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[ it's not like jim's not used to these dog-and-pony shows that are more about general morale than they are about the person they're ostensibly celebrating. it's just that they require him, and by extension the crew, to be near enough to earth to 'pop down' at least this once a year. command got too used to him being boots to the ground for as long as he was, he guesses, and completely forgot what his mission was even about once he went out to the stars again.

he's been able to beg off for a couple of years, citing issues with leaving delicate social ties to new species as a solid reason why they couldn't just cut and run right on back for something as inconsequential as a birthday party. even his own.

it does feel a little like adding insult to injury knowing that the pressure to attend is now a lot heavier than it was when he was on earth 24/7/365. now that he's successful and personable again, he's a hot commodity.

stupid.

anyway, there are a couple of days left until the party but they're already on-planet for preparations, and jim's not really that enthused about them even if he puts on a 'pleasant and interested' face for the planners, whose fault it definitely isn't that they're the ones working on the party he's been dreading for the past six months.

holed up in their temporary (they're technically permanent, but it's not like they spend enough time here for it to be any more than a transient visit) quarters, jim's sat on the edge of the bed, scrolling through his padd and looking over the planned speech. he's hit all the important talking points, he's pretty sure, but he's getting a hell of a headache and thinks he might just throw in the towel for the night. ]

They're so focused on what they think is important that they don't realize how much simpler it would be to just let me tell a story.

[ murmured, thoughtful, as he sets the device aside and looks toward where spock's still working on one of his personal projects to fill the time they're here. that much makes him smile, at least, though at length he extends a hand to reach out and indicate he should come closer. ]

What's the over-under on saying fuck it and just talking about that time on Rhian II working out versus just getting a lecture?

————————————————

[ for all the years kirk's spent being terminally bored on his birthday, he's held a... certain fondness for the fancy-dancy event of it all recently. if that has anything to do with the vulcan at his side that's his own damn business, he figures. still, they're almost excruciatingly boring.

so of course he greenlit spock's new experiment that involved timelines a little slantwise to their own where the crux of it all hinged on it being, you guessed it, kirk's birthday, while the experiment went on.

supplies and people are hard to come by for most, but an admiral of kirk's standing gets what he wants when he wants it, so it wasn't actually that hard to get everything together. enough marginally-capable people to remain unobtrusive but have the power to at least do what they're planning.

he's letting spock take point since it's his whole thing, but that doesn't mean kirk can't spend this time he'd be using for the party planning back home to watch him work. most of the people they're here with don't quite grasp the magnitude of what they're planning, but that doesn't matter because they don't have to. they just have to be here to either assist or be necessary cannon fodder, either one.

their temporary disguises have gotten them set up in the same hotel as a lot of visiting dignitaries here for the same event they are: admiral james t. kirk's birthday. it's a little crazy just how many species are here, in his opinion, and how positively the way they all speak about the setup of their universe and in fact the admiral himself sounds genuine is almost disorienting.

no skin off his nose, though; it'll just make it easier for them to push past any means of defense that ends up actually being there.

they still have a couple of days, but since they have to snag their counterparts before the party without being caught out, they're on an understandable time crunch. which is why he's lounging in the bed of the hotel, scrolling idly through the plans spock's provided and making note of who and what go where and the time frames they'll be working on. ]

Jacques isn't fast enough for this bit, [ he says, tapping idly on the screen and expecting spock to know right where he means, ] did you put someone else in his place, or did you edit the route since my rundown updated?

[ with the expectation that spock's already taken jacques' lack of speed into account and has made the necessary adjustments. kirk's just curious as to what they are. ]

negativechill

[ for one of the first times in jim's life, he's happy. he's got friends, real friends, he's got his course load and work under control, and now, he's finished his semester of cadet's on-board duty and he can get back to finishing up the rest of his courses on the ground and graduate.

most importantly, he can get back to attending spock's courses in person instead of through recordings of lectures spock sends him through subspace and the volleying of papers back and forth between san francisco and the uss farragut. and jim's excited for it, sure, but just because spock's the only instructor who really, really understands him, who knows what he's capable of and presses for it, who treats him like he's someone worth knowing because of who he is and what he can do rather than who he's related to.

absence makes the heart grow fonder, nyota had prodded him with recently on a call, and he'd waved her off even though she'd snorted over what he's sure she views as his typical stupidity. it's not like that. he's very normal, he likes to think, about the only instructor that fucking matters in the entire academy.

anyway, the new term starts tomorrow. tonight, his first night back, there's a shindig for the returning cadets, and there's some annoying bit in the middle dedicated to the ones who got awards that he's planning to try and skip out on because he doesn't need to listen to someone who wasn't even there talk about his peacekeeping efforts or whatever. it doesn't matter.

maybe he can convince spock that they should go to the library instead. he really doesn't want to go to the party at all, but he promised. why'd he promise? god, he wishes he knew. propriety, huh. he shows up right on time, pristine in his dress uniform, not even being dragged in by bones and nyota or anything. he even looks like he wants to be here, a little. crazy, right?

spock's around already too, because spock's faculty and spock's always on time, and it's the first time jim'll have seen him in person in months and a smile's creeping its way up his face as he tilts his head and moves to step away from his fllow cadets to bow out when someone else steps right up to spock and jim can see across the room that it's one of the fuck-you-hot kinda babes you only see around once in a lifetime and he's all up in spock's business.

jim blinks. blinks again. pauses. spock's interacting with him like it's a normal conversation, even, and jim's never seen this guy around before. ever. ]

Who the hell is that?

[ just chattering away like it's nothing, like it's normal, and neither bones nor nyota have answers for him, which is surprising because nyota knows everybody even more than jim knows everybody. ]

Huh.

[ a member of waitstaff passes by with a tray; jim plucks a champagne glass off of it, knocks it back all at once, and sets it back in place empty without missing a beat. ]

Well, I love meeting new people.

