.”
No one quite knew what to make of that, but it was Bones who figured it out first.
It happened on a Tuesday.
They were in the campus med lab again—Jim getting patched up from an overzealous sparring match (Spock’s fault, but Jim had been asking for it), and Bones doing his usual routine of tutting, grumbling, and wielding the dermal regenerator like it was a sword of judgment.
“You're healing fast,” Bones muttered. “Almost like you’ve been... taking better care of yourself.”
Jim grinned, unapologetic. “What can I say? Must be all the… positive reinforcement. ”
Bones squinted. “Uh-huh.”
He glanced up. Jim looked away too fast.
And that’s when it clicked.
Bones turned his head slightly toward the door, where Spock was waiting—not fidgeting, because Vulcans didn’t fidget, but standing with his hands folded a little too tightly behind his back, as if he wasn’t used to watching Jim get hurt and was actively restraining himself from intervening.
When Jim hopped off the biobed, Spock moved to meet him with the slightest tilt of his head. Their eyes met. No words passed. But Jim's smile softened in a way Bones had never seen.
Yep. That was it.
Bones crossed his arms. “Okay, I’m just gonna ask it: are you two doing it or what?”
Jim choked. “Excuse me?!”
Spock stiffened. “Doctor—”
“Don’t ‘Doctor’ me, Spock. I’ve been watching you moon over this idiot for months. You walk him home, you make his tea, you meditated outside a training room while he was taking his phaser exam. And don’t even get me started on what he does!”
Jim sputtered. “We are not —well, I mean, we are , but—Bones!”
Bones held up a hand. “I don’t care what you do. Just don’t come crying to me when this ends in tears, bruised egos, or spontaneous emotional bonding rituals that require Vulcan bloodletting.”
Spock blinked. “You are remarkably well-informed.”
“I read,” Bones deadpanned.
Jim scrubbed a hand down his face. “So much for subtle. ”
“You live in a two-bed shoebox of a room and keep calling him ‘Commander’ like it’s a kink.”
Spock tilted his head. “I had not considered—”
Jim shouted, “Okay, we’re done here! ”
Bones smiled, utterly pleased with himself. “I’ll schedule the double physical next week. For consistency.”
The sun over San Francisco was too bright for comfort, and the dress uniforms were aggressively scratchy. But Jim Kirk didn’t care.
He had just graduated from Starfleet Academy. With honors.
And Spock was standing next to him, perfectly composed as always—gold trim sharp on his uniform, arms folded behind his back, every inch the picture of Vulcan restraint. No one watching would’ve known that less than twelve hours ago, Jim had been curled against him in their bed, mumbling about the future while tracing the curve of Spock’s wrist with his fingers.
No one except , of course, their trusted circle of conspirators: Bones, Cadet Mallory, Cadet Hartley, and one very nosy Betazoid who’d figured it out without being told a damn thing.
The rest of the graduating class?
Blissfully, comically unaware.
The ship assignments were handed out in a ceremony that was ninety percent pomp and ten percent bureaucracy. Cadets waited in hushed suspense, names read out one by one, until finally:
“Cadet James Tiberius Kirk—assigned to the U.S.S. Farragut, Command track.”
“Cadet Spock, S’chn T’gai—assigned to the U.S.S. Intrepid, Science Division.”
A murmur rippled through the rows.
Jim didn’t flinch. Not outwardly. But his throat tightened.
They’d known this was coming. They’d talked about it, in quiet moments, sprawled out in bed or walking along the edge of the bay. We’ll figure it out. We’ll stay in touch. It’s just temporary.
Still. Hearing it spoken aloud felt like a punch.
They locked eyes across the dais.
Then Spock— Spock —broke protocol.
He stepped out of formation, walked down the platform, and stood at Jim’s side.
The murmur became a roar.
Jim blinked at him. “Spock—what are you doing?”
Spock didn’t hesitate. “Clarifying a misconception.”
And then—before anyone could react—he reached out and pressed two fingers to the inside of Jim’s wrist.
The effect was immediate. The cadets around them gasped.
Cadet Singh fainted.
Cadet Zhou dropped her PADD and yelled, “I KNEW IT! PAY UP, ASSHOLES!”
Half the crowd groaned.
From somewhere near the back, Bones called, “Hell yeah, I want my cut!”
The chaos detonated.
Several instructors tried to regain order. Cadets scrambled to check the pool results on their PADDs. One holographic screen now displayed a live ranking of who’d bet what, with a running total in credits:
KIRK + SPOCK: FINALLY? YES/NO/MARRIED BY GRADUATION
Jim turned toward Spock, dazed. “Did you just...?”
