Title: Five Kinds of Crazy
Characters/Pairings: Primarily Kirk, Spock, Uhura, & McCoy, background only Spock/Uhura until fifth section
Rating: T for language
Word Count: 17,000ish total, this section 3000

Warnings/Spoilers: Spoilers for all movies, including 2009 in the first section and major spoilers for Beyond in the fourth section. Some references to TOS episode Journey to Babel in the third section, though no knowledge of that episode is really necessary to understand the section, and references to Generations in the final section, though again you can read it just fine without knowledge of those plot points.

Summary: Five times some part of Spock's Vulcan nature annoyed James Kirk to no end, and one time he (literally) couldn't live without it.

A/N: So I write nothing for over a year, due to personal events almost destroying my creativity – but when my muse returns she apparently does with a vengeance, because what I originally intended as a short five-and-one developed into this 17,000-word monstrosity without my intention. I have to admit I loved the third AOS movie far more than its two predecessors, for various reasons which I won't here detail; suffice to say, hopefully I don't entirely butcher the AOS characters and amalgamate them with TOS while I'm here.

VI. His ability to move silently, even if it's creepy as hell and Jim is really Not In The Mood right now.

After ten long, grueling days of limping along under half impulse power and a damaged, still shell-shocked crew barely out of (or still in) cadet uniform, they finally are intercepted by the first of the relief vessels headed their way – one of only fifteen starships of any significant size left in the 'Fleet, this a medical freighter which had escaped Nero's vengeful rampage due to its being in orbit around a quarantined planet halfway across the Laurentian system. Lucky them.

Ten excruciating, agonizing days (and nights, because who's sleeping when nightmares are just a continuation of reality?) of basically nothing but hours upon hours of paperwork – he'd no idea being a captain could be such a boring, tedious, and sometimes ridiculous job – which was being funneled through the single data-PADD which had been reluctantly keyed to his bio-signature by a pissed-off Admiralty, after Spock had vehemently protested being given back command. (Pike's sole comment on the matter, when he'd finally woken after five days of delicate neural surgery, was a weary "Don't blow anything else up, kid," before succumbing again to the planet-strength meds he was being pumped full of, to deaden the pain from damaged neural pathways.)

Spock is, to all appearances at least, back to normal, so that's a check in the plus column, but he still insists upon remaining Second Officer, for reasons only known to him. Jim is too exhausted at this point to argue with a Vulcan, especially that Vulcan, and besides if the guy feels anything like he does emotionally, still reeling under the backwash of what was probably a botched mind-meld courtesy of Back-from-the-Future-Spock, then maybe it's best that Spock 2.0 isn't the one having to spend six hours a day signing off on stupid tedium. And that's before all the news scans (gods, had more than 80% of the 'Fleet really been wiped out?) and death reports (he almost puked right there on the Bridge when he read the details of how the fifty-four crewmen on Deck Nine died) and subspace inquiries about how many survivors of Vulcan had been picked up from the planet's evacuation pods (nowhere near enough, most of them children; that in itself made him want to weep – had humans really accused them of not having emotions, of not loving? Idiots.)

James T. Kirk is quite proud of the fact that, even after more than a week, no one has yet caught on to the fact that due to his status as a stowaway aboard, he doesn't even have any crew quarters assigned. Granted, it has meant some quick uniform changing and sonic showering in Sickbay, along with catnaps in closed-off Jefferies' tubes or on Bones's couch when the man is off-duty and can't zero in on his condition like the crazed homing beacon he is. But he's been successful so far in flying carefully under the radar due simply to the chaos still reigning in Sickbay over Dr. Puri's death and the horrific death toll aboard still being tallied, what bodies they could identify being put in cryo-stasis for the long, grueling trip back to Terra.

He's also been successful in convincing the Bridge alpha shift all week that he was going to follow them off the Bridge shortly, and then convincing beta shift that he'd just walked on, able to cover both so far without any of the equally exhausted crew catching on that he was working a sixteen-hour day to permit them time to sleep and cry and go to therapy or whatever they needed to do to deal with the events of the last ten days.

He guesses he could crash in a dead crewman's assigned cabin, but it seems so wrong, so disrespectful, somehow, to take advantage of the ship more than he has already. It's only for another week, anyway, then they are scheduled to rendezvous with the Patagonia near the Jupiter outpost. There Commodore Wentworth is supposed to take over and guide the Enterprise into drydock around Terra, since Jim has never done a docking before outside command simulations and Spock still stubbornly, oddly, refuses to take the command seat. Captain Pike is being transferred over to a medical ship before they reach Jupiter for another series of more intensive neural surgeries that McCoy simply isn't specialized enough to perform to his own comfort level, so visiting Commodore it is. Frankly…Jim is ready to stop being captain; it isn't what he'd thought it would be, although he suspects this mission is juuuuuust slightly atypical for a day-in-the-life of a Starfleet captain.

So by the point he gives the order to a nervous seventeen-year-old navigator, assisted by the still-functioning autopilot, to dock alongside the medical freighter Nightingale, Acting Captain James T. Kirk is functioning on basically three hours' sleep and a prayer, in addition to as many stimulants as he could steal from Sickbay under and behind Bones's watchful eye.

