Gaila appeared amused by his suggestion that they have coffee together, but she was not surprised. She regarded him over her shoulder, hand hovering over the screen. She had brought up the textures that mapped onto the exterior of the warbirds. She was intent on correcting the appearance of the wings, which she deemed rough at the edges. The pattern did not line up correctly. He straightened as he awaited her answer.
"I knew it was only a matter of time before you asked," she confided, in a tone quiet enough that the other technicians would not be able to hear.
"I only wish to speak about Jim if you are willing," he said. "I cannot order you to do this."
"You're not ordering me," she said. "What does your schedule look like tonight?"
"I am free after 0645."
"Then meet me at Cochrane's at 0700," she said. "You'll buy me a drink, and I'll listen while you spill your guts."
"Thank you," Spock said, and he went to his own work station.
He reviewed changes made by the senior technicians, approved eight of them and rejected six that required additional work. He taught his afternoon lecture, held office hours, read, and hardly tasted his lunch. He looked up the address of Cochrane's, finding it to be within walking distance from campus. That explained its popularity with cadets. He often heard it referenced.
He hadn't thought to ask Gaila what he should wear, if his clothing was appropriate. He should not, he belatedly realized, wear his instructor's uniform to meet with a student in an unofficial capacity. However, there was not enough time for him to return home and change. Perhaps no one would recognize his uniform if he left on his overcoat? It was early December and cold outside. It was unlikely anyone would question a Vulcan for wearing a coat indoors. He tugged his hat tightly over his ears and started for the exit.
ooo ooo ooo
Spock recognized Gaila by her hair, which was loose and cascaded over her shoulders. She sat at the bar with a beer in hand and raised an eyebrow at him. He nodded to acknowledge that he had seen her, then made his way to the empty barstool she had thoughtfully reserved with a coat.
"I wasn't sure what you'd want," she said as he sat down.
"I will have water," he said and removed his hat and gloves. He folded them on his lap.
"You'll have something fun," she replied breezily. "Is it true about chocolate?"
"Yes," Spock sighed, so Gaila waved to the bartender.
"A chocolate martini," she said. "Heavy on the chocolate. And drinks are on him." She winked, which caused the bartender to blush and fumble the shaker as she poured a measure of vodka.
Spock had never been in this establishment, though he had heard Jim speak of it before. The interior was dim and required a thorough cleaning. He was careful not to touch any surfaces. The name, Spock knew, originated from Zephram Cochrane, though he saw little in tribute to the man's accomplishments besides his name on the partially lit sign outside. The room's acoustics were poor. Music blared at an unpleasant level. The barstools were metal and uncomfortable, but Gaila looked content sitting back in her seat, sipping beer through a straw.
"I believe beer is meant to be consumed from a bottle or glass," Spock offered helpfully. She elegantly shrugged one shoulder. The movement emphasized the black dress she wore. It revealed her shoulders and arms, and snaked to her ankles. Spock had to admit it was becoming.
"I like it this way," she said and sipped again noisily. The bartender slid Spock's martini to him with a bashful smile in Gaila's direction. "Thanks, sweetie," Gaila said. "Give me your ID if you want to see me sometime."
Spock watched the bartender reach into her pocket, take out her comm, and touch it to Gaila's.
"She's cute," Gaila mused as the bartender moved on to the next patron. She fixed her gaze on Spock and motioned to his drink. "What do you think?"
He gave it a calculating look. The liquid appeared pale brown and was opaque, nearly filling the glass that came to a point where it met the stem. From the side, it was shaped like a triangle. The sides of the glass had been swirled with a thicker brown substance, which Spock determined to be a form of chocolate. He took an experimental sip, wincing at the bitterness of the alcohol. He wanted to wipe his tongue after he swallowed, but Gaila had agreed to speak about Jim. He would consume the drink to please her, if nothing else.
"It is fine," he said and took another sip. "Cadet—"
"Gaila," she said. "We're in a bar, and I look gorgeous tonight. Call me Gaila."
"As you wish."
"So you want me to tell you how to get Jim back, is that it?" she asked, taking another sip through her straw.
"I wish to ascertain whether it is possible to regain his friendship."
"Let's not lie to ourselves. You want back in his pants. Believe me, I understand."
Spock clenched his jaw at the confirmation that Gaila and Jim had been intimate, but he said nothing.
"So," she continued. "The first thing you need to know about Jim is that he doesn't believe in a situation he can't win, and neither should you."