“Yes,” Spock said calmly. “It was logical.”
Jim laughed, full-bodied and delighted. “You dramatic, sneaky bastard.”
He reached out, hooked a hand behind Spock’s neck, and kissed him right there on the dais.
The crowd lost it.
Cadets screamed. Bones groaned. The betting pool exploded. Someone threw a hat into the air. The Dean walked off the stage muttering something about “inter-species protocol violations” while Mallory yelled, “LET THEM KISS!”
Jim pulled away, flushed and grinning. “Guess the secret’s out.”
Spock raised an eyebrow. “As it should be.”
Jim reached down and laced their fingers together, unabashed. “So what now?”
Spock’s expression didn’t change. But he leaned in close enough to be heard only by Jim. “Now we proceed.”
The U.S.S. Enterprise was every bit as majestic as Jim remembered from the holos. More, actually. Up close, the gleaming saucer, the twin warp nacelles—she looked less like a ship and more like a sleek classic car.
Jim stood on the transporter pad, adjusting the collar of his gold-trimmed command uniform for the seventh time. It still felt strange. Not the responsibility—he’d been ready for that—but the way it looked on him.
The Starfleet officer at the console gave a nod. “You’re clear to beam aboard, sir.”
Jim squared his shoulders, nodded once, and stepped onto the transporter pad.
The transporter room was empty—save for two men waiting on the platform.
Spock stood tall in his science blue, hands folded behind his back, expression carefully composed but eyes unmistakably alight. His posture was perfect, his uniform crisp. The only thing out of place was the smallest twitch in his fingers—like they were trying not to reach for something.
Next to him stood a man Jim recognized instantly from photos: tall, solid, calm as a mountain in a storm.
“Welcome aboard the Enterprise, Lieutenant Commander Kirk,” said Captain Christopher Pike, extending a hand.
Jim took it, firm and steady. “It’s an honor, sir.”
Pike smiled. “I’ve heard good things. Your file’s impressive.”
“Only the embarrassing parts are true.”
That earned a dry chuckle. Then Pike gestured to Spock. “I believe you’re already acquainted with my Science Officer.”
Spock stepped forward. “Lieutenant Commander.”
Jim tilted his head, grin already blooming. “Commander.”
They stood there a beat too long.
Pike gave them both a sidelong look, then said, “I’ll leave you two to get reacquainted. Briefing’s in one hour.” He clapped Spock once on the shoulder as he passed. “Try not to get too emotional, Spock.”
Spock merely raised an eyebrow.
Pike exited.
And then they were alone. The silence between them was not awkward. It was electric .
Jim stepped closer. “You didn’t tell me you were assigned to the Enterprise. ”
“I did not wish to influence your decision,” Spock said quietly.
“Spock,” Jim said, mouth twitching, “you are my decision.”
Spock’s expression didn’t change. But the warmth in his gaze was unmistakable.
“You arrived early,” Spock said.
Jim shrugged. “Wanted to make a good impression.”
“You already have.”
There was a pause. Then, softly:
“I missed you.”
Spock blinked once. “I experienced something similar.”
Jim stepped closer still. Close enough to smell the faint sandalwood of Spock’s aftershave. Close enough that their fingers brushed.
“Am I allowed to kiss you in uniform now?” Jim asked. “Or is that still against fifteen regulations and one Vulcan code of conduct?”
Spock tilted his head. “We are no longer cadets. Our conduct is our own.”
Jim didn’t wait.
He leaned in and kissed him—slow, sure, steady. It wasn’t heated, or rushed, or desperate. It was the kind of kiss you give someone when you’ve been apart too long and are finally, finally home.
Spock let it happen. No hesitation. His fingers found Jim’s wrist like they always did.
They broke apart only when the doors behind them hissed open.
“ Oh, for the love of— ” a voice groaned. “Seriously? Right in the transporter room?”
Jim looked up and saw his brother standing there, holding a clipboard and wearing the most aggrieved expression possible.
“Hi, Sammy,” Jim said brightly.
Sam Kirk stared at them both. “I told Pike this would happen. I said, ‘Sir, the moment you let my brother within three lightyears of Spock, we’re gonna have PDA in the bulkheads.’ And did he listen? No.”
Spock cleared his throat. “We were not in the bulkheads.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “It’s going to be a long tour. ”
Jim grinned. “You say that like you’re not thrilled to have me onboard.”
