Nyota. Her name is Nyota.

He likes that, a lot, too.

...

"There are no landmarks in space," Pike tells him while the Enterprise is still deep in refit, and Jim nods without really understanding. Then again, there isn't much he really understands about what has been happening in the past few months. He's largely been approaching the issue by trying to look as unfazed as possible.

Lots of winging it, in this captain business.

"So find someone who's willing to be one. Someone to talk to." He takes a sip of his beer, and Jim does the same, wondering what number they're at. Fourth? Maybe fifth. No, fourth. "Deep space is lonely, son. And not in the cool, manly way you're imagining right now."

...

It doesn't take Jim long to realize that out of everything and everyone—Spock and his unremitting questions about the whats and the wheres and the whys of Jim's every single decision; Bones with his baleful glares; Pike and the way he clapped his hand on Jim's shoulder before their maiden voyage, oozing pride as if Jim had never sat in front of him with napkins hanging out of his nose—she's the only one who actually realizes that he has no idea what the fuck he's doing.

There's a huge difference between making split-second decisions when the alternative is total annihilation of one's home planet and establishing a solid leadership in the boredom of a starship at warp for weeks in a row, and though Jim doesn't particularly like to dwell on it, the complexity of every procedure, the regulations and codes he's supposed to not only know but also follow, and the sheer amount of names and ranks he has to memorize are quietly terrifying.

He has wanted this, the ship, the kickass crew, and the orders of deep space exploration, for a long time. Probably since before he was able to put it into words. He just needs to remember why. And to figure out what to do with it.

In the meantime, the whole thing scares the shit out of him, something he's definitely not used to, and he finds himself overcompensating, flirting with the pretty blond yeoman who looks about nineteen—holy shit, he has his own yeoman. Holy shit. Holy shit—, ordering impromptu joyrides, and recording cheeky, inappropriate captain logs that someone at HQ must be listening to and that probably make him sound reckless, and badass, and pretty much the opposite of freaking out. All while sweat pools in his lower back when he sits on that stupid, less-than-comfortable chair, as he wonders whether the admiralty was desperate or high when they asked if please, please, he'd be captain of the fucking flagship.

Somehow, Uhura knows.

All of it.

Jim's not used to it. To her turning from her console ever so slightly in the middle of her shift with no apparent reason, looking at him like that, curious, speculative, like he's interesting in his own right, not just a nuisance to swat away while she's trying to write a paper on past participles, an obstacle to sidestep on her way to a Xenolinguistics lab social. To her listening attentively to what he says during mission briefings, eyes dark and grave, making him want to straighten his uniform shirt and almost lose his place in the sentence. For years, to get her attention Jim's done shit he's not particularly proud of. Now that he has it, he's not quite sure what to make of it.

What she makes of him.

"Get it together," she tells him the first time they happen to be alone. Her tone is firm and level, yet not unkind.

"Excuse me, lieutenant?" he asks, thinking he probably misheard, since he was busy calculating the chances of catastrophic core failure occurring within the first ten days of his captaincy.

She is standing next to him in the turbolift, facing forward, looking fresh and put-together and self-assured and still remarkably like the student she isn't anymore—none of them is, which is not exactly... fair—, her PADD primly tucked between her arm and her side.

"It's a milk run. They know better than assigning us a crucial mission as our first, and probably they don't even trust us anyway. Yet. Relax. The next few orders are just designed to help you—help us, get our bearings."

He look at her, gingerly. "Why would I—I'm not… worried."

She purses her lips a little, and—is that a smile that she's trying to conceal?

"Okay, maybe a little…concerned, but I'm—fine—"

"And you might want to stop biting your cuticles."

"My… what?"

"The skin around your nails. It can easily get infected, which of course can be remedied with anti-inflammatory hypos, but…" She must notice his wince, because she adds. "Yep, I though so." And then, almost as an afterthought. "Sir."

She's out of the turbolift, gone long before he can decide if he wants to thank her or write her up for insubordination.

...

He likes Spock, too. From the very beginning. No matter that he wanted Jim booted out of the Academy, and no matter what Jim might have told Bones on the podium of shame, and to whomever else would listen on the way to space dock—Jim was delirious, of course, so he doesn't quite remember nor it really counts.

It's a little odd, after months of wishful thinking, spent picturing this mysterious person Uhura has actually agreed to date and coming up completely empty, finding himself respecting Spock nearly as much as he respects her. It's precisely that sort of ironic plot twist that he's come to expect from his life, not unlike the shipyard being moved to the stupid state where his family farm has been for the past six generations, or taking attitudinal career tests in his senior year of high school and being unequivocally recommended for a career in Starfleet.

So he's mostly amused, and he doesn't really mind it, having to look at them on the bridge while they work hard simultaneously at making his ship the best in the 'Fleet and at pretending that they are not disgustingly in love with each other.

Or maybe he minds a bit, but the Enterprise is shiny and cool, space is vast and unexplored, pretty people on starbases love unattached, daring starship captains, and the admiralty is breathing down his neck and waiting for him to screw up. In the end, he's too young and too Jim Kirk to spend his best years pining after someone who…

Yeah.

Then Spock and Uhura are not in love anymore, and that's when it really begins.

...

"Well. The wind is awful and the planet smells like steamed cabbage. But I guess the trees are nice, and at least these folks are not into communal consumption of their own feces. Unlike the ones who tried to kills us a couple of weeks ago."

The best part of having Bones join first contact missions is that his presence is absolutely unnecessary. There are other doctors on board, and several EMTs, not to mention that Scotty's always ready to beam up every single member of the away mission if—when—the shit inevitably hits the fan. The tools Bones carries are minimal, anyway, and when the situation precipitates the injured crew member—okay, fine, the redshirt, Jim's looking into that—always ends up having to be treated on board. So yeah, there's no real reason for Bones to be included in the landing party.

Except that it amuses Jim. To no end.

Low key harassment is probably why people love being captain so much, he's starting to think.

"True." he claps his hand on Bones's shoulder. "And they're way easier on the eyes."

"Jim, I beg you. Don't get any idiotic ideas. For all we know their genitals come with a Venus flytrap mechanism."

Jim winces at the image. "That wouldn't be a problem, since they're clearly all about the hands, anywa—Hey!"