[ behind him, bones and nyota share a look. he doesn't notice it. ]

logicalities

[ The science team's beacon is still active, flashing, silently transmitting the same SOS that had drawn Spock and Jim down to the planet hours ago. It is standard issue, no voice recording available. Something, Spock thinks as he kneels down to retrieve it from the vine-covered ground, that must be rectified. There has been no sign of the team themselves. No sign of anyone living on this planetoid, only the ruins of the laboratory structure they have picked their way through, consoles live beneath overgrowth, supplies abandoned in quantities large enough to have Spock raising an eyebrow. A rapid exodus, though there has so far been no sign of what drove the Klingons from their facility. Fortunate.

He pauses as he meets resistance; the beacon is caught on something in the vines.

A firmer tug has the resistance giving way. A skeletal arm, mossy and wet creaks as it's lifted by the hand still firmly clutching the beacon. Strips of flesh dangle from glistening streaky bones and a few scraps of fabric still cling, unmistakably Starfleet science blue. Spock wrinkles his nose as he catches the iron-tang of human blood.

Through the newly-made hole in the vines, Spock can look down and see the rest of the body, little more than a skeleton wrapped in an odd, viny cocoon. A glint catches his eye — with his other hand, he reaches in and plucks out a delta from the remnants of a shirt. Holding it up, he turns to his companion, grim. ]

It would seem we have discovered the missing away team, Captain.

negativechill

[ the last couple of years have been complete shit, but this takes the fucking cake. ever since jim couldn't save vulcan (saved earth by the skin of everyone's teeth, but even then—), things have been... spock didn't accept jim's requests to be his first officer. spock made it very clear he finds his duty to his people to be important, and it's not jim's place to try and dig him out of that even if jim can tell he's going to be miserable stuck on new vulcan like that. even though ambassador spock would've easily and happily taken up that mantle to free his other self for exploration.

jim's already done enough fucking meddling.

anyway, spock gave jim a list of recommendations for officers to be his xo in spock's stead, and jim's stuck to that. the first couple couldn't handle his methods longer than a couple of months and after a couple of official reprimands for his behavior in a crisis, they requested transfers.

the third stuck around, but maybe it would've been better if he hadn't. jim skated by on the shine of his brand new reputation as the federation's golden boy (again, over the debacle he still loses sleep over fumbling so badly) making sure people realized that whenever he bent or broke protocol it was for the best and got results. saved lives. after all this, he still doesn't understand why people don't get that saving lives is more important than the method, at least in scenarios like this. or that. or that other one.

and the last time, well...

jim doesn't regret it. he doubts there's any universe where he regrets doing something like he did. the consequences for jim don't matter in the face of saving over two thousand offshoot vulcan colonists. sure, he rerouted without permission. sure, he took on way more people than the enterprise could easily hold. sure, the temporary stopoff point tweaked the prime directive just a little bit. didn't break it! just tweaked it. to save lives. to save thousands of lives. it doesn't matter. it doesn't matter that the aftermath spiraled out of control, it doesn't matter that his fucking xo got so pissed that jim threw him in the brig for refusing to allow the reroute that he went right to command to bitch and misrepresent what happened and how because of unearned respect he was believed over—

—once again, jim doesn't care what happens to him if it helps other people. he agrees to step down voluntarily if it'll keep any of the others from getting court-martialed for their behavior during this whole debacle, for all the protesting they're doing, for all their reasoning that's falling on deaf ears.

he resigns his captaincy.

commander james t. kirk is stationed on some backwater planet supervising a science outpost in the sticks, and he's miserable. but the rest of the crew (not his anymore, but—) aren't grounded like he is. no one else got demoted. people who were on unfortunately thin ice beforehand like scotty are still out in the stars doing what they love.

bones is with him, though. happy enough to be on solid ground, but pissed as hell over what happened. jim just refuses to talk about it anymore. you do your best, you save people, and you move on no matter what that does to you. that's how life works.

that's how life works. that's how life's always worked.

it's spring and his allergies are fuckoff awful in this stupid place, so he's been cooped up in his office and quarters for the past week. he's in the former today, working on a kal-toh set he'd gotten as a gift from one of the vulcan scientists from the colony. he's solved it seventeen times in seventeen different ways since the incident, and he's working on an eighteenth now. it's the only thing keeping him sane, he thinks, if he's actually still sane at all.

he's not expecting any visitors, but bones wouldn't bother to knock, so when there's a rap on his door he speaks without even looking up. ]

Come in. Promise you're not interrupting anything.

logicalities

[ When Spock comes to, he is unfortunately familiar with his surroundings. The gleaming grey walls, the industrial vents at the top corners of the room. The chill of the metal table beneath him and the sharp, regular beeping off to the side. Even the air is exactly as he remembers it, antiseptic and stagnant. Surprisingly, he is fully dressed. His wrists and ankles are not held down with restraints. As he sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the biobed, he already knows what he will find.

A tank, filled with growth serum and softly bubbling — empty. There is no need for continued prototypes when the first was a success, and Spock took efforts to wipe the data from the server before he left to ensure no further clones could be made after him. Only one individual has ever been inside the tank, and he is now staring at it, expression dark as he listens to footsteps approaching down the hall.

The man who enters the lab — for that is what it is, unquestionably — is also familiar. Spock spent long hours bound as this man examined him, tested his ability to heal, his cognitive processes, poked and prodded at his body as he grew. Spock's mouth turns down into a thin, flat line.

He slides off the biobed and walks past the man; there is no reason for him to do anything here but leave.

Three steps away from the door, the man sighs.

It still didn't take. Spock turns, raising an eyebrow, to see the man jotting a note into a PADD. The man adds, seeming to address a camera blinking on the wall: Our next option requires significant trauma administered to the subject. Proceeding now.

Spock blinks. The man sets the PADD aside on the bed. What feels like an instant later, Spock is on the floor, his head ringing. The man's hands are around his throat, squeezing, tighter and tighter. He clutches at the grip, but there is no strength in him; he must have been administered a sedative and is still under its effects. The man's body holds him pinned easily as Spock tries to gasp in a breath — tries again, wheezing, as he feels his brain function begin to slow. He thrashes even though he knows it will only deplete his air more quickly. Scrabbles at the man's hands, digging sharp scratches into them.