"That is illogical," Spock said.
"Maybe in a practical sense, but we're talking about emotions," she said. "Emotions aren't logical, and neither are humans. Jim's an emotional human, and you hurt him. Do you understand?"
"I should have been forthcoming about T'Pring's identity," he agreed.
"You should've been at his door that evening, on your knees, with flowers, begging his forgiveness."
"He is allergic to many types of pollen," Spock said, confused. Gaila laughed.
"I'm going to call you Spock since we're drinking, okay?"
"That is reasonable."
"Good. Spock, what I mean is that your apology needs to match his humiliation in intensity."
He had not considered that. He took another sip—it was somehow more palatable than the first two—and leaned toward her. "Please clarify," he said.
"Jim found out about your wife in front of a lot of people," she explained, "at an official Starfleet function, with your parents present, and then he had to act like there was nothing wrong for the rest of the night. You tried to apologize for that with a comm message."
"Should I apologize in public?" Spock asked.
"You should have prostrated yourself in front of him," she said with a stern look. "At the very least, you owed him a call. Imagine how he felt, getting nothing but polite messages asking him to call you?"
"Jim saw my efforts as insincere," he deduced.
"He saw them as a brush off," she said and waved for another beer.
"I continued to contact him for fifteen days."
"Via text," she reminded him. "And always the same message."
"I employed variations," Spock defended. Gaila eyed him narrowly.
"Do you want my help or not?"
"Yes," Spock said immediately and took two sips of his martini. It was...not bad. His body felt more relaxed.
"Okay. Well, lucky for us, Jim's still completely smitten with you."
"He has said that?"
"He comes to my readings every week," she said and accepted her new beer. It had a green paper umbrella in the neck, which Gaila promptly stuck behind her right ear.
"He regularly attended them," Spock said.
"Honey," Gaila said. Her curls bounced when she shook her head. "My stuff's not that good."
"You imply he attended the readings to be in my company?"
Gaila nodded.
Spock mulled this over with another sip. "And you believe he continues to attend the readings in the event I might be there?" he guessed.
"Well, he certainly isn't going home with me," Gaila said. "And believe me, I've asked."
They were quiet got two minutes, eight seconds. Gaila observed the people around them and answered a comm message. Spock tightened his grip on the glass. "I should approach him at a reading," he decided, staring at the exposed swirl of chocolate. The remaining liquid was now approximately one point two inches below the rim, and Spock's hands felt pleasantly warm.
"That might work," Gaila mused. She drank through the straw, her cheeks hollowing out as she did. Her eyes widened dramatically. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "I've got it."
Spock was uncertain what "it" was. He quirked an eyebrow.
"You've got to read him a poem," she said.
"As a gesture of humility?"
"A gesture of love."
"I am uncertain whether I can locate a poem capable of communicating our situation."
"I don't mean you should read him someone else's poem," she said and swatted his arm. "You have to write him one."
"I have never written poetry," Spock said and frowned.
"There's no mystery to it," she said. "Just...write how you're feeling."
"Perhaps it would be best if I were to approach his table?" Spock asked, wondering when his collar had grown restrictive.
"This is going to be so romantic!" Gaila declared.
ooo ooo ooo
Amanda had encouraged Spock to translate poetry in an effort to make him read poetry. Initially, he hadn't seen merit in the writing form, not when compared with the scientific papers and math texts he preferred. She had suggested he use poetry as a way of better understanding language, so he agreed to translate one poem to please her.
The translation required more thought than he had initially presumed. A literal translation from the original French did not accurately communicate the poem's metaphor of opening oneself as one opened a door. In Vulcan, the poem read as cutting oneself open, which was not correct. It required creativity on Spock's part to locate words that were capable of describing human emotions. He used several that had not been common since before the reformation, and he was satisfied with his first attempt. It made his mother smile.
Spock worried that his father might disapprove, but he had perused his father's extensive library and discovered a shelf containing poetry volumes in eleven languages. And so translation had become something Spock did regularly, writing the poems first on a PADD, with a final draft in Golic calligraphy. He kept volumes of his work in his room, on two bookshelves, written in notebooks Amanda had collected during her travels with Sarek. He longed to hold one of those notebooks, to touch the fine paper stock and bound spines: six leather, twenty-two cloth, one metal, one thick paper. He closed his eyes and imagined the pinch of a pen between his fingers; the slow, exact dip into ink; the scratch and drag of the nib. Copying the translations into volumes had become its own art form, but Spock had never attempted to write his own verse.
