She's even sleeker the second time. The ship, obviously. The ship. Heading up to the Enterprise in that detached shuttlebay from low orbit the second time-? Slingshotted across McKinley and straight into the unknown. It's just as exhilarating.
When the turbolift doors open this time, Jim Kirk steps out onto his bridge. It's obvious the crew turn to him-look to him to be a leader, to snap orders and make judgment calls, but Spock observes from his seat at the science station that Captain Kirk is a great deal more lackadaisical about protocol than even he could have anticipated.
There's some things you just think people will do, and Jim does none of them. He flits between Sulu and Uhura, chatting with them both about the minutiae of their lives-sharing articles on mycobacterium with the former and firing back a rapid joke in Klingon to the latter-and when he passes Chekov he flings up the holographic touch-monitor to make a tweak to one of his scrawled equations, clapping him on the back when he sputters indignantly.
It's no secret James Kirk is liked, but whether or not he's effective-not in a crisis, not when the world is ending-but as the stalwart head of a Federation starship, day in-day out-that remains to be seen.
He leans back in his chair and crosses his legs at the knee, when Nyota announces that an incoming communique requests Kirk in his ready-room. "It's for captain's eyes only, sir," she adds when he tries to toss it onto the viewscreen.
Rolling aforementioned eyes, Jim heaves himself up to full height and offers his team a sheepish smirk. "We'll get out of here soon enough. Back in a flash," he offers a two-fingered salute before disappearing for some time. People don't talk to nor interact with Spock the same way. He's treated with more reservation, even wariness. People are far more intimidated by Spock than they are by Jim.
Upon returning, his gaze is hardened, a resolve thicker in the air where it wasn't before. "Where are we on Control's departure checklist?" he asks of Spock as he strides across the bridge.
It seemed fitting that losing the one who had given him his Human half would elicit such a human response. Still, Spock had spent the better part of the time since his mother's death concentrating on extrapolating, assessing and carefully picking apart those feelings. It was illogical to allow one's self to be endlessly fraught with remorse and regret over a thing that one could not change.
And yet.
There were distractions, at least. He had spent time in a position at the Academy teaching advanced phonology and interspecies ethics, courses to which he had devoted much time and research to perfecting the curriculum. He found satisfaction in teaching them.
Sometimes he wondered if that was what his mother meant when she had asked him if he was 'happy.' Was satisfaction the equivalent to happiness? Unfortunately, interspecies ethics did not delve particularly deeply into cross-species allegory or cross-cultural comparative theories.
Other distractions provided themselves as well. Forcefully and obnoxiously.
He reminded himself with solemn impassiveness that James Kirk had enough benefits in the position of Captain to outweigh his many, many flaws. It might have been pertinent to find a more rounded candidate to take up this role, but odd as it was, Spock found himself relatively confident that Captain Kirk could stand up to the expectations of their mission. Especially with a first officer as competent as himself.
Kirk's brief foray into his ready-room had visibly soured his previously light mood and Spock couldn't help but arch a brow, "Exactly where we are meant to be." he assured the Captain, only partially facetious, given that they were, indeed, exactly where they were meant to be on the list. They ran a tight ship, after all.
"Say a little hallelujah to Control, Spock," Jim shoots back and that's for-sure facetious, a multi-layered statement that no one else on the bridge but his Vulcan first officer would appreciate for what it is, something Spock has noticed is exceedingly common in his captain's modalities of speech.
Said interspecies ethics course had been attended by Jim faithfully, in a striking contrast to their first meeting, Jim had finished his academic season with nothing but dedication, even if his jocularity doesn't jive with everyone. (Jive, vibe, y'know-and other words that Kirk taught him, in the name of interspecies cooperation-but quite frankly these very-human words were precise enough to apply.)
"OK, Mr. Sulu, if you want to glide over for a second-" Jim hops down from his chair and pats Hikaru on the shoulder. "I'm going to input some coordinates-" a few trills later and the computer confirms lock. "I know, I know," he holds his hands aloft at the sharp offense on his pilot's features. You didn't mess with another man's work station, but Jim evidently did.
"Sir. This is in Orion territory. What's going on?"
"So we're on a little bit of a detour. Intergalactic espionage is probably not what you all signed up for, but I trust we'll put our very best foot forward. A Starfleet officer's been captured by one of the high-status Orion clans, and we're working with another to secure their release. We'll be headed to Relar station for docking, and I'll update you as needed. This mission is classified TS-clearance only, so keep speculation to a minimum. Or a nothing. Probably that one. And we'll link up, later," he points a finger-gun at Spock.
Spock stood, his brow creased with concern- not visibly. Not to anyone who didn't know Spock's face with absolute familiarity like Kirk did. To Kirk he was practically frowning.
"Perhaps we should link up now, Captain."
"Yeahhhh," Jim drawls with something resembling a sigh, waving Spock over. "We probably should. All right, Lieutenant Uhura you have the bridge. Mr. Sulu, punch it. Let's get where we need to go, people." The rumbling engines kick to life under their feet and everything around slows, before a burst of extra-white light hits the viewscreen, a comforting fuzz letting them know they've clicked into FTL. The doors to Jim's ready room hiss shut behind them. "All right, tell me what you're thinking."