“I’m thrilled, ” Sam said dryly. “I’m also accepting bets on how long it’ll take before you two get caught making out in a turbolift.”
“That’s a dangerous wager,” Jim replied. “You’ll lose.”
Spock, ever composed, added, “Our professional conduct is beyond reproach.”
Sam muttered, “That’s not what M’Benga said after that supply closet incident on Starbase 19.”
Jim gasped. “He heard about that?”
“I’m still hearing about it,” Sam said, already turning toward the corridor. “Walk with me before you ruin another piece of institutional furniture.”
They stepped out of the transporter room and into the warm hum of the Enterprise . Jim tried not to gawk like a tourist. It wasn’t his first starship, but it was the Enterprise , and he was stepping aboard with Spock.
The halls were familiar and unfamiliar all at once. The pace of the crew, the faint smell of ozone and polished duranium—it felt like stepping into the future and coming home in the same breath.
They passed a trio of officers on their way to the turbolift. Ensign Uhura gave Jim a polite smile and a subtle nod. She didn’t say anything, but her gaze flicked knowingly between him and Spock. She had the look of someone who had already figured it out weeks ago and was waiting patiently for everyone else to catch up.
“Is that the Uhura?” Jim whispered once they passed.
Spock nodded. “She is exceptional.”
“Yeah, I got that from her eyebrow.”
The turbolift doors opened to reveal Lieutenant Erica Ortegas, leaning against the wall like she owned it. “Hey, fresh meat. You must be the other Kirk.”
Jim stepped in, instinctively taking the spot beside Spock. “That obvious?”
She smirked. “Well, the way you walked in like you’re about to steal the ship and the first officer kind of gave it away.”
Spock, deadpan: “That would be unwise. I would be forced to stop him.”
Ortegas raised an eyebrow. “Would you, though?”
Jim gave Spock a sidelong look. “Would you?”
Spock didn’t answer.
Ortegas let out a low whistle. “Yup. Definitely whipped.”
The bridge was quiet when they arrived, mid-shift calm settling over the consoles. Jim hadn’t officially been introduced to the rest of the command crew yet, but he could feel the attention. Officers looked up. Subtle glances passed. No one said anything—but the presence of Spock at his side, the ease between them, was louder than any announcement.
Captain Pike turned from his chair. “Welcome aboard, Kirk.”
Jim gave him a nod, posture straight. “Glad to be here, sir.”
“And,” Pike added, one eyebrow arched, “glad to see our first officer no longer sulking over long-range subspace calls.”
Spock inclined his head. “I did not sulk. I... anticipated.”
Jim glanced at him, biting back a smile. “That’s Vulcan for pining.”
La’An, seated at security, didn’t look up from her console. “We had a pool running.”
Jim blinked. “Another one?”
“This one wasn’t about if, ” she said. “It was about when. I lost, but Ortegas owes me ten credits.”
“I never agreed to that bet,” Ortegas called.
“You never said no. That counts. ”
Pike shook his head, grinning. “Settle your wagers later. For now, let’s get back to work.”
Jim crossed behind the helm, eyes sweeping over the bridge—the heart of the ship. He paused by the science station, Spock at his post. Their eyes met for a heartbeat longer than strictly regulation.
Jim smiled. “Permission to proceed, Commander?”
Spock’s reply was soft, only for him. “Granted, Captain.”
Jim leaned in, just enough to let their fingers brush—no longer hidden, no longer uncertain.
Together, at last.
CAPTAIN'S LOG, USS ENTERPRISE — STARDATE 2266.4
It’s strange how time compresses out here.
You jump from star to star, planet to planet, always moving forward. Weeks blur into months. Years pass in warp-speed silence.
But some things—the important things—they stick.
They anchor you.
For me, it started with a clerical error. A shared room. A Vulcan with too much control and a gaze that saw straight through me.
I’ve been a captain for three years now. Spock’s still by my side—science officer, partner, impossible-to-beat chess opponent. We command together, fight together, dream together.
And occasionally, we still annotate shared files.
I found an old folder last week buried in our synced PADD system. The original one. “Behavioral Notes – Subject KIRK, J.T.”
Spock never deleted it.
So I added a new entry.
Day 2,581: Observed that Spock still folds his socks with geometric precision. Still drinks Vulcan tea at precisely 2030 hours. Still meditates when anxious, though he denies being anxious at all. Still watches me when he thinks I’m not looking.
Still the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
Recommendation: marry him.
This morning, I checked the file.
There was a new annotation.
Yes.
End log.