Darkness drags at him. All he can think about is Jim, sitting in his office, waiting for him. ]

negativechill

[ spock's one of the most infamous instructors at the academy. and sure, a fuckton of the instructors are infamous for various reasons, but not like this. the hardest of hardasses, hot as hell, definitely the smartest fuck on campus.

oh yeah, and he's vulcan. there's that.

it's so interesting, you know? jim's never had a class with him, but he's heard a ton of shit. nothing ruffles him, nothing gets under his skin. cold, calculating. and jim, well. jim's the other smartest fuck on campus, is the thing. he's top of the class in every single one, forcing his way through the track faster and faster than any of his coursemates, taking extra courses to just fucking get it over with. and finally, now, mid-term in his second year, they're letting him take the higher levels that are high enough so that he can get into spock's courses.

he's got his own reputation, that vicious brilliance that he puts to work to make sure no one ever gets in his way. nobody, nobody who fucks around with jim kirk gets away with it. people who try to kill him fail and inevitably show up dead sooner rather than later. there are instructors who are afraid of jim fucking kirk. and that's how he likes it.

he really, really does not expect spock to be scared of him, though. he'd be a stupid piece of shit if he thought so. but maybe, just maybe, he can get the guy interested in him. or even incensed at him. any reaction is a good reaction when you want the attention bad enough. it's not even that he wants approval. he wants satisfaction, and those are two different things.

so he shows up for his first course with good ol' spock, he settles right in near the front and leans back in his seat, waiting so, so patiently for the class to start with his hands linked and braced behind his head.

today, he wants to see just how far he can push.

so he does.

he's whipcrack smart and obviously so, but he's also a complete asshole. he's right every time he opens his mouth, but he also questions, pokes, prods, mouths off. and he's sure he's not the first to try shit like this. probably won't be the last, either, but all the same, every single drop of attention, no matter how flat or disdainful, just eggs him on. and boy, does he love being egged on.

the end of class nears and he's keyed up. he can feel eyes on him even when he's not looking and it brings the hairs at the back of his neck up, but he's fine with that. there's an unexplainable sharpness to him with each passing moment, anticipation for if he gets a real reaction or not. ]

negativechill

[ well, it was supposed to be a nice time. shore leave, finally, on what was and technically still remains a beautiful m-class covered in gorgeous beaches and beautiful seas. it's just so goddamn hot. which, they had known the relative temperature range of the planet beforehand, they don't do anything without ample research, but junior lieutenant laredo had gotten heat sickness so bad that she had to be treated before she could even be transported back aboard.

treatment which has just recently concluded so she can go back up. she'll be fine, it's just a real rough time for her right now and bones is doing the thing where he's being pissy specifically because he's worried. jim gets it.

anyone with enough heat tolerance to remain at the shore does, might as well get what joy they still can out of the place, but some of the crew hightails it back to the ship and jim would too, probably. except spock is so clearly in his preferred temperature range in a way he seldom gets to be, even to the point where it's clear he thinks that it's a Little Warm Here, so instead jim stays with him because getting free time this extensive together is rare enough that the thought of abandoning that opportunity feels unconscionable. besides, he's a pretty hardy guy.

god though, it's so fucking hot on this stupid planet. he's not in actual danger: as noted, sturdy. he is however, sweaty and flushed to the point that eventually, even while they sit together companionable and close enough their thighs are touching, he shifts to rip off his practically dripping shirt to get some direct contact with the also-hot air. ]

Can't believe we finally got shore leave approval and found the one planet hotter than New Vulcan.

[ complainy, sure, but not truly. he is a little stressed about how if one of the crew got that sick, others could, but medical is enforcing repeated scans and providing several heat-mitigating options for those unable to just hang out in the water the whole damn time. so while it's on his mind, he's not in 'haul everyone back the fuck into the ship' anxiety mode. in part because bones isn't, even though he's still crabby (haha, beach humor) as hell as he supervises. jim'll make sure to have a couple of soothing drinks with him later, poor guy deserves a break.

no, jim's just suffering for love, which is deeply preferable.

he leans forward where he sits, arms resting lightly over his knees, the contemplative hunch over that doesn't signal distress, just One Of The Ways Jim Sits Weird.

his back on display is bright red from the flush, but there's something a little odd about it: silvery gossamer-thin lines spread all over it, covering the width and breadth and even at points curving forward around his sides.

not wounds, not signs of illness or allergic reaction, but scars so faint they're impossible to even note through touch, impossible to see without the contrast of reddened skin around them. like old wounds had been healed but not quite enough: a home job, probably, or several home jobs from the sheer number of them, all done furtively because no one could ever know.

jim just doesn't seem to care about them, is all. maybe he's come to terms with it after the whole thing last christmas. ]

You look good in your element like this, though.

[ yeah, maybe he's just able to look past his old life finally. ]

negativechill

[ when jim hears that there's going to be a vulcan cadet in the academy on some kind of cross-cultural horseshit campaign, he thinks it's — get this — fascinating. it's not like things are sunshine and roses with the whole imperial vulcan versus terran empire nonsense so he's pretty skeptical. he's not the only person skeptical, of course, but jim doesn't give a shit about their opinions.

but interesting? yeah. yeah, it's real interesting.

jim only knows in advance because he's made himself indispensable to pike in multiple ways and sits in a strange liminal space between 'teacher's pet' and 'too brutal to fuck around and find out with.' jim spends a few after-classes chatting with the asshole about it, making his thoughts and opinions known.

he's not asking permission or anything because they both know he wouldn't care if he got told no in the first place. nope, this is gonna be his game, his rodeo, his front-row seat.

because jim's rolling right up as the goddamn welcome wagon. he doesn't make some weird show of it, of course. not really. they have some of the same classes, so he can work that to his advantage. slip right into a seat next to him on his first day. not his first class, their first and second don't align, but the third course of the day's the sweet spot anyway. After lunch and before drills. ]

So? How're things treating you? Spock, right? Kinda hard to miss the new guy in this case.

[ he leans back in his seat, arms braced behind his head. they have a few minutes before the instructor gets up to the front and starts. jim shouldn't be chattering, the guy's a dickhead about people talking in his classes.

and yet, here he is. brazen. ]

logicalities

[ Today is a good day.