Bones elbows him in the ribs and walks away, shaking his head and muttering to himself. Jim just stands there, glaring at him, a little because his ribs hurt like a son of a bitch, but mainly because it's absolutely unfair.

Since it's true.

It's a weird language system the locals have, made of strings of sounds and tones and hands gestures that change the meaning of seemingly identical words, and it's always fun to know that a slight relative misplacement of one's thumb could change the Federation's "We come in peace" into "Will you pass the garlic salt?" Or, of course, "We want genocide." Also, whenever a conversation is going on, touching is involved. A lot of touching.

A lot.

Uhura figured out the whole deal in less than two minutes, while Jim was still trying to make sense of the way the chieftain was clutching his wrist and repeatedly touched the tip of his nose. The universal translator wasn't much help, of course. Since, let's be honest, it rarely fucking is.

"We have been offered hospitality. Some kind of meal, I think."

Jim turns. Uhura is standing at his side, arms lifted in a attempt to prevent the wind from pushing all that hair in her eyes. It's not working very well.

"Should we stay?"

She cocks her head. "Well. As far as I can tell they don't eat stools."

He smiles. "You guys were scarred for life by that mission, weren't you?"

"I think the question here is why were you not." She gives him a side look. "Captain."

"Yeah, well. Thanks, lieutenant. And great job with this. Probably our best first contact mission, so far." To be fair, the bar is not that high, what with the poop eating and that other planet where they were put on trial for consuming oxygen without asking for permission. At least everyone is alive. And no one is bleeding. Chekov is charming a bunch of teenagers, Sulu is pointing to the Enterprise and gesticulating a lot, and Spock is deep in conversation with three natives about something that has got to be just fascinating.

There's lots of… touching, involved. Some hand-holding.

Jim frowns.

"I guess I'd have expected he'd freak about all the… you know. Hand thing. And ask for a beam back ten seconds in." Uhura follows Jim's gaze until her eyes reach Spock.

"Nah. He's a real trooper." Her expression is absolutely neutral.

"Isn't that how Vulcans kiss, though? With their hands? Or wait, were those Betazoids?"

She smiles a little. "Shouldn't you know, since you tested out of Intro to Xenobiology?"

"Of course, I know." A particularly vicious gust of wind hits him, and Jim lifts his hand to protect his eyes. "But remind me?"

She sighs, but it's more for scene than out of any real irritation, and Jim can easily tell by now. "It's Vulcans. And they kiss like this." Anyone else would probably show Jim by touching their fingers to his. Uhura, of course, chooses not to, and she mimics the gesture with her own left and right middle and index fingers. Sliding them against each other. Jim observes her carefully and then—when his brain is responsive again—he takes his eyes off her fingers.

Trying not to wonder whether whether she finds the idea of touching his hand distasteful.

It doesn't matter. The point is absolutely moot, anyway. "How are you doing? About…"

She turns to the opposite side, to look at the lakes and the fields and dark red trees that look a lot like willows, and Jim's no comm officer, but there's no doubt that her shoulders are suddenly tenser, and her lips thinner, and he wonders, not for the first time, if there really is such a thing as an amicable break up.

"I'm fine."

He should leave it at that.

"I know it's probably… not easy. With the whole…"

She hesitates, but the line of her back softens.

"They seem happy." She's looking at Spock, still talking with one of the natives while Bones does him best impression of pacing nonchalantly not three meters away from them. It's a pretty abysmal impression. "Not that they'd ever admit it."

"Yeah. Bones' trying to play it cool, but believe me, it's pretty gross how much into Spock he is."

She's actually smiling now, wide and amused, which is not something she's been doing that much of, lately. It makes him want to smile, too. "The other day over lunch Spock told me with a straight face that they are just 'hooking up', anyway."

Jim feels his jaw go slack. "Did he actually use the words—?"

"Yep."

"Oh, god."

She is laughing silently. "I know."

"Who'd he pick it up from?"

Uhura shrugs. "McCoy himself? I think they might spend about a third of their time together lying to each other about what they're doing in the other two thirds."

"Sounds about right." A pretty native has inched closer to Spock and is running a hand through his hair. Bones' scowl deepens as he tracks each movement. "I'm glad you're okay."

Uhura is silent for several moments, long enough that he's a little surprised when she finally speaks. "It wasn't… working. For us. For me. It's just…" Jim looks at her, and she's biting into her lower lip. "I had gotten used to think about my future with…" She swallows, visibly. "And now it's not going to pan out, so I'm currently…" A lock of hair is stuck across her face, kept there by the breeze. She shrugs and takes a deep breath, lifting a hand to push it back. "I don't know why I'm telling you this. I bet you don't exactly have a ten year plan, right?"

By now, he knows better than to take offense. Or to try to imply that the reason she's telling him all of this is that he asked, because he cares, because they are friends. He's not one hundred percent sure it's true, anyway.

But at least he can give her something familiar, when everything else around her is shifting and shaking.

"Hey. If you think that when the Admiralty interviews you for a captaincy they don't ask you where you see yourself in ten years, think again."

She glances up at him. "Where did you tell them you saw yourself?"

"In their seats. Doing their jobs. Better, though."

At least, he tells himself, he can make her laugh.

...

"There are days in which it doesn't seem worth it. Like there's better stuff we all could be doing."

There are days in which they find lots of cool shit, and science the crap out of L-class planets, and are able to make people who really, really want to blow up each other's worlds consider not doing it. At least, not quite yet.

And then, then there are days in which the number of people beaming back up the ship is a little too small, days of terrible arithmetics and an endless replays and deconstructions of every single order given, days that end in nights like this, sitting in a dark corner of the ship and contemplating getting wasted until someone to talk to magically appears.

Sometimes it's Spock. Sometimes it's Bones.

Mainly, it's her. She and Jim don't hang out, or spend their free time together, or anything as mundane as that. And yet, on these days, she's the one who finds him most often. Talks him into not quitting. Without conceit, Jim's pretty sure he's starting to get the hang of this captaining thing, but the shitty days don't become any fewer, which makes him think that maybe this is a just a shitty job.

"Better?"

"Yep. Better."

"Better for whom?"

He nods, because it's a good question. "I don't know."

"What else would you be doing, anyway?" Of course he's not looking at her, of course they're both looking at the stars, but she sounds genuinely curious, not like she's just asking leading questions to prove the idiocy of his statements in that stupid condescending, Socratic way that always makes him want to punch someone.

