The Captain's Day Off
The next day – that same one, really – Jim Kirk slept mid-way through ship's morning. He rolled over and stretched, waking incrementally. It dawned on him gradually that it had been a long time since he'd stayed in bed until he couldn't sleep any more: He usually woke to a page, or lights shining in his face; to an alarm, or a crisis. These days, even the excitement (or aftermath) of shoreleave bounced him out of bed.
The slow progressive dispersion of lassitude was delicious. He spent another five minutes deciding whether he wanted to get up - ever - before he stretched once, experimentally, and lay still.
'Delicious'? Yeah.
He finally rose and showered, dressed in his Blacks without the gold shirt. He made his way to an empty Rec Room Five on autopilot. He was almost done with his leisurely lone early lunch before he found himself thinking about the surreal evening he'd spent in Spock's company.
Once reminded, part of his brain kept trying to talk to him about water-production facilities and hydroponics on a desert planet – while another part kept replaying the minutes surrounding the Vulcan's quiet, "I may yet be spared." It was bad enough that Spock had said those words – or, really, felt the need to say them – without Jim's brain repeating them over and over for him, thanks very much.
Lieutenant Uhura had insisted, once, that Spock wasn't just hiding his reactions to things; she had said that things didn't get to him in the same way they would to someone else. Jim had assumed that she meant that things simply didn't bother him. But, now Jim wondered… What if that wasn't what she meant? What if that hadn't been what she had been saying, at all?
For a long time, Jim had wanted to ask Spock the secret to Vulcan equanimity: It seemed too perfect, like some esoteric necromantic art. But Commander Spock didn't invite personal queries, and that was a question you couldn't just ask, without the right moment: Kirk had never had the opportunity – nor, he realized, made one.
But now he wondered whether he had been seeking the answer to the wrong question all along.
What, Jim wondered, would drive a Vulcan to fight so, in the middle of the night?
Jim had been walking back to his quarters. He stopped abruptly.
He decided to drop by Sickbay to hang out for a bit with Bones, maybe get his impressions on what had happened with Spock.
But Doctor McCoy was taking full advantage of a day with no dangers in the offing to do some reading about recent medical findings. He was making notes for himself on things of interest - and the list was growing long. He was happy enough to see Jim, but when the Captain did not seem to have any pressing business with him, his eyes kept straying back to his journal; and he slipped back into those pages without even meaning to.
The atmosphere here was companionable, but not particularly inspiring of confidences.
Leaning back in a visitor's chair, across from a distracted doctor with boots propped on the desk, Kirk found himself reluctant to rehash the scene in the bar, or relate any of what had been said afterward. Bones didn't even look up when Jim took his leave.
Jim flopped on the bed in his quarters. Long neglected, his book couldn't keep his attention. He thought about catching up on paperwork, but his brain whispered slyly that that would be a criminal waste of an unexpected day off. He sent a few personal sub-space messages, and tried the book again.
No luck.
Maybe it was just all the time he had been spending thinking about his Second-in-Command, but when he decided to take an aimless stroll, his feet carried him, instead, to the turbolift.
Spock often came to the Bridge when he was off-duty – Jim didn't: He tried to just let the others do their jobs without his interference.
He immediately admitted that that was an unjust observation: Spock never did interfere with the other people at work during his odd-hour visits - He just exchanged a few words, maybe, with the Captain; did a circuit of the stations; poked around, possibly, on an unattended console; then went on his silent way.
It was funny, he thought: The guy, basically, had three hobbies - and two of them were his job.
The third?
No. Jim was not going to go there… That relationship was, most emphatically, not his business: The two of them didn't publicly acknowledge it; and those who knew pretended, politely, that they didn't.
When Kirk arrived on the Bridge, he took a few paces in and stood - his hands behind his back - gazing at the viewscreen for a minute or two.
Spock was in the center seat. He had turned his head as Kirk moved forward – At that, Uhura glanced up, too, before her eyes wandered to some random spot, listening to something coming through her earpiece. Apparently deciding that the Captain's attitude and attire indicated he did not intend to resume his duties, Spock remained seated. He returned his attention to a readout scrolling fast in the periphery of the viewscreen.
Kirk moved the short distance to Spock's shoulder, and stood there for a bit. He hadn't done that before – stood where Spock usually did when he, himself, was seated in the Chair – and he found the change of perspective fascinating.
(How easily this could have been the usual view he got – if any, on this ship, at all.)
Spock didn't turn. He said nothing.
Jim assumed, when he stepped forward, to stand just behind Sulu, that it was possible that Spock's eyes would idly follow him: That was what his own did, sometimes, when their roles were reversed…
He made a circuit of the stations of the Bridge. It wasn't the slow grave progress that Spock made - He recognized that what he gathered from the process was probably very different from what Spock got when he did it, but it was interesting anyway.
The personnel looked back over their shoulders, and smiled at him as he came up. Some wanted to talk a bit; and most made gestures as if to point out something intriguing that they'd tell him about, if he would only ask.