Spock has just completed the task Jim assigned him. Two Romulan diplomats lie dead at his feet, their green blood splashed across his clothes and dripping from the knife he has only moments before used to carve into their bodies. The stab wounds are not the cause of the Romulans' death, of course. That he accomplished easily, a quick touch to their faces and a mental instruction to their brains; without their autonomic nervous system telling their hearts to beat, death was quick and miserably painful.

The carving had come after. The diplomats' deaths are useless if they are not blamed on the visiting Tl'geral delegation, after all.

Twelve seconds, and Spock has planted the DNA of one of the Tl'geral guards on the knife. He kneels and plunges the knife into the floor, the tritanium steel alloy biting easily through stone. A moment of examination, and Spock adjusts the angle of the blade. There, the perfect picture of a traditional honor-kill. When the Romulans discover the scene, they will not waste any time with a more thorough autopsy. The Tl'geral will be blamed and sentenced to immediate execution — and the patron of Jim's family who'd called in this favor will be poised to take over the remains of their corporation-clan who had been foolish enough to seek peace.

A quick glance at his surroundings ensures nothing is out of place and there will be no sign of his presence. One tap to the transponder threads in his robe and a site-to-site transport begins with a subtle hum.

When the swirl of light fades, Spock is aboard Jim's ship. Silently, he counts the minutes it takes for the techs to collect samples of the blood spatters and confirm the identities of his targets. He is relieved of his phaser rifle, unused where it hangs slung across his back. As the confirmations are sent via subspace relay to Tl'ger Prime, one of their handlers steps up to him and removes the psi-inhibitor collar around his neck.

Immediately, he relaxes as the ambient thrum of unfiltered mental energy rushes over his skin. He does not enjoy wearing the psi-inhibitor, but it is necessary. Today's task was not one of intelligence gathering; he had no need to read the minds of his targets. The collar keeps his mind aligned with Jim's, untainted by other thoughts; he has required its use ever since he was a child with his poor control, unable to withstand the barrage of outside psychic influence — unable to keep his mind suitably pure for Jim's.

Spock is fortunate that their handlers had a ready solution for his lack of control. He is fortunate that Jim permits him the touch of his thoughts to quiet the howling gape of void that is an unbonded Vulcan's mind.

Without a word to the techs or the handler, Spock steps from the transporter pad and strides from the room. His duty is not to the crew of the ship, or to the handlers who have ensured he is a suitably adequate pet. His duty is solely to Jim, who is expecting him. He will not make Jim wait.

The door to Jim's rooms hisses open with his biometrics. Spock enters and begins the ritual of stripping every weapon hidden on his person. When the racks are filled, knives, garrote, poison-tipped hairpin, studded knuckles, throwing blades, Spock turns and walks to the center of the room. His brow tickles; he wipes a smear of green blood across his skin, drying and tacky.

Then, he kneels, gazed fixed upon the closed bedroom door. And waits.

Yes, today is a good day. He has no doubt that Jim will be pleased with his performance; though he is too well trained to claim any right to the privilege, he will be allowed the touch of Jim's mind. ]

negativechill

[ jim never asked for any of the shit he got and/or gets in life. didn't ask to be a prince, didn't ask for any of the responsibility, didn't ask to be told to marry someone from another planet in a bid to get him to 'settle down,' like arranged marriages ever fucking work and he and whoever he ends up having to marry aren't going to just end up coming to some kind of agreement and just carry on as they were before marriage on the down low.

and jim knows what it is. it'll look good to have a tie with the vulcans and strengthen the power humans have; things have been precarious since his dad died when he was born, so yeah. it tracks. do what they can to keep their shit together.

but why the fuck can't it be sam? he's older, more marriageable, whatever. jim doesn't care. this kind of shit isn't him. sure, he's handsome. sure, he's charming. sure, he's great at diplomacy when he's not too busy doing other things. sure, sure, sure.

if he doesn't even want to settle down with someone he picks himself, what the hell makes them think he wants to marry a stranger?

but see, jim gets through the preliminary stages just fine. they meet—the guy's fine, real serious but that's what he figures from a vulcan anyway, jim likes how smart he is—get to know each other a little over the span of approximately three days, and now they have one more night of single life before they're inexorably tied together for the rest of their lives.

jim's life. vulcans live a lot longer than humans do.

anyway.

the whole shebang is gonna be on vulcan since vulcans care more about ceremony than humans do, and now it's after the final "engagement" dinner with their families. they're not expected to consummate marriage or whatever before the ceremony (or after, even?) he's pretty sure, but they have been sort of sequestered in a suite of rooms to spend time together. or fuck. he's really not sure at this point. he's almost certain it's not the second one.

spock hasn't seemed particularly enthused about the whole thing either, so jim doesn't feel too bad about slouching in a chair in the room they're in and flicking open an old multitool before snapping it shut again, the motion habitual and unconscious. ]

So, what life plans are the arranged marriage thing ruining for you?

logicalities

[ It was, in the context of the Enterprise's past missions, an uneventful response to a distress call. A decrepit cargo transport dead in the proverbial water, scared civilians aboard it fleeing from an attack that destroyed Deep Space 4, and only minor injuries. No major damage to the freighter or any sign of the enemy who'd attacked. Beaming the passengers onto the Enterprise is accomplished without issue, their treatment and temporary housing efficiently and quickly sorted. That they will be required to stay as guests on the Enterprise for an extended period due to the ship's current difficulties with the warp core is ultimately a minor matter in the face of the resulting safety of one hundred and eighteen Federation citizens.

As the captain has stated, a job well done. And no thanks in part to Lieutenant Jason Lombardi, the most junior member of the destroyed station's crew complement.

Lieutenant Lombardi, despite his lack of experience is a skilled member of Star Fleet. Spock does not recall Lombardi's tenor at the Academy, despite the overlap between his time as a professor and the Lieutenant's first year as a cadet. This is not unusual, as Spock generally had little interaction with first years, his courses overall being of higher level and extremely specific subject matters. Yet Lombardi is exceptional, a brilliant officer, genius-level intellect, skilled at engineering and strategy, accomplished in a wide breadth of other subjects despite his command-track training; his skill as a pilot allowed him to escape the unidentified ships who'd attacked the station without warning of reason.

