The Captain, for whatever reason, did not get much sleep that night. He had the sort of fevered dreams your mind conjures up when you would swear you'd been awake all night, but physically, you know you must have been asleep for at least a little bit. His mind had been full of nonsensical scenes that melted into one another, hot alien deserts and loud earth bars and green blood. By the morning, he was hot and sweat soaked, the blankets kicked to the foot of the bed and his sheets tangled around his legs. He felt, and knew he looked like, shit.

He couldn't tell if he was excited or nervous for his shift on the bridge. He knew Spock would be there. To tell the truth, he had kind of arranged the schedule so that he and Spock would have most of the same shifts. It was just more fun when he was there. He could tell Spock got his private little jokes just by the slight upward quirk of his lips, knew that there would always be someone in the room to oh so politely call him on his bullshit.

Should he brush his hair? Would that look like he put effort in? Did he want it to look life he put effort in?

Jim Kirk has rarely been accused of over thinking things, but in the case of his First Officer, he could make an exception. In fact, he could make a lot of exceptions.

It wasn't that he wasn't in to dudes. Or aliens. There really wasn't a lot Jim wasn't into. If it was hot, it was fair game. But he'd implemented a strict 'No fucking co-workers rule' that he'd, amazingly, managed to stick to (Except for his constant hitting on Uhura. But it wasn't like she was going to sleep with him anyway because she was dating Spock- oh shit, what was he gonna do about Uhura? You know what, he'd worry about that later).

Jim ran a hand through his hair. He looked good. Maybe not the best he'd ever looked, but still. He was James T. Kirk. He'd saved thousands of lives, beaten the Kobiyashi Maru, and been dead for a while. He could more than handle several hours with his First Officer.

He held this opinion until about a second after he'd stepped out of the elevator onto the bridge. There was the back of Spock's head, and it wasn't turning around and looking at him and saying 'Good morning, Captain,' and SHIT.

He strode to his chair, and casually surveyed the rest of the bridge. Everyone else was just doing fine. Sulu and Chekov piloting, Uhura at her console. Everything was smooth sailing. So why had Spock not greeted him yet?

He sort of wished something would blow up. Jim really did his best work in high pressure situations.

"Sulu, where's our course leading us today?" he called down.

"Nowhere terribly interesting, sir," Sulu responded. "Just doing a quick survey around the planet Wolas."

"Was a landing party in the plan?" Kirk asked.

"Not necessarily, sir, but it could be."

"I'll keep that in mind. Thank you, Mr. Sulu."

Why had Spock not yet interrupted? Kirk was certain he knew a million esoteric things about the vegetation of this planet and was probably dying to add his opinion on the logic of a landing party. A silent Spock was proving to be the most frightening kind of Spock.

Kirk was becoming increasingly convinced he'd ruined this apparently fragile friendship.

His mind was elsewhere as he gave the morning announcement over the sound system. Spock still had yet to turn around. The shift went by excruciatingly slowly, with nary an asteroid belt or hostile ship to break up what he was reading as awkward avoidance from his First Officer. When the Alpha shift ended, he booked it out of there so fast, no one else even had time to get into the elevator with him.

Instead of going to the canteen with the rest of the crew, he headed straight for the medical bay. Bones was leaning back in his chair, slowly sipping some liquid Jim hoped was ice tea, but was probably whiskey.

"I need advice," Jim said immediately.

"Let's see the area," Bones said immediately, picking up one of his medical utensils.

"What? No," Kirk answered with both confusion and mild annoyance. "Why is that the first thing you think of? No, I need . . . feelings advice."

Bones had leaned back in his chair, but sat up a little straighter at the last two words. "What have you done now?"

"Can we please stop assuming the worst for five seconds?"

"Fine. Shoot," Bones grumbled.

"So let's say, hypothetically, a captain hooked up with a member of his crew-"

"Dammit, Jim!" Bones exclaimed, leaning forward. "Why, man? And who?"

"This is entirely hypothetical!" Jim retorted. "Besides, it's not important who it is. So let's say after this amorous encounter, things suddenly become very oddly uncomfortable between these two parties- avoidance, mostly. Very out of character avoidance, in fact. So what did I do wrong? Hypothetically," he added hurriedly.

"Well, were you rude to this girl? Treat her badly?" Bones asked.

"Itwasn'tagirl," Jim muttered under his breath.

"Speak up, man!"

"It wasn't a girl, Bones," Jim said, staring at a fixed point above Bones' shoulder.

He heard the exasperated exhale of breath come from his chief medical officer. "Why, Jim? Why do you always complicate what should be very simple situations? Dammit man, why do you always drive a tank into a knife fight?"

"This was not my fault," Jim defended himself somewhat sulkily. "Things just happen late at night that sometimes that you can't control."

"My only piece of advice is to talk with whoever this person is," Bones evaluated. "Just make it clear what your intentions are to them, and it should all be sorted out." He paused. "Please tell me you know what your intentions are."

Jim sighed, and flopped into a seat next to Bones. "Not exactly."

"Figure out what your goddamn intentions are, then," replied Bones caustically. "Just don't break this poor boy's heart; weeping personnel is bad for moral."

"I'm actually a little more concerned about the opposite," Jim admitted reluctantly, running his hands through his hair.

Bones raised an eyebrow. "Has the great Jim Kirk met someone he can't charm?"

"You know what, shut up," Jim said. "I'm unflappably charming."

"That's the spirit," responded Bones, clapping him on the shoulder. "Now go get 'em."

Jim left the med bay, and headed to his private quarters. He'd get the yeoman to bring him up lunch. Food would be highly conductive to his thought process, he deduced. Oh God. He sounded like Spock. Pointy eared bastard, even infiltrating his thought patterns.

What were his intentions? he wondered as he headed towards his room. God, that sounded too much like he was trying to court Spock. He chuckled a little at that image. Woe to anyone who'd try and court Spock.

He would just sit down, and have his nice lunch, and try and figure out to do afterwards. Maybe things would work themselves out after lunch. Or maybe something would explode and he would never have to deal with it ever.

He was still congratulating himself on this plan when he walked through his doors and found his first officer waiting for him.