He walks into Shuttle Bay Four now, fumbling to smooth the hem of his slightly wrinkled gold tunic, a deceased Lieutenant's uniform hastily borrowed from a cabin never to see its too-young occupant again. At least the color's correct, and it is clean, and comfortable. Even after a couple of rounds with McCoy's dermal regenerator and bone-knitter, he is still feeling occasional twinges of pain from the ribs he'd broken in his fall from the platforms within the Narada, and his voice has only just started sounding normal after being choked by three different super-humanly strong beings in one day. (Spock had been much relieved, he could tell despite the lack of expression, to find that not all the damage had been done by him alone, though that didn't stop Bones from banning him from Sickbay for the duration of Jim's treatment.)

The Vulcan refugees are going to be the first to disembark to the Nightingale, to meet a Vulcan healer aboard the medical transport. Gathered at the far side of the room in a small, silent knot, they are already waiting for the shuttle bay doors to open, which will indicate the airlock on the other side has sealed and decompressurized.

He sighs; this is going to be difficult enough with one Vulcan staring him down, much less a whole group of them. But he never has backed down from a challenge, and gods know the guy deserves to hear this, at least. Jim may not be the most by-the-book, forthright man he'd ever met (as a board of Admirals and one particular smartass half-Vulcan had pointed out during the hearing right before this entire mess started), but he has honor, and he can't just let them leave the ship without at least trying to make things right.

He approaches the silent group and clears his still painful throat somewhat awkwardly in the semi-silence, broken only by the clanking of machinery on the other side of the bay doors.

"Ambassador Sarek?"

Several heads turn his direction, all expressionless and dark, and he tries his best to not look weirded out at the dull, blank gazes of what has to be a group of painfully hurting people trying to hide it from everyone, including themselves. Then a figure moves slightly aside, raising a graying eyebrow in question.

Glad of the slight reprieve, he follows a few paces away, then faces the austere Vulcan with a calm he doesn't feel.

"May I have a word, Ambassador?"

"Of course, Mr. Kirk," is the surprisingly cordial reply; he's taken aback at the lack of severity in the tone. For a guy talking to the human who'd basically done his level best to emotionally destroy his son in front of the entire Bridge crew just eleven days ago, Sarek is pretty damn serene. But then, the guy is a Vulcan, and a diplomat; maybe he's just being polite because, well, they are on ship and therefore on security camera.

Or maybe he's just plotting a more logical way to quietly dispose of Jim's body before they reach Jupiter.

Whatever, it doesn't matter; he has to plow ahead before they get those doors open and the opportunity quite literally walks away.

"Ambassador, I am aware that Vulcans consider apologies to be illogical, yet I wish to offer you one," he says directly, and without extraneous chit-chat he assumes (knows, if he's anything like his son) the elderly Vulcan would find annoying.

An eyebrow rises, and he represses the urge to grin, wonders if that's an hereditary trait for all Vulcans or just this particular family.

"As you said, Mr. Kirk. Apologies are illogical. In addition," and here it is, the slight tightening between the eyes, and the hidden spark far deep within them, that he now knows means very, very well-controlled anger – he and his abused throat are soooooo lucky Sarek has more control than his son. "I am quite certain that they are, traditionally, only offered in human culture should they actually be genuine."

Wow, Vulcan burn. "Fair enough," he replies candidly, and sees the Vulcan's expression darken slightly. "However, allow me to specify before illogically quickly passing judgment upon my motives, Ambassador?"

Sarek has the grace to incline his head in acknowledgement. "Pray continue."

"I cannot, and will not, apologize for doing what was necessary to compromise your son and therefore take control of this ship, in order to accomplish the goal of preventing what happened to Vulcan from happening to my own planet," he says bluntly. "To do so would be, as you say, not genuine, and frankly would be illogical, since I am certain you would never wish such a fate to befall another Federation world."

Sarek nods, once.

"However," and he drops his gaze finally, shame heating his face with entirely genuine regret, "I do apologize for harming your son in the process, and thereby harming you – emotionally and mentally. Even a Vulcan, I'm sure, can be permitted such a liberty as indulging in the emotion of grief after such a loss, and for exploiting that, I do sincerely apologize. I grieve with you both, Ambassador."

He looks back up as he speaks the last. His research, hasty but as thorough as it could be through a damaged library bank, had shown that was the closest Standard translation his admittedly rusty Vulcan could find for the traditional words of sympathy, and now there is no mistaking the look of surprise on the elderly Vulcan's face.

It's a little insulting, really; he may pretend otherwise when it will suit his purposes, but he's as intelligent as most of the Vulcans that still aimlessly congregate across the room; the guy doesn't need to look like he's shocked to see that this human's actually capable of stringing together complete sentences and performing perfectly in a diplomatic capacity should the occasion require. How would he have made it to final trimester in the command track if he couldn't at least conjure up that much?