He is, as Spock has overheard multiple times in the days following the rescue, an exceptional specimen of a human being. One ensign had described him as panty-meltingly hot. Human slang continues to demonstrate complexities with which Spock remains both unfamiliar and bewildered by.

The survivors are, understandably, demonstrating a minor form of hero-worship. More atypically, the crew seems to be equally enthralled. Spock cannot walk the ship without overhearing murmurs of admiration from the crew — a crew which, Spock notes, is on average both more accomplished and more skilled than a single junior grade lieutenant. The fascination makes little sense, but then again, there is much about non-Vulcan species that Spock, as a scientist, must recognize that he does not understand.

What gives him pause, though, is that even the captain seems captivated by Lombardi.

His relationship with the captain is no longer uncertain — or so Spock believes. They have overcome the initial violence and conflict of their first meeting. They have learned to rely on each other, to support each other as an effective command team. They trust each other with an implicitness that Spock finds startling still upon every demonstration. More than the professional, he finds that Jim fills his free time. Games of chess, technical discussions of a new article from the rebuilt VSA, Jim perched to the side as Spock works on a personal experiment in one of the labs, even long hours sitting together in an observation deck or one of their quarters, quietly reading or working together without a single word exchanged.

In Lombardi's presence, these companionable hours have vanished. Now, the time during which Jim could be found at Spock's side, or Spock at his, find the captain attached to Lombardi as though they are conjoined. Jim, Spock has noticed, seems markedly more relaxed since he began spending his free time with Lombardi. Every time Spock happens to pass by them, he sees a smile on the captain's face or finds Jim laughing, a companionable arm slung around Lombardi's neck, or Lombardi's around his.

The abrupt and inexplicable change is discomfiting.

Spock does not allow his confusion to affect his performance, of course. As per his duties, he arranges the captain's schedule to, at Jim's request, allow him to spend additional time with Lombardi. He continues to analyze the data retrieved from the cargo transport and the reports — hectic and confused but all in agreement that their attackers were Romulans — from the survivors of Deep Space 4. He compares the energy signature of the weapons that fired upon the freighter to known ship classes.

He draws conclusions and makes his report to the captain. ]

Captain, I would like to discuss Lieutenant Lombardi's accounting of the attack. [ They are in the captain's ready room at Spock's request, the analysis neatly collated and sent to Jim's PADD for review. Jim, Spock notes, can still be found without Lombardi during his duty shifts, at least on the bridge. ] There are several notable points of inconsistency that require clarification.

timetechs

[ Dave fucking hates Tarsus IV. Maybe it's stupid to hate an entire planet. Not like he was exactly thrilled when Bro broke the news, time to pack it up and leave everything you've got on Earth behind so we can go to some bumfuck backwater of a planet and be in charge of a bunch of farmers. And forget that fancy scholarship you were aiming for, we're not doing the whole tech thing. Research not allowed, communications extremely fucking limited, no, not even to your long-lost twin who you've been trying to forge some kind of connection with since I didn't feel like it mattered that you had siblings but I'm a weird ass robot dude so beep boop human emotions are beyond me.

So yeah. The trip hadn't started out strong and it only went downhill from there.

It wasn't lethally boring at first. Ha. Lethal. Sure, Dave was light years ahead of his classes and spent most of the time in school doodling ways he'd build a starskimmer from scraps and get off this mudball. But there were other kids and Bro couldn't keep him from hanging with them since it was all educational and shit. And besides, Bro was busy running the place, no room for kid brothers as long as Dave was still doing his daily torture session training and not causing any trouble Bro had to hear about. It was even kinda cool being outside so much, seeing all the strange plant life and wide open spaces that Houston hadn't had in centuries. So yeah, dull bearable. Sucked ass, but Dave was bored, not actively suicidal.

Then the mold happened. Crash course in humanity and his big brother, seeing what a bunch of scared people did when they were on the verge of starving. Spoilers: not fucking pretty.

Dave's been hungry before. All part of Bro's crazy survivalist training. He has half a suspicion it was in preparation for this shitshow, but he's too exhausted to think about it. Besides, there's the other kids to look after. They aren't anywhere used to going hungry the way he is, aren't able to keep going for miles and miles and miles the way Dave is. Thanks, Bro, could've done without the genocide, though.

And now—

Ha. Real fucking lethal. His hands are still wet with blood, 'cause it turns out if you're well trained enough, you can be real fucking effective bringing a knife to a gunfight. The fuckers never saw him coming, all crowded in the cave like they were, cackling to each other like a bunch of Saturday morning cartoon villains. He'd gotten most of them before they could do a damn thing, and then he'd seen what they were laughing about.

A pile of small bodies sprawled out on the rocks, blood flowing like a river from the gunshots (fucking bullets! what kind of jackasses used goddamn projectile weapons in this day and age?) and Dave had taken off, absconded right the fuck out of there with he, himself, and I before Bro's goons could realize he was the dipshit they were looking for.

And now— He's going to choke on dust. Yeah, that's what it is, just dust from the fucking barren fields. Not mold spores from the rotting crops or ashes from the cremation pits. Dust choking his lungs, drifting down to cover the bodies, because yeah, he got the rest of them, and absently, he realizes he still has the knife in his hands.

He lets it drop and barely notices the thud as it hits the ground. His next breath has him hacking and he barely notices that, either.

It's a real foggy day. Or maybe that's just his head, 'cause the blood's drying pretty quick in the sun, turning tacky along his skin, his ragged shirt sticking to him. He got them. He got them, but he was too fucking late, everyone else is— bodies in the cave, and he's leaning over, doesn't know how the fuck he got onto all fours but he is, choking up acid bile because there hasn't been anything in his stomach for days.

When he's done, he slumps back down. Ends up on his side, staring at the dust, the damp pools of mud where the blood's soaked in.

Dust. It's just dust. Whatever. His ribs hurt like a bitch just from breathing. He fucked up. He fucked up so bad and he's breathing it all in, breathing in Emmy and Carol and Lucas and—

His fingers scrabble at the dirt, clawing for the knife. It's not there. Fuck, it's not there, and for the first time, Dave stops. Just stops and stares out at the rotting field and says fuck it. He's done. He's so fucking done.