Spock began composing Jim's poem in his head. He began with a haiku, preferring the form's precision. But he was unable to select just one of Jim's qualities as a focus—there were so many things about Jim that tantalized him—so he moved on to the sonnet, the soliloquy, to the opening of an epic. They were not right. He paced in front of the window, rubbing his eyes. He could not imagine Jim as any of these structures.
Instead, he went to his desk and accessed the schedule of cadets registered for the Kobayashi Maru the coming week. The name at the top of the list did not surprise him, nor did it surprise him when Jim reported for the test Monday morning and failed. He did not look up to the observation deck once.
ooo ooo ooo
Tuesday morning, Spock stared at the re-test application, touching a finger to his lips. The waiting period to re-test was one standard month, yet Jim had requested a date just fifteen days from now. Spock must reject the application, but he stared at it instead for one minute, eight seconds and powered off his PADD. This was a test, just as the Kobayashi Maru was a test, but Spock was uncertain what Jim wished to attain. Perhaps he wanted nothing more than for the simulation to be in his past. A crop of new ship assignments was due to be released April 1. If Jim passed, he would be eligible for an entry-level command position.
Spock wilted at the idea of Jim leaving, though it was an illogical reaction. Starfleet operated in space; naturally, Jim would go there. Jim would be assigned to a starship, likely the Farragut or the Hypatia. Spock knew that he desired the Enterprise, but it was unlikely that a cadet just out of the academy would be assigned the flagship once she launched, despite Pike being captain. Pike had only so much sway; surely the admiralty would not approve.
Spock replicated a second cup of tea and drank it while standing in the middle of his kitchen, not touching any surface but the floor. He should have left the memories of Jim shielded. He should approve the re-test application and allow Jim to leave. He should accept what happened between them; it was the Vulcan way. Instead, he longed for Jim's hands, for the warm brush of them under his shirt, the dance of fingers over each rib, resting over his heart.
He hung his head. He had never desired to feel like this. He had never intended to feel. But he did feel. It would be illogical to deny that.
Thirteen hours, thirty-three minutes remained until he was due to meet Gaila, but he had nothing to perform except four partial attempts at a poem and an apology he did not know how to word. He could not arrive empty handed, but Jim would not be contained within structured lines of verse.
It dawned on Spock that he was approaching the poem from the wrong perspective. He must start with Jim, not with a poetic form. The thought was comforting; it bolstered him through his shower, as he dressed, as he pulled on his hat and gloves and scarf before bearing the cold bay air. He walked with his head down, eyes on the sidewalk, and allowed himself the luxury of imprecision.
ooo ooo ooo
Spock relished the coffee shop's warm air, settling into the table closest to the fireplace. He was early; Gaila had not yet arrived. Two other patrons sat at round tables and did not acknowledge him. He removed his hat and gloves, tucking them neatly into his shoulder bag, and ordered a cup of spice tea. He noted the microphone, already in place, and felt his stomach twist. He regularly lectured in rooms that held three hundred students. The shop could seat no more than thirty-five, but his heart beat oddly.
It might as well have beat out of his side when Gaila walked in. She looked to her left and right, caught his eye, and winked. Jim entered after her, and they sat at the table closest to the microphone. Jim hadn't noticed him, so Spock kept his head bowed and watched the light reflect off of the surface of his tea. Seven more people entered; two sat close to Spock and obscured his view of Jim's table. He saw Jim's head turn in his direction, but it was unclear whether Jim saw him this time. He heard Jim's laughter and pressed his lips together firmly.
At 1902 hours, Gaila rose and tapped on the microphone.
"Hello, friends," she said. "We have a special guest this evening, a new poet who is going to debut his first piece for us. Please welcome him."
Spock was frozen stiff in his chair and did not move until she held out a hand and beckoned to him. He could make out the whispered comments as he walked from the corner to the center of the room—"Is that a Vulcan?"—past Jim's table, to the stage where Gaila stood. She looked at him softly and nodded to the microphone. Spock drew in a deep breath and held his hands together tightly at the small of his back. He raised his eyes to the first table and found Jim watching him.
Jim's expression was guarded, forehead slightly furrowed. He did not get up, and he did not look away. He raised an eyebrow, so Spock cleared his throat and began to speak.
I intended to write
a haiku,
but I could not limit you
to seventeen on.