"I don't know. I'm sure I'm pretty hirable by now. Leadership experience. Good computer skills. Think of all that data entry I could supervise." He sinks a little more in his seat, sprawling comfortably. Her posture remains effortlessly elegant as she gives him a side glance. "I mean, there must be something that wouldn't require me to send people into probable death on a daily basis, out there."

He tries not to be overly dramatic about this. People who enlist, they know the score, they all do. It's not on Jim. And yet, it has to be on someone.

"If not you, someone else would be sending them into probable death. Maybe with much less hesitation or reasonable cause. Don't you want to be sure that you're here to do it right?"

She's good, at this. Jim's not sure why he's surprised. "Do you ever have have any doubts? About this."

A pause. "There are… parts of it that I don't enjoy. But no. Not really. This is what I've always wanted."

"To be a comm officer?"

"For now."

"For now?"

"Well, yeah. Not forever."

He feels a flicker of anxiety. "So, what's next?"

She shifts on her seat. "It depends. There are several possibilities."

He nods, and phrases the following question carefully.

"What's the endpoint, then?"

She hesitates a little, but not because she isn't sure of the answer. The impression Jim gets is that she's debating whether to share it with him. "Starbase commander," she tells him after too many seconds, and it gives him pause.

"Really? You want to be a starbase commander?"

She stiffens a little—maybe, he's not positive. There's no mistaking the way her fingers press into the cushion of her seat.

"You know, sir, wearing a mustard yellow shirt doesn't necessarily make someone better suited to leadership than everyone else—"

"Of course. That's not what I meant at all, I just though that—"

"Especially to leadership of fields and divisions in which they have little or no training—"

"Hey, no!" He lifts his palm in front of his chest, defensively. "That's not what I meant at all, and I know that half of us are jackasses. I just thought you—a comm officer—would want to… I don't know. See lots of first contacts, I guess."

"Oh." He shoulders deflate a little. She actually sounds a little… sheepish, which… yeah. That might be a first. "Well, I guess… first contacts are fun, but they don't last long. You figure out the basics of one of the planet's languages, tell the natives about the Federation, make sure they'll want to sign some kind of treaty or agreement, and then you're off to another mission. But starbases… that's where you really have people from all over the galaxy living together. For real, not ninety percent humans, like in most Federation spaces. And, most starbases have ridiculous crime rates because they are appallingly mismanaged." Jim knows all of this, of course. Everybody knows. But she's animated now, eyes bright, hands that were clenched at her side until a few moments before moving about with energy, and he doesn't want to interrupt her, so he just nods. "Because here you have these dumb former command track cadets—no offense—who had to take xenoculture twenty times before barely scraping a C minus, in charge of thousands of people whom they have no idea how to handle because they just don't understand their backgrounds and needs and motivations, with the result that at any given time about half of the starbase is completely miserable, which is absolutely unacceptable—"

She stops abruptly, a dusting of red on her cheeks, and thank fucking god she's now looking in the opposite direction, because Jim has no clue where it's coming from but it's here, in the tip of his fingers, the desire to reach forward, and cradle her cheeks, and press his lips against hers, and lick into her mouth, and maybe press her against the back of this couch, and—

He shakes it off immediately, feeling a little disgusted by himself. He never cared much for property, but inappropriate doesn't even begin to cover this. He's her commanding officer, now.

He has power, over her.

It's just… She knows so much. About stuff. About herself. She knows exactly what she's doing. Where she is going. She's brimming with it, and it's so… sexy.

So. Fucking. Hot.

Shit.

"Sorry. I get really carried away when talking about…" she waves her hand dismissively, and there are about twenty things he could say that would make sense, but of course he picks the most idiotic.

"Is that why you and Spock…?" Talk about inappropriate. He has so little right to ask this, it's not even funny.

"What? No. We—I think I just wasn't ready to…I had underestimated what he… and I overestimated what we could—" She breaks and looks away, and when she talks again he voice is flat. Uncompromising. "Spock was a mistake. I should not be in a relationship right now, not I have no desire to be. Relationships get in the way."

Okay.

"That seems arbitrary," he says, noncommittally.

She laughs. "Are you going to advocate in favor of long-term relationships? You?"

"Hey," he says mildly. "I just haven't found the right person. I don't hate the concept of being in a relationship."

She shrugs. "I'm not saying that relationships are bad. Or that letting them get in the way is necessarily bad. Just that I have to intention to."

He really should leave this alone. "Why?"

"Just…I have a plan. I know where I want to be. And getting there, with someone else in tow, is twice as hard."

It's been a shitty day. He really doesn't need to be doing this to himself, on top of everything. Shutting up is always an option, as Bones reminds him all the time.

"What if you fall in love?"

"I won't."

"How do you know that? What if you—"

"I won't."

He nods. The he looks at the stars for a moment, and he nods again.

This whole thing has nothing to do with him, anyway.

"I'm going to bed." He stands. "See you tomorrow on bridge." He flicks her ponytail as he passes behind her, just because it seems like what she'd expect him to do.

She rolls her eyes. "Good night, captain."

...

"Is this even legal?"

He laughs at the suspicion in her tone, but doesn't stop typing on the monitor. "Oh, no. No way."

"Then we shouldn't…"

"But it's fine. They'll never catch us."

"Captain. You're logged in with your credentials, of course they will—"

"Everything's encrypted. Okay, what do you want to know?"

"But Starfleet security—"

"It would be a good idea to get some, I keep telling them." She looks uncomfortable for a few moments, fingers twirling around the end of her ponytail. The thing is, she really needs access to this report. He knows she's not about to tell him to stop.

"How do you even know how to do this, anyway?"

He shrugs. "It's pretty intuitive."

"Hacking the Federation database is intuitive."

"Computer stuff. You know I'm good at it. Come on, have you forgotten the whole Kobayashi-Maru thing? An unfair witch hunt, of course. But still." He winks at her, and she narrows her eyes in response.

"Yeah, but that was just an internal test—"

He snorts. "Bypassing Spock's firewalls was about one hundred times more work than hacking any Starfleet personnel file containing crucial and sensitive information would be." He shakes his head. "They're idiots. So, when is the report you're looking for dated?"

"2061.153 through 155. I think."