Time passes. For the first time in his life he has no clue how much. But it doesn't matter. He's done.

He's done. ]

logicalities

[ Jim is unused to being captain. This is fact, evident in the way he wears a particularly brittle facade of confidence, arrogance and swagger veneered over a simple lack of experience that even a brilliant tactical mind and the youngest captaincy in recorded history cannot patch. It is not a fault; Spock expected the need to shore up his captain's learning curve when he accepted the post of First Officer, and Jim has demonstrated that the drive that allowed him to graduate the Academy in three years remains undiminished by a brush with true responsibility.

(Before accepting Jim's impassioned and weeks-long pursuit for Spock to fill the role of his XO, he had performed the basic due diligence of thorough research into the then-cadet's career. Jim's file had been enlightening. And also indicative that Jim would not be relenting in his many and varied stratagems to elicit a positive response to his request.)

All that to say that Jim Kirk has been unwilling to allow himself to falter, even where he reasonably should. Over the years serving under now-Admiral Pike, Spock has become used to the rhythm between a human's physiological needs and the generally lesser requirements of his own Vulcan physiology. Yet, where he would spend hours while Pike slept completing reports, he finds that Jim maintains the same hours as his First and refuses to relinquish so much as the slightest of paperwork. Jim does not read the summarized briefs Spock delivers to him with status updates on the ship's many disparate needs and personnel; the captain reads the full report from every department head.

He does not ask Spock to intercede in his too-busy schedule. He does not allow Spock to run interference when the admiralty demands petty briefings that in no way require the captain's direct attention.

Every time Spock offers a recommendation, Jim's jaw clenches, waiting for a failing to be brought to light.

New lines of tension strain Jim's body the further from Earth they travel. He flexes his hands, cranes his neck, seeking to loosen the rigid knots that wind themselves tighter and tighter and tighter — very soon, the fragile equilibrium his captain maintains will no longer be able to bend. He will be forced to snap.

For that reason, Spock finds himself as near to absent-minded as he ever gets. The lights in Jim's quarters are irritatingly dim and the ambient temperature nears unpleasantly cool. Spock says nothing — has said nothing for each of these encounters — because their bodies will heat soon enough. Whatever he and the captain are now engaged in they have declined to classify, or even give any significant degree of thought to. They have not discussed the frantic couplings, the rough physicality and the all too temporary release of tension. They have not acknowledged the few times they have woken in the same bed. This occurrence shows no signs of anything different, save for Spock's distraction.

He stands rigidly hands folded behind his back, oriented toward where Jim reclines, waiting, bare-chested and brimming with restless energy. The shirt Jim stripped off as soon as they entered his quarters lies in an untidy pile tossed to the side of the bed. Despite his attempts to suppress it, some small amount of unease — concern, trepidation, anticipation, not quite any and a mix of all three — churns in Spock's gut. ]

I have a proposal. Tonight I wish to modify the circumstances of our intercourse.

[ What he proposes may be entirely unwelcome, yet every day it becomes more clear that it is needed. ]

masc4masc

[ all that dirk can remember of his life is his duty. he's been resigned to it for years, from childhood to gangly teen. he should have ascended much sooner, but the previous chosen one had lasted much longer than expected protecting the people. dirk knows it's an honor, and maybe it's a little selfish, but part of the reason he'd been able to reconcile it all and come to peace with it is because it means it's him and not his twin and because dirk's sacrifice will keep dave safe.

he's been ready for years, waiting for the day to finally come when he says goodbye and the people honor him for it. he's not naive: he has a good enough idea of what it will entail and even though it's terrifying, it is what it is.

until one day he's snatched right from his home in the dead of night and dave says nothing, doesn't try to stop it, just looks at him with a kind of grim satisfaction that he doesn't understand until it's far too late.

and suddenly, sitting on an unfamiliar but familiar shuttle, he realizes dave's plan and the concept of someone sacrificing themselves for the people of the planet when they could just leave at any time to go elsewhere is abhorrent and untenable.

he argues with his captors about how they have to go back and get dave but they say it'll have to wait until they can figure out how to get back in to get him. that's as good enough as a no and he's furious, desperate, every drop of decorum he's worn for years falling out from under him at once.

he doesn't recognize the larger ship in the vicinity when they show up on sensors, but they seem peaceful and it's his only chance. who gives a shit if he dies, anyway? if something happens to dave nothing matters.

so he sneaks onto the comms and hails them, begs for assistance escaping his kidnapping, and either they're very tender-hearted or he's gotten his point across properly because he gets beamed over almost before he can even

dirk is well aware that other species exist. he's never met any, nor does he know enough about them to make guesses about who or what they are. he stands before a few people, two of whom seem to be the ones in charge, and he tries how to best come to get what he needs from them.

finally, having found his center and evened his speech out, he exhales and speaks. ]

I apologize for dragging you into things that don't pertain to you and aren't your duties, but I... I need to get back to my planet and fulfill my duties to my people or they'll kill my brother.

[ technically true. and if they can remove dave and replace him again, he'll be too old to be made the chosen one by the time dirk's term is done.

it's simple.

dirk's sacrifice is worth it. ]

I can— [ he looks around, realizing something, and— ] —I can trade advanced tech. I can improve probably anything you have on this ship and show you how to do it so you can show others. Just, please. Please, I can't lose my brother.