The form is pleasing in its exactness,
but you are not exact.
I would not alter you.
.
I exist between two worlds:
not fish,
not fowl,
both and neither.
My parents raised me
among the clouds, and
I looked skyward.
.
I did not realize I longed
for the sea,
for the deep,
unfathomable blue.
My people shun the motion of the waves.
When we met along the strand,
I would not enter the surf.
.
I was ashamed to inhale
the wet salt air,
but it pleased you that I did,
so I breathed in again.
The foam rose and floated around us.
After a lifetime out of water,
I found myself there.
.
I found you there.
Jim's eyes were still locked on his when Spock dipped his chin and stepped away from the microphone. He felt Gaila's fingers wrap around his wrist. He did not dare to look up, despite the polite applause and murmured words of appreciation. Gaila guided him off the platform, to the table where Jim sat.
"You two need to talk," she said and pushed Spock into a chair. He sat and locked his hands together on the table. Jim looked at him expectantly.
"Nice poem," he said.
"I am pleased you liked it."
Jim rubbed his neck and looked down. "You know," he continued, "if we're doing animal metaphors, you're like an amphibian more than anything else. You can live in the water and on land."
"An amphibian is at home in both," Spock said quietly.
They looked at one another for seven seconds, until Jim sighed and dropped his eyes back to the table.
"Gaila talked you into this, huh."
"I should have come sooner."
"Yeah," Jim agreed and ran a hand through his hair. He had dark circles beneath each eye, and he had lost approximately five pounds. Spock longed to touch him, but he kept his hands still.
Behind him, Gaila resumed the microphone and began to speak. Jim's eyes flickered up, then settled back on Spock. Jim swallowed; Spock traced the movement of his throat.
"Listen," Jim whispered when Gaila paused between poems. "I know it's cold out, but do you want to take a walk after this?"
"Yes," Spock said immediately.
Jim nodded slowly and sat back, folding his arms over his chest, and smiled up at Gaila. When she finished her set and invited the next performer, Jim sat forward to applaud, and his foot bumped against Spock's. Jim made no indication that he was even aware of it, but he did not pull away.
ooo ooo ooo
"So you know you were basically an asshole," Jim said. His breath rose in white puffs, and he kept his hands jammed into his pockets. They walked side by side from the coffee shop back toward campus. The wind blew in gusts. Spock shivered, but he did not want to be anywhere else.
"Yes," he said and stilled the chattering of his teeth.
"And I pretty much have free license to tell you to fuck off."
"You do," Spock murmured. He prepared for the declaration, but it did not come. Jim kicked at the sidewalk instead. His shoe made a muffled scraping noise as the sole rubbed against the concrete. They walked quietly for two minutes, until Jim sniffed and cleared his throat.
"Pike said you got divorced," he blurted. He glanced to Spock, then back to the sidewalk, the streetlights, the stars.
"In a manner of speaking. We had our bond severed."
"How come?"
"It was not what either of us desired," Spock said after a pause.
"Are you okay?"
"I am no longer experiencing any side effects."
"No, I mean...are you feeling okay? Emotionally?"
"I feel only friendship for her," Spock told him.
"Oh," Jim said, and he sounded surprised. "Well, good."
They stopped in front of Jim's apartment building. Spock was prepared to say goodnight when Jim held open the door and nodded inside. Spock entered wordlessly, followed Jim into the lift, and stood in the kitchen clutching his hat as Jim made tea.
"You can hang up your coat," Jim said. His mouth curved into the barest of smiles. Spock complied, returning to see Jim pour boiling water into two mugs.
"Green, right?" he said and passed one into Spock's hands. "You know, this stuff's not bad, but I've had to drink it by myself the last few months. I've only got about five boxes of it left."
Spock wondered how many boxes Jim had originally purchased. Jim went to the couch, where he sat sideways with one foot on the floor. He patted the cushion next to him, so Spock sat down, careful to leave eighteen inches between them. Jim scooted closer, resting an elbow on the back of the couch, and leaned his cheek against a fist. He blew on his tea and sipped; Spock had not yet tasted his. He concentrated on his breathing, on the warmth that rolled off of Jim's leg, four point three inches from his. Hesitantly, he reached a hand to Jim's thigh, mirroring what Jim had done the first time they touched. He could feel Jim's desire: Jim still wanted him. Spock choked back his relief. Slowly, he began to knead Jim's leg.
Jim made a quiet noise and set down his mug. He took Spock's from him and whispered, "C'mere."