"Mmm." He types for a few moments. "Any of these? I can narrow it down. If you give me the sender's ID."

"It should be… that one. Access that."

"This one?"

"No, not—yep, this one. And now… great. Can you upload to my server?"

"Already there." He shoots her a smile and pushes his back chair, lifting his arms behind his head. "This was fun."

She shakes her head. "I bet."

"Anything else you want me to find out for you, lieutenant? The type of underwear Komak wears? Sulu's secret cupcake recipe? Chekov's porn preferences?"

She scrunches her nose. "Eew. You think…?"

He immediately leans forward. "Only one way to find out."

"No, no, please—" She puts a hand of his biceps to stop him, and he immediately drops his hands. "You're just…"

"Fantastic?"

"Mmmm."

"Incredible?"

"Not quite."

"Extraordinary?"

"Extraordinarily terrible."

"Aw. I'll take it."

She shakes her head. Her hand is still on his arm. He tries not to think about. He touches people, all the times, too, without it meaning anything.

"Listen, Kirk." She looks him in the eye. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." He smiles and winks at her. "My highly advanced and mostly law-breaking computer skills are always at your service. And whatever other skill you might need—ouch." She jams the sharp corner of her PADD into his ribs, though not a aggressively as she once would have. Jim'll count it as progress. "I meant it in the most innocent way."

"Right. Anyway, I meant… You're really good at this stuff, so I guess…Thank you for not hacking into my file. To find out my grades. Or my name. Back when we were at the Academy, I mean." She frowns. "Assuming that you actually didn't."

It's not as if he had considered it. Well, to he honest with himself, he hadn't not considered it. But even at the time, even among all the things he'd done just because that was exactly what she expected of him, this seemed like the one he should just… not do. "Hey. Consent, and stuff like that. Lieutenant."

"Wow. Those sensitivity trainings they made you take in your first year really worked miracles. Captain."

"What can I say? I was a fantastic student."

She's looking up at him, a faint smile on her lips, eyes reluctantly amused—her hand, her hand is still where it was ten, twenty seconds ago, and this touching thing they're apparently doing now that they're friends is a little distracting, somewhat taxing on his self-control—and Jim finds it hard to look anywhere else. He talked last, so it's her turn to say something, but she says nothing and just keeps studying him, and if it were anyone else, he'd imagine that they're having a moment.

It's her, though, so he forces himself to think back to the sensitivity trainings, to why are you like this, Kirk?, to the firmness in the voice when she said that she would not fall in love. Period.

She pats his shoulder when she stands to leave, and Jim reflects that if this weird, reluctant, comfortable friendship is all he can get her from her, he has very little to complain about.

...

His tray has barely made contact with the table when he realizes that he forgot the goddamn ketchup.

Of course, neither Uhura nor Sulu would ever even entertain the thought of being caught in the mess eating something at mundane as fries—and even if they did they would be way too precious for ketchup, so no chance of finding it on their trays, of course. Which means having to walk back all the way to replicators, and stand in line, and by the time he's back to the table Bones might be off shift and decide to make his way to the mess and confiscate his lunch or, even worse, turn it into a salad, which would make his trip to the replicator useless to begin with.

Choices, he thinks, plopping down in the chair in front of Uhura and Sulu, trying to decide if he really wants to go through that. It sounds excruciating.

"He looked hot." Sulu is saying, swallows a spoonful of his soup. "Well, not as hot as Ben, of course—"

"Of course." Uhura hides her smile in her sandwich.

Weird, Jim thinks. She always, always has a salad for lunch. Except when she takes beta, which overlaps with dinner time. When she takes beta she just doesn't eat at all, because she hates having a meal right before bed for some reason Jim will never understand. But of course she didn't take beta, last night. Last night half of the crew beamed down to the planet for a few hours of shore leave, and Jim's pretty sure that she…

"Still, the same type, no? Tall and dark. Intense. Sexy. Dangerous, mysterious vibe."

"Did you just say Ben has a dangerous vibe?"

"Yep."

"Ben Sulu?"

"Do we know another Ben?"

She frowns in her sandwich. "The same Ben Sulu who won second place at the gluten-free bake-off with his raspberry cheesecake?"

"The other challengers were scared shitless of him."

"The same Ben Sulu who sent a pic of that mermaid-themed potty training chart he made for Demora?"

"Yep. He rules our household through fear."

"The very same Ben Sulu—"

"Who are you guys talking about?" Jim asks, reaching the conclusion that the ketchup is not that crucial to his enjoyment of the meal.

Nyota turns to face him. "Ben Sulu? As the name suggests, he's the husband of your helmsman and, apparently, a vicious badass."

Sulu says something that sounds remarkably like "You bet your ass" through a mouthful of soup.

"Ha ha. No, I mean, who's the dude who looks like Ben. Or, doesn't."

"Oh. Nyota got lucky. Well," Sulu amends, tipping his head to the side. "Tall, dark, and dangerous got lucky."

What are they talking about? "What?"

"On shore leave. Yesterday." Sulu tells him, looking at Jim as if he were a little dense, as if the shore leave and tall, dark—

Oh.

Oh.

Oh.

He doesn't looks at her. He really doesn't want to look at her, because she…"Oh."

His stomach is twisting a little. Not sure with what, since his fries are burger are untouched.

"You okay, captain? You look a little pale. Maybe you shouldn't have that for lunch. It's really unhealthy and hard to digest." Sulu looks with concern at Jim fries and then steals one.

"The captain here's from Iowa. He's a mean, lean deep-fried Twinkies eating machine." Nyota's voice is teasing. She actually touches him, her hand a friendly weight on his shoulder. And not for the first—or the second, or the tenth time— Jim tells himself that she's been doing it more and more, lately. This weird friendship that they've been striking up, based off him bitching and her telling him to get a grip, and then laughing back at when they were at the Academy and they had the audacity of thinking they were under pressure then. It's not that he thought—but maybe—but then, again, it means nothing. Because she's also been touching—

"Didn't you have your 'no relationships' rule?"

She laughs. She actually laughs. "I do. Believe me, I'm never going to see this guy again."

"Aww." Sulu cocks his head. When did these two become best friends? "You're not gonna marry him?"

"Hikaru—"

"You're not gonna join the Dangerous Spouse Club? Bummer."