[ maybe he didn't even need to do that, because the men have already turned toward one another to speak. he can't quite follow what they're talking about in their hushed voices, but he's bouncing anxiously as another man approaches him and starts to do what's clearly a medical scan on him. interesting to watch such old tech work, but he's too preoccupied to enjoy it right now. ]

masc4masc

[ the last thing dirk had expected when he popped back by the shithole apartment he grew up in was an entire teenager with one foot in the grave in his old bed. and like, first off, fucked up. second, extra fucked up. the fact that bro seems to remember he exists when dirk asks him what the fuck is going on is bad enough, but using it as an excuse to enact training when the kid can't even stand up straight on his own is too much.

dirk is a calm, rational, and logical guy.

he loses his entire shit on bro, punches him in the face so hard his shades crack, and takes dave (he has to pry the name out of bro like it's some kind of secret that he's called something other than kid) to the fucking hospital, where he's clearly never been.

it's grim. the eventual prognosis is good once they get the fever down and set the busted arm back in place, but dirk never settles. he watches dave like a hawk as he gets treated, sets work aside to stay by him, and only resolves to go back to work and check on all his shit once dave's sleeping in his new room in dirk's apartment instead of knocked the fuck out.

he's got a nurse and doctor still coming by periodically: the wonders of money used for the power of good for once. dirk figures having the privacy will help, because now that dave's awake and lucid and talking it's like he was socialized even less than dirk himself ever was.

they can work up to that.

so he goes back to work. gotta make money to pay for all this medical care after all because america is a fucking hellscape. he thinks maybe he'll make a donation to the hospital. new wing or something. doesn't matter, he doesn't put too much thought to it when he's busy with taking care of dave.

he's gentler with dave than he is in his normal life, but he's not very good at it. he still has trouble emoting properly from how he grew up but he never really considers it when dealing with anyone else so he just hopes it comes across that he gives a shit.

this continues for a bit. dirk gets up, eats, makes a plate for dave, goes to work, comes home, the plate's not touched. he packs it up, tucks the leftovers away for later, and tries to figure out what's going on.

it's been days. dave doesn't look better but he doesn't actively look more starving, so he's eating something so dirk checks the security cameras.

he genuinely cannot figure out why the entire fuck the kid is eating dirk's leftover scraps out of the trash, is the thing. he's confused as hell, unsure how to approach it, and doesn't want to make dave think he's spying on him even though he kind of did.

the only solution he can come up with is... not leave the leftovers? surely if there's no trash for dave to be weird about he'll eat the plates dirk is making him. surely.

surely.

so that's what he does: he takes the trash out with him when he leaves for work, but makes sure it's obvious that he's made a plate for dave to have when he wakes up.

normal. definitely. the food will absolutely be eaten when he gets home. ]

logicalities

[ Spock has little hope for this year's crop of first year cadets. He has little disappointment at their showing, either, of course; both are emotions, and as he is Vulcan, he feels neither. As the cadets trickle into his classroom on the first day of the semester, he regards them with level appraisal. Some may do well in his Introduction to Xenolinguistics class. Some may believe they will do well and find they are unprepared for the rigors of Starfleet. Some will undoubtedly fail to properly grasp the material and will either change tracks or change their planned career paths.

Were it left to his preferences, Spock would only teach the advanced xenolinguistic courses. He finds it significantly more rewarding to deal with cadets who are both dedicated to their education as well as intelligent enough to hold coherent conversations. Unfortunately, as he has three years to teach at Starfleet Academy before the Enterprise is space-ready and the Academy is currently in the process of filling the lower level position, the assignment falls to Spock. He is both capable and available to teach the course; there is no logical reason to object.

And so Spock finds himself teaching the expected advanced courses in ethics, xenolinguistics, and computer programming as well as the colloquial Xenolinguistics 101 this semester.

He does not look forward to the task.

By the time this first class is halfway through, Spock has: enraged twelve students by proving their lack of both acumen and knowledge; locked the PADDs of seven underachievers playing CandyCrush 3000 with a basic but doubtlessly challenging encryption when given their skill level in computer programming; made two cadets cry by repeatedly correcting their sloppy pronunciation; and finally, paid Cadet Uhura one compliment for her advanced understanding and translation of a traditional Klingon war cry.

When the class period finally ends, the low level of mental anguish radiating through the room is strong enough to have a headache pounding behind Spock's eyes even without a single instance of physical contact.

Spock is gathering his things — and allowing the cadets to beat a hasty, undignified retreat while his back is turned — when he hears someone clearing their throat.

Bemused, he turns to see one of the cadets waiting for him. Kirk, he remembers, from his glance over the enrollment list. Behind Kirk, the room is, unsurprisingly, entirely empty of other students.

Spock tucks his PADD into his bag and straightens, turning to face Kirk fully. ]

May I assist you, Cadet?

negativechill

( this got way too long to just let it sit out freely )

negativechill

[ jim arrives on vulcan before the news does.

or, well, before anything but the carefully crafted narrative he's been pursuing gets there.

a whirlwind affair between the emperor and her best military mind. it's an unspoken, open secret that james kirk is tied to the imperial prince of vulcan, and he relies on the rumor mill to get the news (and the visuals) back to spock.

because he knows spock will want to reclaim what's his, but he also knows he'll look at the vids of him with the emperor and see it for what it really is: the desire in his eyes when he looks at her reserved for military conquest, not one for his bed.

he wonders if spock thinks of their first meeting when he sees it, of the vicious press of jim's ambitions like a tongue to the back of teeth aching to get out.

he hopes so.

because the emperor certainly doesn't see it, despite all the raging evidence toward it. jim is just that efficient, that charming, that she doesn't even question it that he gets called away to do other things before they can ever even fuck. just timing, you know? not that he'd be against fucking normally, but he's pretty into spock and spock would get pretty fucking mad if he did. that's his weird alien husband.

(bones is orchestrating things from behind the scenes or outright lying about missions to command, bitching the whole while.)

but spock will know that jim has a plan. a plan he's working on. he'd better, and he'd better sit and wait.

it would ruin their ten-year anniversary present if he intervenes, after all.

it's on the day of that jim arrives on vulcan, mere hours before the news of what jim's done will fly in at his back. he'd greased enough palms to get him enough time to get to vulcan first, somehow, or maybe they're just scared of him.

and so he stands before the imperial guard, spine straight as it always is when he arrives, unrepentant and grinning sharply. he makes his demands. ]

I don't owe any of you anything. Tell him to come here. Now.