Weirdly enough, Sarek's eyes now pierce into him as if he hears these thoughts and is trying to gauge his sincerity, and he feels the unaccountably childish urge to squirm. Then from somewhere behind them, the hissing of air tells of the bay doors opening, a soft flurry of movement from their right informing them that the group of refugees, the last of the now-defunct Vulcan High Council, is moving into the medical freighter's reception area.

Sarek finally gives him one curt nod, and without a word turns and disappears into the group.

"Huh." Jim blinks after him for a second. "Well, that could have gone worse, I guess."

A throat clearing from behind him makes him jump about a foot in the air, and when he turns around it's to see an already-familiar dark eyebrow inclined in tolerant exasperation.

"Christ, Spock. We gotta get you a bell or something," he mutters, scowling at his (for now) First Officer. Spock has a weird look on his face, something he can't quite decipher, but says nothing, only spins on his heel, followed shortly by his (acting) captain. They leave the shuttle bay together and move in oddly perfect sync toward the nearest turbolift. "Were you eavesdropping on us?"

Spock looks slightly affronted, as he punches the command for the Bridge with more force than is needed. Jim eyes him with well-founded wariness as the lift begins to move. "Negative. I inquired regarding your whereabouts from the computer, and after realizing it still does not register your presence aboard due to your status as a suspended cadet, was forced to resort to locating you in person instead of utilizing the ship's intra-comm to notify you. Starfleet Command is on Priority Channel One, wishing a status update as to our success with the warp core repairs and your progress in notifying the families of the deceased cadets."

His stomach drops out at the last, and he feels the color drain from his face. Spock's eyes widen slightly. "I…could have phrased that more delicately, Captain."

"Yeah," he chokes out, scrubbing a hand over his face with utter weariness. A black haze threatens at the edges of his vision for a moment. When is the last time he ate?

A stuttered chirp of protest draws his wavering attention to the fact that for some reason Spock has halted the lift, and he blinks the haze from his vision and draws a deep cleansing breath. "What is it, Mr. Spock?"

"Captain, are you feeling quite well?"

Spock is standing waaaaay too close now, it's just weird. He can't afford to show weakness in front of the crew, and especially in front of this one crewman. "Uh. Yeah?"

"Your response does not inspire confidence."

"Well, sor-rry," he retorts, with more juvenility than the situation probably warrants. Hey, there's only so much his brain can come up with after basically not sleeping for ten days.

"Apologies are illogical," Spock states severely, one hand shooting out with scary rapidity to grasp his wrist, right over the borrowed lieutenant's command braid.

"If I have to hear that one more time today, I swear –" He breaks off as Spock's eyebrows tense; that isn't good, he is learning to read the guy a little by now. "What?"

"Your pulse is extremely erratic. That, coupled with your disorientation and the fact that you are laboring under the delusion that your alpha and beta shift crewmen do not discuss who is their apparently shared duty watch officer, are sufficient cause for concern." Spock drops his arm, and pulls up the directional computer, rapidly inputting the codes for Sickbay.

He swears softly, arm over his eyes against the lights that start swirling past as they change directions.

"Look –" He is interrupted by the whistle of the intra-comm.

"Bridge to Commander Spock. Sir, is everything all right? We saw the status of the turbolift with you and the Captain inside, and assumed you were coming to the Bridge for the call with the Admiralty." Uhura's voice is calm, but with a thread of pointed curtness that bespeaks of an impatient Admiral Komack on the other end of the line.

"I am escorting Mr. Kirk to Sickbay, Lieutenant. Please inform the admiral that the captain is still seeing to the comfort of the Vulcan refugees during their transfer to the Nightingale, and will return his call at the earliest convenience."

Jim snorts, muffling a laugh. "That Vulcan for not here, take a message? I thought lying was illogical too."

Spock pointedly ignores him.

Uhura is obviously Not Happy, but that (thankfully) isn't his problem. He doesn't envy Spock tonight, though. "Aye, sir. Bridge out."

A sudden change of direction as they swing around a corner brings a hot lurch of nausea crawling up the back of his throat. He swallows with difficulty.

"Wait," he says, suddenly remembering the last part of Spock's statement. "You know –"

"That you have apparently been working double duty shifts during both alpha and beta, thinking that your crew would not at some point discover the fact?" Spock's disapproval is clear in his tone and look, one of clear you-are-such-an-idiot-human. "Quite so, sir. Also, that you have apparently been deceiving Dr. McCoy and indeed the rest of the crew as to the status of your sleeping quarters. I assure you, the doctor is not happy."

"Fantastic."

"Indeed."

The doors chime, heralding their presence on Sickbay deck with a dismayingly cheerful fanfare, and he slinks out into the corridor before Spock can do something illogical like shove him out.

He can hear Bones's tantrum before they're halfway down the hall.

"I swear to God, if that kid is responsible for half my stim sets goin' missing he's gonna wind up makin' it back to Terra minus some real important pieces of anatomy! CHRISTINE! Where the hell is my laser scalpel?"

He turns to run, and is brought up short by six feet of implacable Vulcan strength. And no way in hell is he chancing another nerve pinch, thanks very much.

He could either learn to love, or really, really hate this guy.

Maybe, just maybe – he'll get the chance to find out which?