Spock twisted toward him. Jim wrapped his arms around Spock's neck, so Spock held him, drawing Jim closer until they were pressed together. He shook even though he was not cold, and he breathed in against Jim's shoulder. He pressed his lips to Jim's neck, to his throat, behind his ear, along his jaw, to his mouth which opened as Jim surged forward. He knotted his fingers in Spock's hair and moaned into his mouth as they kissed.
McCoy found them thirty-one minutes later, horizontal on the couch, legs tangled, hips grinding together, and Spock's hands underneath Jim's shirt. Jim didn't remove his mouth from Spock's when the door opened, just pulled back enough to say, "Hey, Bones" and resume kissing.
Jim radiated contentedness, so Spock did not ask him to sit up, though his face flushed when McCoy's footsteps ended beside the couch.
"Oh, good. You two finally came to your senses."
"Mmhm," Jim said and kissed Spock again. Spock kept his eyes closed and did not think of McCoy watching them.
"I'm glad," McCoy muttered. "Now take this show to your bedroom."
"If we do, will you make pancakes in the morning?" Jim asked, sitting up. His lips were swollen from kissing; Spock could not look away from them.
"You know," McCoy said, "I think you're due for another round of inoculations."
"Any protests against a location change?" Jim asked Spock.
"None," Spock said.
He nodded meekly to McCoy as Jim helped him up and led him into the next room. McCoy frowned and shook his head. Jim closed the door behind them but didn't switch on the bedroom light, so the room was dark. He was outlined by moonlight.
"I know it's early," Jim said, pulling off his shirt and dropping it on the floor at the foot of the bed. "But do you mind if we sleep for a couple hours? I'm beat."
"Your insomnia has returned," Spock deduced and smoothed a thumb over what he knew was a dark circle beneath Jim's left eye. Jim yawned and shook his head. He held out a hand and tugged Spock toward the bed. Spock removed his clothes, folded them quickly, and slid under the covers. They felt cold against his skin. Jim reached out his arms and brought Spock to him, settling against his chest.
"I missed this," he said, pressing his face into the juncture of Spock's shoulder and neck. Spock soaked in the feeling of Jim's katra that seemingly reached for him through their bare skin.
Spock stroked along Jim's spine, to the dip of his lower back, and rubbed his face against Jim's hair. He sent a wave of apology and tensed—he had never communicated with Jim in that way before and was uncertain how Jim would react. But Jim merely buried himself more tightly into Spock's side and kissed his shoulder.
"I know," Jim whispered.
Hesitantly, Spock sent one more wave, trying to express the feeling Jim evoked in him. It was like the sunrise on Vulcan, steam rising from a bowl of homemade soup, the comforting rumble of I-Chaya's purr. It was puzzling, but when he was with Jim, Spock felt warm and very, very right. He had no words for it. He gathered up that feeling and concentrated on it, pushing it toward Jim, hoping he would understand. Jim laughed into his neck and kissed him.
"Me too."
ooo ooo ooo
Spock woke before the sun rose the next morning. It was 0532. He had slept longer than he intended, and he was fully rested. There was no logical reason to remain in bed, but Jim was still asleep, and nothing on the planet could have convinced Spock to leave him.
As the minutes ticked past, the room grew brighter. Jim lay on his side turned away from Spock, facing the window. His breaths were even and deep. Spock had watched Jim sleep before, but this felt new and secret. He couldn't keep his fingers from touching Jim, from skimming along his back, tracing the freckles on his shoulders, tangling in his hair. He wrapped an arm around Jim's middle and touched his stomach below his navel, where it was slightly rounded and soft. Jim smelled like sleep, like warm sheets. Spock inhaled against his neck and kissed him, and kissed him, and held Jim against his chest.
The amount of light through the window increased steadily as sunrise approached, chasing away the last vestiges of sleep. Spock checked the time. It was 0627. Jim rolled onto his back and squinted even though his eyes remained closed. He threw his right arm over his head, so his palm was exposed. Spock propped himself up on an elbow and traced it with his index finger.
"What are you doing?" Jim asked groggily, sniffing and blinking himself awake. Spock stilled his movements and brought Jim's hand to his lips.
"I am sorry for waking you."
Jim smiled and shook his head, burying his face in the pillow to yawn.
"My alarm's going to go off in a minute anyway," he said. "I didn't mean to sleep this long."
"Your body required it."