[ the order for them, not spock, because he knows spock will arrive promptly. probably already senses him on-planet and is on his way, but he loves giving these guys shit because they always look down their noses at him even after a decade.

he waits more patiently than he would otherwise, though his eyes are wide and a little too excited.

because as soon as spock stands before him, no matter how he stands before him, jim lifts the bag he's been holding at his side and turns it over, dumping its contents out on the floor—

—the bloodied head of the emperor herself, rolling along pristine floors to stop at spock's feet. ]

Honey, I'm home. Happy anniversary. I hope you didn't think I'd forget. Ten years is an empire, right?

masc4masc

[ it's been a year. a year since dirk's life was ruined, his twin was killed, and he'd been left in the aftermath to pick up the pieces. but that's hard when the biggest piece is missing.

murdered.

fuck.

dirk hasn't done much of anything since, not really. he's still got the shitty ritualistic scars from the first night, the nonstop dreams, then blanketing memories that choke him whenever he stops too long to think.

he'd moved cities, at least, to try and escape it all, but it doesn't matter. of course it doesn't matter. he has a shitty job in a lab that makes enough money to live off of and not much else. and it's not like he hadn't already struggled with not just ending things at the drop of a hat before, but this was a big fucking hat and most days the only thing that keeps him going is knowing dave wouldn't want him to quit.

fucked up, isn't it? sometimes it feels like he can hear dave's voice in his ears like he's really still there. that always fucks him up the most, leaves him shaking, but hey, he's still around. he's still kicking. that's what matters.

the only consolation now, one year to the day from it happening, when he's dragged out of a van with a bag over his head like they had any intention of letting him leave their shitty goth haunted mansion after tonight, is that if he mcfucking dies he won't be alone anymore. it's the same people and he can tell, remembers voices, and knows if he'd caught the tone of voice of the guy that grabbed him a split-second sooner he'd have been able to get away.

(but maybe part of him wants to die, wants to have the excuse of being killed instead of having to do it himself. fucked up, right?)

the bag comes off once they're inside and the whole thing becomes even more laughable because it's the same place. he recognizes every inch. there's the couch where they'd been handed drink after drink even though they weren't drinkers. there's the stairs with the dent in the handrail from where dirk had freed himself just long enough to slam a guy's head into the wood before being grabbed again.

there's the dilapidated library with the summoning circle on the floor they'd been shoved into and now dirk is going to be put in again and—

—there's dave's corpse. ]

What the fuck.

[ it's dave, it has to be dave, dead as a fucking doornail sprawled on the floor. not as decayed as he (it, it's a corpse) should be after a year, but it looks like they'd had him (it) in cold storage or some shit. waiting. for today? there's still decay, though. a fridge doesn't keep a corpse fresh for a whole year. they probably should have found a freezer or something.

he feels sick, but that doesn't stop him from sitting there by the body of his twin, staring down into his face. he doesn't even hear their prep work, what they're doing, when they start their shitty ritual for real, because he's too busy staring at what time's done to dave's body.

he reaches out thoughtlessly and brushes some hair out of his eyes like he's just asleep. like dirk hadn't been the one that had to close his eyes in the moment a year ago, like it wasn't the last thing he did before reality hit him and he ran because dave would have wanted him to.

what would dave have wanted him to do in this scenario?

he genuinely doesn't know.

it doesn't matter, because it's not like he's doing anything.

it doesn't matter. ]

logicalities

[ Before Earth, the Vulcan Imperium had encountered only negligible resistance in the course of their sovereign expansion across the stars. Centuries ago, Surak brought Vulcan logic and the quelling of rampant, brutal emotionalism. The violence and fury that ran through every Vulcan's blood could not be smothered when it was a fact of biology every seven years; therefore, why attempt to? Surak gifted Vulcan clarity: there was little reason for that pathological urge to be turned against each other when an entire universe stretched beyond the sky. And so, through ruthless tactical superiority and overwhelming technological advantage, Vulcans became a species of conqueror. Planetary system after planetary system fell and the empire's borders spread farther and farther.

Until Earth.

Earth, and the Terran Empire, and the seeming multitude of humans clawing their way into space with a sheer, psychotic irrationality that the Imperium was not prepared to face.

Vulcan strategy could not be beaten. The Terrans did not try. What use was logic in the face of an enemy who had no regard for their own survival, who sent rank civilians into battles as sacrificial pawns? The first time a fully loaded Terran refugee transport detonated within range of the Vulcan armada was the first time the Imperium had ever been forced into retreat.

A bloody war of attrition ensued. Vulcans adapt; the Terrans innovate and spend more lives, the currency of their own conquest.

Which is why Spock finds himself in Terran space, commanding the Imperium's flag ship. The back and forth with the Terrans has become more costly than Vulcan cares to allow, and Spock has never lost a battle. If he had, he would have been killed and another prince installed at the crown. The time for victory, swift and decisive has come, and Spock has been cutting swathes through the Terran fleet one merciless battle at a time.

The price on his head can no longer be measured in mere credits. Every Terran captain has orders to shoot down any starship even suspected to be carrying him.

When it happens, it's sheer, blind luck: a visit to one of the destroyer class ships to study the latest captured Terran weapon. There is no possible way the Terrans know Spock is aboard; they must be aiming to retrieve the captured technology. Before he can even take command to mount a defense, the ship is disabled, systems shrieking red, adrift and leaking power and atmosphere into the void.

Spock's only consolation as he and the other officers are dragged into the brig of the enemy ship is that Captain James Tiberius Kirk of the Terran Empire does not know who he is. ]

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Page Summary

negativechill - we might not make it to the mornin'
negativechill - maybe you don't understand my language
logicalities - welcome to the jungle
negativechill - only one soul in this whole world would have me just the goddamned way that i am
logicalities - questions of science, science and progress
negativechill - tell yourself i'm not a threat, put your mind at ease
negativechill - took a nosedive out the hollywood sign
negativechill - bury me face down
logicalities - dog eat dog world
negativechill - second child, restless child
logicalities - no rest for the wicked
timetechs - we all end up in the same dirt
logicalities - i can't get no satisfaction
masc4masc - your suffering will come again and never fall away
masc4masc - you say there's no use tryin' to protect you from the danger and dread
logicalities - the schoolhouse rock
negativechill - i'm a kamikaze, you're just turning me on (so light 'em up or smoke 'em like a nuclear bomb)
negativechill - why would you even build a beautiful pedestal or throne if it's not your own
masc4masc - insert linkin park lyrics here
logicalities - a kiss with a fist

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