She is grinning. Where does all this mutual teasing come from? Uhura would skin Jim alive for a tenth of this. "No. And neither are you."

"I am the founder. And the treasurer. And the—Hey, Doctor McCoy. Haven't seen you in while."

Jim barely notices when his lunch disappears.

...

In an attempt to prepare their class for the worst conceivable scenarios—discounting, of course, the possibility of a dangerous madman traveling back in time with future technology, hellbent on pulverizing a couple of Federation planets in the Solar and Eridani systems—during the Academy years Starfleet sent them on survival training trips pretty much every other week. Mostly on national and state parks, but a couple of times in Antartica, and once they were all shipped to an L-class planetoid whose name Jim has forgotten, where the cold froze his eyelashes together so quickly that he almost fell into a ravine every time he so much as blinked.

Not to mention that during Jim's three years in San Francisco his dorm room was always across the door from Nyota's, and that Bones got—surprisingly—laid frequently enough that Jim had made the spot between Nyota and Gaila's bed his official alternative go-to place to spend the night.

It's slightly surreal, then, that now, years after the beginning of the five year mission, in the MedBay of the Enterprise, should be the first time he sees Nyota without any makeup on.

Except that yes, if Jim thinks back to it, Nyota was often already gone, no matter how early he'd wake up, and half the times she was the one shaking him awake when he overslept, voice brisk as she reminded him of a class he should not be late for, or of the necessity of moving forward to avoid assideration.

It almost makes sense, then, that this, eyes blinking and bleary, expression confused, is the most vulnerable he's ever seen her.

Something tightens a little behind his sternum, and he has to clear his throat before speaking. "How're you doing, lieutenant?"

She closes he eyes and then opens them again, turning to look at him. "I'm…okay."

Her voice is hoarse, and Jim reaches for the cup of water on the bedside table, surrounded by the hypos Bones put there before Spock came to forcibly remove him from MedBay, saying something about how if McCoy is so fond of thirty hour shifts, maybe he should consider indentured servitude with the Klingon Empire as a more satisfying career option.

"Now," he tut-tuts after she takes a sip and licks her lips, "I'm pretty sure 'okay' has variable definitions."

She chuckles, and then the laugh turns into a cough, and then labored breathing. "Don't make me laugh. I think my ribs are cracked."

He runs his hand through a lone strand of hair on her forehead, pushing it back from her eyes. He wonders if he's ever touched her like this before, but no, he doesn't believe he did. Thought about it. Imagined it, for sure.

"Mmmm. They were. Bones fixed the various bleeding wounds and your arm, but the ribs are still knitting back together. Give it a couple of hours before you go for your daily run."

She rolls her eyes. "Fine," she says, smiling around the word. He tries not stare at her mouth.

Really. She looks five years younger without make-up. Definitely too young to be in this biobed.

"You remember what happened?"

She nods.

"That was a mighty shove you got. You were out twenty-three hours. I have been informed that it is very fortunate that you didn't crack your skull, and that you damn better count your blessings. And then Spock talked for a long time about probabilities, but I spaced out."

It's okay. She's fine. She's here.

Get a grip, Jim.

"I space out, too. Around the fourth decimal point."

He smiles, and it's the first smile he's not faking in about a day. "I'm gonna go, okay? Find the nurse on duty and tell him you woke up, and all that." He looks away before continuing. "Unless you'll let me to stay for a bit? Tell you all the gossip you missed?"

"Gossip? What can I have missed one day?" She's blinking sleepily, and if he absolutely cannot help the staggering relief he feels, he still has zero business noticing how adorable his severely injured comm officer looks.

None at all.

"Hey. It's the Enterprise. And we have people like Chekov on board."

She angles her head towards him, settling on the pillow. "What'd he do?"

She's asleep before he's done telling her, even breathing and one hand tucked beneath her cheek.

He stays for a while.

...

Neither of them says anything when they rematerialize, or while they walk off transporter pad, Jim stomping down the steps and Uhura practically darting out of the room. Jim spares a second to bark an order the ensign manning the controls—Stay in position and wait for Mister Spock and Mister Sulu—but ignores the cluster of junior science officers and red shirts who beamed back up a couple of minutes before he and Uhura did.

They must have noticed what happened on the planet, because they know better than try to catch his gaze.

There is an officer changing room on the same corridor, about two doors down—most of them left their uniforms there not three hours ago, after putting on their wetsuits and laughing over Sulu's swim meets anecdotes—and Jim follows Uhura inside, stepping in just far enough that the doors' sensors can disengage and give them some privacy.

"Uhura," he tells her, trying to keep his tone even. She doesn't turn to look at him, continuing to peel the wetsuit away from her torso. He knows better that to think she didn't hear him.

He gives her a few seconds, trying to let his anger boil down, because for all the little barbs and the sighs and the mocking Yes, captains, she has never, ever even skirted insubordination. He takes one, two deep breaths as he looks at her, the suit much, much easier to pull off than to put on, sliding down her hips and legs, until she's only wearing a black regulation two-piece that is only slightly more feminine than the shorts he has on under his own wetsuit. Any other moment Jim would notice.

Notice.

As angry as he is, it barely registers.

She almost—

Because he—

He told her to… But she didn't, and she almost—

It flares up again.

"Lieutenant," he says more sharply as she is reaching for her uniform. Apparently, she decides that she can't exactly pretend she didn't hear that.

She spins around, kicking her suit a couple of steps away in the process. "Yes, captain?"

He rakes his head for the best way to phrase it, and simply doesn't find any. "What the fuck was that?"

She stares at him cooly. "Excuse me?"

"What just happened? And believe me, you don't want to pretend you don't know what I'm referring to."

She swallows and looks at him defiantly. "You orders were—"

"To get out of the red zone. Immediately."

Her nostrils flare. "Yeah, well, captain. That would have been a terrible idea." Her fists are clenched. "With all due respect."

What the fuck.

"Do you realize—" He starts, and the he breaks off, trying to calm down a little, trying to look anywhere but at her, to busy his hands and his mind with taking off the stupid suit, pushing the synthetic material down his torso, his legs, and off his feet. He takes two more deep breaths. "Do you realize how close you came to—"

"Do you realize that I just saved your life? And all I've gotten for it was being reprimanded in front of the crew—"

"No, you did not." He pushes out between gritted teeth. "I had everything under control and your intervention only made the situation more volatile—"

"If I hadn't told you about the weapons you'd never have realized that the possibility of an attack from the side—"

"If you hadn't told me about the weapons I would have been about to get away without having to take care of you!"