These were good people, he thought: Dedicated, interested, proud of what they did.
The Science Station was empty, and information was flashing rapidly across the various screens. Presumably, there was some purpose, there, that Spock had preset. Jim could make no sense of it: He was tempted, just a little bit, to sit and check it out… except that'd probably look weird – and he might mess something up – and now Uhura was looking over at him, with a raised brow and quizzical expression, her hand touching her earpiece.
"Lieutenant," he said, with a nod, to forestall any comment she might make.
"Captain," she replied, evenly.
He kept moving.
A minute or two later, as he passed the outer ring of starboard stations, Uhura spoke again, her voice just a little louder. "Commander? I've completed the translation."
"I appreciate your efficiency, Lieutenant." Spock's voice was completely un-inflected, as he keyed off the viewscreen display, and held out one hand. The brief glance he gave Uhura, as she came forward to give him a comm padd, was exactly as it might have been for any other crewman. "Dismissed." His tone was disinterested, and he was already bending his head to read…
"Thank you, sir," she said smoothly, before heading to the turbolift.
Jim shook his head over the exchange. He couldn't imagine being in her place.
Then again, he couldn't imagine being in Spock's. Maybe that was the key, here, really. There was no doubt in Jim's mind that his First Officer was absolutely fair and impartial: Uhura could expect no preferential treatment.
Nor would she want any. (She was very determined woman – but Kirk knew by now that any professional success she enjoyed must be honestly come by.)
And no one was hoping to find it either, which had to help.
Maybe, all things considered, the situation wasn't all that bizarre.
Still, he hoped, just a little, that one of these days they could relax some. It would be great for people to be able to see that they were happy. Or that Uhura was, and that Spock was – well, whatever passed for happy with him, anyway… Jim grinned, at that.
He moved up to stand at Spock's right shoulder. The view, here, was actually pretty good.
Jim stepped forward, and turned, so that he was right next to Spock: This is where the other usually stood when they exchanged words, wasn't it? Spock looked up and acknowledged him with a nod. After a moment, the Vulcan quietly said, "Captain?"
Jim started to do the single-step-closer that Spock usually did, but his First Officer was not playing along. Instead, he rose smoothly from the Command Chair, and made a small gesture that indicated that they should walk together.
Spock had his own command style; clearly, any conferences while he had the con would be conducted on foot.
In that moment, Jim realized that, whereas Spock knew how to be both a First Officer and a Captain, he, himself, only really knew how to do the one (and sometimes, he thought, that was only 'sorta').
Fascinating.
Spock was waiting for him to speak.
"I was wondering, Commander," Kirk started, in what he hoped was sort of a low/conversational-type tone, "That is – I find myself - " Spock was now looking at him more intently. Before he could stop it, a tiny part of his mind wondered what the other saw. This was harder than Jim thought. "I was hoping you'd be able to explain to me Vulcan colonization methods."
Spock paused. Jim could sense his hesitation, and jumped in to try to fill the silence. "Strictly off-the-record, of course." He met Spock's eyes, and was, once again, unable to read them at all. "That makes it a request, Spock, not an order."
After a second, Spock nodded, and his feet started moving again. "In that case, Captain, I will accede to your request."
Jim let out the breath that he hadn't realized he was holding. "Great. Thanks."
Spock's eyebrow had done an eighth-inch climb, but now returned to normal. He was nodding.
Spock waited for the Captain to say something else. When nothing was forthcoming, he nodded his small Vulcan nod excusing himself - returning to the center seat and the work he had been doing. The rapidly scrolling display popped back into view.
Jim went on his leisurely way.
Down in Engineering, he found three guys in up to their elbows, with pieces of equipment scattered underfoot. Jim believed that the delight in Scott's welcome was genuine – but suspected that his 'Good thing you're here, then, lad, I could use a hand,' was more kind than factual.
Still, he rolled up his sleeves; and he was glad, when he was done, to see that he needed to dig grime out from under his fingernails.
He dropped by his quarters to grab a clean set of clothes.
He went down to the pool to get some exercise and maybe work out the kinks that never seemed to go completely away. A few laps in, as he turned and headed back down the lane, he saw Uhura standing at the far end. He had always appreciated that this was one thing that they had in common – and, though he didn't like to examine the idea too closely, one place her taciturn male shadow was unlikely to follow.
Her appearance in a swimsuit was as startling as ever, and he tried to picture her through Vulcan eyes.
All he heard above his own heartbeat was an echo of that deep voice telling him that Vulcans fought to win their mates, and protected them fiercely - He heard again the 'we.' He didn't look up as he made the near turn, and it wasn't until he was at the far wall that he heard the splash of her dive.
She was a lane or two over; but still, as they swam toward each other, he felt it was inevitable that they should touch hands, brush skin, in passing. He put his head down and swam, as though his life depended upon it.
He was exhilarated, exhausted, when he finally pulled himself out of the water, and headed in for his second shower of the day.