"I guess," Jim said and yawned again. It was endearing, the way his face scrunched up as he did, so Spock kissed him. They kissed until the alarm sounded forty seconds later. Jim snickered and switched it off, then got up to put his uniform into the laundry machine to refresh it. Spock went to the kitchen to prepare beverages while they waited. McCoy stood at the stove, watching something cook in a frying pan. Spock deduced it was a gluten product, from the smell of it. His stomach growled, but he simply took down a box of tea and looked for the tin of coffee. He had planned to brew a single cup, but McCoy pointed to a fresh pot without turning around.
"He takes it with double cream and sugar," he instructed. "Give him a single of each."
Spock nodded even though McCoy could not see him. He got out a matching set of mugs and placed them side by side on the counter. McCoy didn't speak to him while he prepared the beverages, but he turned around when Spock finished stirring Jim's coffee and lay the spoon in the sink.
"You might as well let the princess eat in bed," McCoy muttered as Jim shuffled past the kitchen back to the bedroom. Spock heard the swishing of the washing machine. "I made his favorite."
McCoy indicated a stack of round, steaming bread, approximately six inches in diameter and one quarter inch thick. Spock counted six layers and recognized them as pancakes, something his mother had occasionally made for him as a child before he declared a preference for saffir.
"How many does he typically eat?" Spock asked.
"Just take the plate," McCoy said gruffly, though there was affection in his tone. He flipped the pancakes cooking in the frying pan; they were a warm brown color. "I made plenty."
"Thank you," Spock said. He put the plate and both mugs on a tray that had stood propped up beside the sink. He fetched utensils and a napkin, and carried the tray into the bedroom. Jim had crawled back into bed and lay with the sheet pulled to his stomach. His underwear were conspicuously discarded beside the bed.
"Oh, man," Jim said, inhaling as Spock passed him the mug of coffee. "You're the best."
"I did not prepare the pancakes," he said, "or the coffee."
"You brought it to me in bed. Statement stands," Jim said, taking a long sip. He reached for a pancake and rolled it into a log, ignoring the fork Spock offered. Jim bit off the end and chewed lazily with his mouth half open, grinning. "Want some?"
He held it out to Spock, who leaned forward and took a bite with his eyes locked on Jim's. The flavor was familiar, the texture moist and spongy. Jim fed him another bite before pushing the rest of the pancake into his own mouth, then reached for another. They ate all six in that manner, as an offering from Jim's fingers. Spock set the tray and empty dishes on the floor, settling next to Jim contentedly and stroking his bare hip.
"I don't suppose I can talk you into calling out today," Jim said and nudged Spock's ankle with his foot. Spock shook his head.
"I hold lecture this morning."
"What if I'm naked in the scenario?"
"You are naked presently," Spock said.
"That makes one of us," Jim said.
He took Spock's hand and squeezed it, sending an image of them together in the shower. Spock considered that it would be a logical use of water and time, since Jim indicated a desire for sexual contact, and they both needed a shower before dressing for work. Spock met Jim's mouth hungrily and let Jim pull him on top, so that Spock rested between Jim's legs, and Jim arched up hard into him. His mouth was hot and bitter; Spock came in spurts across his stomach.
In the shower, Spock washed Jim's hair, moving his fingers methodically over his neck and scalp. He watched rivulets stream down Jim's face as he rinsed the shampoo away. Jim's eyes were closed. He licked water from his lips and tilted his head back, just enough to expose his throat. Spock bent down and sucked at it. He held Jim against the shower wall and took him in hand. Jim dropped his head to Spock's shoulder and moaned, digging his fingernails into Spock's skin when he came. When they kissed afterward, it tasted like water.
ooo ooo ooo
Spock reached for Jim's hand as they walked to campus. They both wore gloves, so the emotional transference was muted, but he could sense that Jim was immensely pleased by his action. He walked with Spock to his office, where he lingered until 0813 when he declared he had to get to class.
T'Vei arrived as Jim was leaving. He greeted her with a friendly "hey," and she offered him the ta'al. Once Jim had gone, she gave Spock a raised eyebrow as she took her seat. They were quiet for forty seconds. He watched as she straightened a stack of PADDs, jotted a message to herself, then met his eyes over her shoulder.
"Yes?" she asked.
"He is more than suitable," Spock said proudly and resumed his work.
ooo ooo ooo
Two weeks later
"Seriously, fuck your test so hard."