"Oh, my mistake. Was that before of after being captured or murdered?"

"Oh please, you have absolutely no idea what—"

"You are being unreasonable—"

"—the situation was before—"

"—and stubborn while it obvious that—"

"Hey."

They both turn immediately towards the doors.

Bones is standing there, tricorder in hand, an uncharacteristically cautious look in his eyes, and it suddenly hits Jim that they have been shouting at each other. Or close enough. And, that they are standing very close. There are maybe three inches between them. Maybe.

Neither of them steps back.

"Are you okay?" Bones' gaze shifts between them. "Anything broken or bleeding I should know about?" he asks, with little of his usual testiness.

"No," Jim says, and he can see Nyota shake her head in the corner of his field of view. They are both very nearly naked, wearing swimsuits that hide very little. It should be self-evident, that they're as okay as one can be after a mission that involved extreme temperatures and a whole lot of underwater crap.

"Where's Spock?"

"He should be beaming up right now. Bones, can you leave us?"

McCoy looks between the two of them once more, this time with a frown. "I'm not sure I should, actually—"

"Doctor McCoy. Out." It annoys the fuck out of Jim, that he has to use his captain's voice to make people who should know better than do what he's telling them to do. Even then, Bones hesitates for a second, purses his lips into a thin line, and then the doors swish closed in front of the blue of his uniform.

The silence swallows the room.

"Lieutenant," he says, ready to continue, to start where they left off, to make he understand that she can't—she could have—she fucking can't

He finds immediately that his rage has drained, and instead he's... Bone-tired, that's what he is. He runs a hand through his hair. A feeling he wouldn't have been able to name only a few years ago. This captain gig is not fun.

When he speaks, his voice is low. "What you did on the planet was insubordination. You put yourself at risk for no reason. If it happens once more, it will end up on your evaluation."

"I…" She shakes her head, her chest lifting as she breathes in. The fire in her eyes mutes a little. "I'm sorry. Captain. I am. But… if I could go back, I'm not sure that I wouldn't do the same. The risk to your life was considerable." They are still standing very—very—close. He pupils are large, almost indistinguishable from the irises.

Is this too close? Should he be stepping back?

"I need you to trust me. My assessment of the situation." He exhales. "I can't do this if you don't trust me."

"I trust you."

"Do you?"

"Well." She's looking up at him, almost smiling now, and she's still so damn close. "Not with your own safety, no. Sorry."

And, it's like that.

One moment he's there, wondering if he can afford to bring her on away missions in the future, wondering if he can afford not to, wondering if he should write her up even though it's her first offense, wondering how little she thinks of him, wondering if this is inappropriate, wondering—

Next he's still there, but her lips are pressing agains his, soft and warm and salty like the water dawn on the planet and—

He didn't—

He doesn't think he's the one who—

He's pretty sure—but then again—and she—and he—

It lasts seconds, less than that, and then she's back on her heels, and his mouth, the room, everything feels cold again, and he can see her eyes again.

They are wide. And—

Incredulous. She looks incredulous. It's there, plain in her expression, that she cannot believe what she—they—just did.

"I—Did I—?" His voice sounds hoarse to his own ears. "I have no idea—I'm so sorry—"

"No." She lifts her hand to silence him, but while her eyes are on him it's clear that she's looking somewhere else, somewhere inside herself. "Captain, I am so sorry. I don't know what—" She touches her fingers to her mouth and then gasps. "Oh, god."

She looks stricken for a second, two. The she exhales loudly and steps quickly around him, heading for the doors.

He grabs her by one elbow, first, and then by both, nudging her until she's facing him again.

"Wait—where are you—you're not even wearing clothes, and I—I didn't—I don't—"

He's not sure what happens then. All he knows is that they're kissing, again, except that this time.

This time.

This time it's a real kiss.

And it's…

It's…

Jim hasn't really let himself imagine this, not in a while, not in years. Except that he has, because it's not as if he has any control control over this, and still he could never quite bring himself to imagine that right as he is busy trying to keep his head from exploding in a million pieces, she—she. She. She.—would bite at his lower lip and lick on the inside with her tongue and then, holy shit, holy shit it's her tongue in his mouth and her legs have hiked up on his hips and that's his hand holding her up, his hand exactly under her ass as she cradles his face with cool, slim fingers that immediately move to rake across his upper back because now she has started sucking on his earlobe, her breath fast and humid in his ears and his brain is fried and his cock is hard and—

Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He can't.

He really can't. Because he is about ninety percent sure that she's the one who closed the distance between them, but according to the other ten percent, he's the one who just assaulted a direct subordinate he just was in a near death situation with, he's the one who has wrapped one arm around her waist while the other is sliding inside the back of her panties, he's the one who's suddenly backing her up against the wall and shit, what a moment to remember that he weighs twice as much as she does and is probably just as much stronger and has considerably more power and—they're both half naked in an isolated room.

He really fucking can't.

They can't.

He swallows a moan as she runs her teeth over his throat, and tries to pull back.

"We can't." he rasps out, taking in the way her sternum rises and falls, and the puffs of air warming his mouth, and she's still enveloped around him, the underwear between is soaked through and they might as well not have anything on because he can feel everything, and fuck, fuck fuck, why can't they, again?

"We can't," she husks back, and she even nods, but there must be something, some kind of disconnection between their brains and bodies because her eyes are glassy and her lashes flutter as she—

She moves her hips against his.

First gingerly, controlled, with intent, finding purchase using her hands on his shoulders, and then after one, two, three rolls into him—she is wet, he's pretty sure she's wet and his cock is so. hard.—she picks up speed and next thing he know he's not just helping, he's running this show, grinding his erection against her, pushing into a spot that makes her gasp and deepen their kiss and bite hard at the base of his throat and blessed, blessed friction, this is not—He has always—But this is not—

It's the way she whimpers, that does him in.

She lets out a sound that makes it very clear how much she wants this, wants him, and for Jim it's all over. His hip stutter, his rhythm breaks, and the sound recedes a little bit, and he knows he's grunting like an animal but it's so good he's about to die, it's beyond anything he's ever—

Anything.

When he's back from it, after what feels like three hour but is probably less than a minute, his muscles are still twitching. She gently pushes him away. "Move," she whispers urgently, and Jim feels like a total dipshit, because he lost it completely but he's pretty sure that she didn't even— "There are voices in the corridor and—"

They break apart as the science team comes in, Nyota running a hand down her torso in what looks like part attempt to straighten her swimsuit, part nervous gesture, like she's trying to make sure that her body is still there, that she still exists, still herself. As the room fills with chatter, she turns to the shelf where her uniform is. Her voice croaks a little when she addresses an ensign, and she has to clear her throat, re-start and find her words all over again.

"Is Commander Spock back?"

"Yes, sir. Doctor McCoy is, um, examining him."

"Is he injured?"

"Not that I could tell. No." The ensign flushes a little. "But you know Doctor McCoy."

Uhura nods with a small, forced, smile, and finishes putting her uniform on, her gestures graceful and quick.

Her hands, Jim thinks, might be shaking a little.

Jim…

Jim can't bring himself to move.

He just—

They just—

He just came like a freight train and she, well, he's pretty sure she didn't, and she was—

"Are you okay, captain?"

Jim startles when Marquez steps next to him.

He is okay. Maybe his knees are giving out and his heart is pounding in his temples and he has no idea what the fuck is going on. But.

He's okay.

If okay means that for the past minute he's been standing in the middle of the room in his underwear, staring at Nyota getting a grip of herself, getting dressed, working her way past what they just—

Shit.

"I'm fine, ensign. Just a little, um…dizzy."

Sluggish, disoriented, he finds his pants and shirt and puts them on, then takes them off when he realizes that they're inside out, stumbling at least three times and bumping into the emergency console in the process. Marquez asks him if he needs help, and Jim politely refuses, wondering if his lack of coordination is a temporary effect of… of the thing that just… happened, of if his ability to function is gone forever, blown away by…

Fuck.

By the time he straightens and looks around for Uhura, she's not in the changing room anymore.

...

He completely forgets about the existence of the chime and knocks on her doors instead, because apparently not even a genius IQ is enough to navigate basic social situations after what happened a few hours earlier.

She doesn't seem surprised to see him, but then again, she doesn't seem anything.

At all.

She just stands there and looks at him, hair curling on her temples from what is probably a recent shower, her arms tight around her waist.

"Can we talk?"

Her face blanks even more, and for a moment he's sure she'll say no, just one in a line of many crisps nos that she has never hesitated directing at him. Instead she steps back, lips pressed thin, and a few seconds later the doors close silently behind him and he's in her cabin.

It's the first time, since the beginning of the mission.

He doesn't step in very far, and the light can't be anything more than forty percent, but on the walls he can still make out several pictures. Some of Nyota with her family, whom Jim spent days doing his best to charm when they visited the Academy—Nyota, your friend is delightful. He should come with you next time you visit Nairobi—some with Spock and with, if Jim's not wrong, Spock's mother. One with Scotty, Bones, and Sulu, doing stupid faces—except Bones, who's just frowning—on what appears to be Starbase 16.

None of Jim, of course.

"How do you feel about what…" He clears his throat, and fuck, this feels awkward. He feels awkward. "…What, um. Happened?" She is facing him, but pointedly looking at a spot somewhere behind his shoulder. It's chilling. "Unless I hallucinated it?"

She closes her eyes, and instantly the whole thing becomes ten times more awkward. "You didn't. I—I honestly have no idea how…"

Yeah.

He nods. "Yeah. Yeah."

She takes a deep breath, and the line of shoulders swells for a moment before deflating. "Not my brightest moment. By a long shot."

He nods again, feeling stupid. "I—Listen. My concern is…Was it…" This is really not a question he'd ever thought he'd have to ask. His stomach churns, and he shifts his gaze to the floor between them. "I need to know if you felt… coerced. If any of it was non-consensual—"

"No! No, I—It was consensual. It was not…. A good idea, for sure. But it wasn't just… your idea."

He doesn't look up, his chin down on his chest. "Because I know I'm in a position of authority over you and—"

"That is not what happened at all."

"—If you perceived at any moment that—"

"Hey." She takes a step towards him, entering his field of view and effectively forcing him to look at her. Her voice is firm and little affronted. "Honestly. Are you even listening to me? If this had happened with Spock, or Chekov, or McCoy, would you be going on and on about my ability to consent after I told you it was fine?"

And suddenly it's not as awkward. Suddenly she's a little mad at him, and he's thankfully not a millisecond away from bursting his heart open and telling her all the things that he—

Yeah, this, this he can maybe navigate.

He smiles. "In this scenario, am I having sex in a conference room with only one of them or with all three of them at the same time? Because the idea has some potential and—

"Captain. I have not consented to having this mental image inserted into my brain."

"Hey, you brought it up in the first place."

She covers her eyes with her hands. "I can't unsee it now."

He winks at her. "I can do better. For example, if Scotty were to be walking by the conference room—"

"No."

"—And if Keenser happened to be with him—"

"Oh, god."

"—And they were both carrying their tools—"

"Stop!" She steps closer and goes on the tip of her toes, pressing her hand against his mouth. "Stop stop stop. I beg you."

He can't help himself. He licks her palm and she jumps back, saying eew and gross and looking about ten years younger than when he came in as she vigorously rubs her hand on her pajama pants.

She's smiling faintly.

"Listen. Uhura…" He frowns. "Hey, can I maybe call you Nyota at this point?"

"Nope," she says, and he must look pretty put out, because she immediately starts chuckling. "I was kidding. Yes. Of course."

"Okay. Well, that's…" He smiles. "I'm sorry about what... Especially because that you didn't even—" Come. She didn't come. It's not as if Jim's ever been embarrassed about sex, about doing it, or talking about it, or talking about doing it, which is why he's not sure why he can't finish this sentence.

Maybe it's that she's blushing. Visibly.

"It's okay. It wasn't that… bad. I guess."

"What a glowing endorsement." He looks at the wall to his right for a second. "For me it was…" Incredible. Outstanding. Really, really, really phenomenal. "…good, actually, which is why it hardly seems fair that—"

"It's okay. I'm not going to spread the rumor that James T. Kirk last about ten seconds in bed, if that's what you're worried about." A heartbeat. "Or maybe I will. Let's wait and see what happens."