Spock sighed and folded his hands on his desk, scanning up from his PADD. Jim glowered at him from the office doorway, gray jumpsuit unzipped. It hung open ungracefully. Jim's red cadet uniform matched his mood, which was stormy.
"I presume from your statement that you received the notification of your failure," Spock said calmly.
"I presume from your tone that you think I deserved it," Jim shot back, crossing his arms. "I don't think you actually want me to pass."
"Do you truly believe that?"
Jim exhaled and rolled his eyes simultaneously, but some of the tension left his shoulders. He slumped against the doorjamb. "No," he said.
"Have you considered divining the purpose of the test, rather than merely attempting to beat the simulation?"
"Isn't beating it the point?" Jim asked petulantly.
"The purpose is to experience fear in the face of certain death," Spock said. "To accept that fear, and to maintain control of one's self and one's crew."
Jim huffed. "So Starfleet wants captains who just accept death, who give up instead of doing whatever's necessary to save the ship? That's bullshit."
"Regardless, it is a quality expected of every Starfleet captain."
"What if I just hack your program?"
Spock sighed heavily. "It would be cheating. And I should remind you that we are on campus, and I outrank you. You should not speak about such things to me, even in jest."
Jim came into the room fully and flopped into T'Vei's unoccupied chair.
"D'you really want me to be the kind of captain who goes willingly to his death?"
"A captain should die with honor," Spock answered vaguely. He cast his eyes to the far wall, unsettled by the conversation.
"What the hell good is honor if I'm dead?"
Spock had no answer for that, but he returned his gaze to Jim, who flicked his away. Jim spun around in the chair so they no longer faced each other.
"If my dad could've found any way, any way to get off the Kelvin—hell, even if it violated ever regulation in the book and cost him his career—I would've had a father. Sam might not have run away. My mom might not be fifty and still working herself to death. You really think honor's more important than that?"
Spock drew in a breath and held it, exhaling shakily after ten seconds. "Of course not," he said. Jim spun back around and looked at him with determination on his face.
"When I'm captain, you can bet your ass I'll do everything in my power to make sure my crew makes it home safely."
"You will make an excellent captain," Spock told him, "but you must pass this test in order to become one."
Jim was quiet for eighteen seconds. "Alright," he said, leaning forward. "I'll agree to do this your way, on one condition."
"Are you attempting to bribe a superior officer?" Spock asked, lifting an eyebrow.
"See if your mom wants to make a return trip to Earth," Jim finished.
"My mother?" Spock repeated, blinking twice.
"When she was here, she said she wanted to see me graduate since my mom won't be able to make it," Jim said with a shrug. "I'll have a couple days free before I get my assignments and start training, and the Enterprise isn't launching until April, at the earliest. She said her sister lives up the coast. I thought we could take a road trip, spend some time together before we head out."
"There is no guarantee that we will be assigned the same ship," Spock reminded him. Jim shrugged lightly.
"You know Pike's gonna pull strings." He winked and licked his lips.
Spock's mouth twitched. "I presume he will try," he said.
"Anyway," Jim said, rotating the chair to the right, then back to the left, "I know early February isn't the best weather for sightseeing, but I thought it might be cool if she came back. I mean, if you're okay with that."
Raising an eyebrow, Spock asked, "Would my mother's opinion not be the one you should obtain first?"
"Uh," Jim said and scratched his face. His cheeks flushed slightly and he tugged at the zipper on his jumpsuit. "Well, I might have already commed her about it."
Spock blinked. "You have been in contact with my mother?"
Jim shrugged. "We weren't sure how you'd react."
"How did you obtain her contact information?"
"I'm brilliant with computers," Jim said with a cheeky grin. He held Spock's gaze for three seconds, then dropped his eyes and wiped his mouth. "Do you want to get food?"
"Yes," Spock agreed.
"Italian?"
"Yes."
"Sorry for yelling at you earlier," Jim offered.
"Your apology is unnecessary," Spock said, but having heard it made him feel lighter. "I am aware you were not angry with me personally."
Jim stood up and glanced out into the hallway, then bent over Spock's chair to kiss him thoroughly. "We're going to make an awesome command team one day," he said into Spock's mouth.
Spock pictured them standing side by side on the bridge of a starship, the viewport looming before them, bright with stars. He kissed Jim in return and touched his hand briefly, then rose and smoothed his uniform before putting on his coat.
"Come on," Jim said, tugging him out the door. "We'll call your mom on the way."