"Just don't tell Spock. And Chekov and McCoy and Scotty and Keenser—"

"Captain," she says, but she's laughing, and he's laughing too, and then there is a comfortable silence falling between them, and he just cannot stop himself saying it.

It just comes out.

Of his mouth.

"Let me make it up to you." He tries not to stare at her lips as he says it, but he doesn't think it's working. Because her lips are pretty much all he can see.

"Make it—Oh." She clears her throat, but she doesn't look away from him. And her breath is a little bit quicker. Maybe. "There is no need."

"I know. I know but…I would appreciate the chance, though. If you wanted. Too."

Boy, would he.

Better him than some random asshole at a random starbase in Nowhere, Space.

"I don't think it's a good idea."

Okay. Say okay, and just leave, Jim. She doesn't owe you any explanation. She doesn't want to fuck you, period. Leave this alone.

"Can I ask you…Why? Is it the ranking thing—"

"No. No." She wets her lips, and for a moment he's sure she's going to say no and kick him out. "Well, a little, but it was the same with Spock, so…"

"Okay." He nods. "Okay. It's not that—but the thing is, we're both stuck on this ship, and we're both senior personnel, and neither of us really gets the chance to… I mean, maybe you miss having sex—I certainly do, and—"

She is suddenly very still. "I don't know if I want to know where this is going…"

"I guess what I mean is—why not me, then? Instead of a guy you don't even—Listen, I'm not—I can be…decent. At it." He swallows heavily. "Pretty good."

She eyes him with a little diffidence, and he can tell her that she hasn't really considered this. That the thought of this has never entered her mind before today, and she's mildly shocked that they're having this conversation, just as she was incredibly shocked to find herself kissing him a few hours ago.

"Kirk, the thing is. I don't know if… I don't want you to get any ideas about…" Her voice and her expression are cautions. "About us. About this."

About us.

What us? He could ask. Is there a possibility of an us?

But he doesn't.

This—making split second decisions, acting and putting off the thinking, making the best of half an opportunity—this is what he's good for.

Twisting situations to his own advantages.

So he smiles at her reassuringly. "I won't. I'm not—It doesn't have to mean anything." It's not exactly a lie. It doesn't have to mean anything. That to him it… yeah, that's another matter altogether. "Just… fun."

"Are we sure?"

"Positive."

For a minute there's speculation in the way she cocks her head, she looks at him appraisingly. And then something shifts in her expression, and she has made her decision. "Fun, you say?"

"Why do you look so dubious?"

"Well…"

"Hey. Hey, I'm good at it." Her eyebrow lifts. "Usually. This time—There were extenuating circumstances and—"

The eyebrow stays, skeptical. "If you say s—"

This time at least he can be one hundred percent sure. He's the one who leans forward, and takes her face in his hands, and runs his tongue on her lips before kissing her, tasting toothpaste and strawberry and does she use strawberry toothpaste, because it's cutest fucking thing he—

She moans.

Her hands twine in his hair and she sighs and it's different from a few hours earlier, because they have cleared it out, because they are both here, in their heads, and it makes it just…good.

So good.

He's not quite sure how they end up by her bed. How he's suddenly shirtless is just as hazy, lost in the way she's staring at his chest and running her fingers on his ribcage, on his chest, and it's right there, in her eyes, in her touch, that she'd never even thought about him like this; that's she's faintly surprised by the fact that she is really, really pleased with what she sees, and Jim knows he's fit, he knows he looks good, he knows but it feels like it never mattered before now. It's the most erotic experience of his life, and they haven't even started.

"You—" She swallows and lightly grazes her nails around his nipples. He tries not to grunt in response. "You really do follow Starfleet's workout guidelines, don't you?"

There are probably thirty witty response he could give her, but she's touching his biceps like they should be some kind of galactic heritage site and all that he can do is tug at her pajama and croak, "Off."

He tries not to look at her too much, because—he wants it to last. He tries to make it slow, slow enough that he can be there, encode it, because he knows he will want to remember this later. He tries to hold off, and maybe be a gentlemen for once, but she doesn't let him, and pulls him on top of her, flush to her, inside her, licks the sweat trickling down his temple, and he can only give in, half laughing and half gasping.

He has never let himself picture this, and he has thought of nothing else for the past years.

Two thrusts in he has stops, because—

"Jim." She says, sounding impatient and frustrated, doing something with her—

He groans. "Shit. Sorry. Sorry," he exhales against her cheek. "I just—I can't—I don't want it to be over just yet."

Ever.

He knows all the moves, and yet he can use none. His hands hold her hips a little too tight—bruises, there will be bruises—and his eyes search hers a little too fervently, and the rush of pleasure is a little too intense, almost making him lose it a little too quickly. He drives himself too deep, suckles a little too hard, but he must be doing something right, because she's wet and welcoming, and right before his mind snaps blank she sighs in his ear, something harmless like "Yes", or "Good," or "Please," and then her legs are tightening around his waist, and she's pulling at him, and he comes in a hot, blinding rush of mind-numbing pleasure that seems to never end.

He buries his grunt in her throat, and then, when he's afraid he might bite her, in her pillow.

Fuck.

Just, fuck.

When can makes sense of his body and his surroundings again he's already on laying on his back, staring at the curve of her ass as she sits on the edge of the bed.

"Did you…?" He clears his throat.

She looks back at him, moving her hair over the opposite shoulder. " Would you like a performance evaluation?" She's smiling a little.

He and Nyota.

They just made love.

He can't wrap his head around it.

"I'm not sure. Would it be positive, negative, or somewhere in between?"

She stands, naked, glorious, and he's not even surprised that she's not self-conscious at all. "Don't worry. You are pretty good, after all."

He has no idea what to answer to that. His mind is mostly blank. "You are beautiful," he tells her awkwardly, and he is not looking at her naked breasts, or at the v between her legs.

She rolls her eyes, but she's still smiling. "You know, compliments won't make me forget that time you lasted about five seconds."

"Now. It was least twenty five."

She walks to her fresher, stopping to check her comm on her way, typing a response to some kind of message she received while they...

Before she disappears in the bathroom, he hears, "Goodnight, Kirk." It's how he knows not to be there when she comes back.

He gives himself a few seconds to get controls of his limbs, and then starts looking for his underwear.