"Do we not have more—equipped diplomats to address this concern?" He asked once the doors were closed. It was a rhetorical question, because Spock knew full well there were more experienced diplomats who had connections in Orion space- a place as yet un-initiated (and likely never to be, given their propensity for violence, slavery and other non-negotiables) with the Federation.
Jim drops himself into the chair behind his desk, steepling his hands together in a triangle and resting his chin on collected fingertips. "Nobody's equipped for this, Spock," he murmurs softly. "Orions don't have diplomacy. Not like we do. You're either in the shit or you're not. I will make sure that this ship, and this crew, are safe, but I need you to have my back. As long as you do, I have complete faith in our ability to handle this, but you're right. It's not Shiny Happy People out there."
He arched a brow, "I disagree, Captain. Orions have diplomacy, it is just not of the same nature that more culturally evolved species share."
Jim snorts, but diplomatically (coff) refrains from commenting. Those sensitivity seminars must have paid off somehow, or-as is James T. Kirk's modus operandi-and exceedingly more likely-whatever his opinion is, isn't the mainstream at all. "Everything I know about Orions tells me that their capture of a Starfleet officer was accidental, not intentional. Orions usually don't risk the Federation's ire, not when there's a plethora of less troublesome resources available. The only problem is they're unlikely to have believed him when he identified himself as such. The downside of such a wide berth-everyone else says the same thing. We're looking at Orava, but we're dealing with the More Culturally Evolved Guys, Rayyah. Our man's unlikely to have been significantly harmed, at least as of yet. We're betting on Rayyah getting to him before that happens, but it's possible we will have to intervene to make that a reality."
"And what will Rayyah be owed for this act?" He arched a brow, skeptical.
"The favor of a starship captain never hurt anyone," Jim returns wryly.
"Captain, it is exceedingly unwise to owe an open-ended favour to an Orion clan."
"No shit, Spock," Jim rolls his eyes. His lips press together again, bright blue eyes dimming slightly. He clucks his tongue to the roof of his mouth. "I guess that'll be Starfleet's problem, if and when it becomes relevant. And by Starfleet I mean me, but potato, tomato. Right now, our primary concern is Commander Narae."
"Commander Narae?" He arched a brow, barely refraining from correcting Kirk's tomato-potato idiom.
His hand flips somewhere to his left. "Our guy. Dr. Kes Narae. Originally stationed with the USS Epperson, he took some time off to help out with a clinic near the Talarian border and wound up-well-snatched."
Spock nodded once, "Are they retaining him for ransom?"
"I don't know. With Rayyah it's more cut and dry. They'd be using him for his skills, he'd probably be doing the same thing he's doing with us. Orava are less discerning. He's probably in the mines or a pleasure house somewhere. So yeah, we're working on it. Favors be damned."
"So his location is as yet unknown." Spock surmised, clearly unimpressed with the supposed help that Rayyah was offering.
"As of yet, yeah," Jim sighs, blowing out a long exhale. "I'm guessing it's contingent on my actually showing up."
"So the Rayyah already deal in poor faith." Spock's expression was as flat as it ever got.
"You can't tell me you're surprised," Jim points out dryly. "Look, I get it. But right now we don't have a better option."
"Very well." Spock agreed, seeing as he wasn't surprised, "I trust we will coordinate toward a better option."
"I very much doubt it," Jim tells him honestly. "I don't see the alternative where we don't go into this. Do you?"
"It is our duty to go into this." he told Kirk, "However, I believe a better alternative is discoverable."
"Not a fan of no-win scenarios, Mr. Spock?" Jim's eyebrows bounce up playfully.
Indignant, Spock lifted his chin a fraction, "I merely do not believe this is such a situation, sir."
"Optimistic. I like it." Jim practically winks at him.
Spock's lips pursed, the faintly green hue beneath the pink of his flesh rose to the surface at the corners of his mouth, "I will begin preparation immediately."
And escape this ready-room. He turned to leave.
"Spock-" Jim raises his hand, and he looks decidedly uncomfortable. "There are a few things you should know about this mission. And it can't leave this room."
Spock turned back, his expression settling to a neutral one that Jim recognized as oddly open, given the practical tantrum he'd just had. His head twitched ever so slightly to the left, an unvoiced invitation to continue. Unspoken agreement to confidentiality.
"Oh, fuck," Jim laughs, though. "And you should probably just not mention this to anyone, either. And by probably I mean treason and other fun words."
He arched a brow, "Perhaps you should say whatever it is you would like to say, Captain."
"Shut up," Jim shoots back, sticking out his tongue. "The reason it's us and not someone with better diplomatic contacts is there is no one with better diplomatic contacts." Jim jerks a thumb to his own chest. "And I'm guessing Starfleet Intelligence took that into consideration when promoting us to the honor."
Spock simply blinked at him, uncomprehending. Assuming more would come to explain whatever nonsense Kirk had just spouted.
"We should definitely play poker sometime," Jim adds, grinning. "Just-Orava and I have history. SFI and I have history in particular. I've been through this song and dance before. We'll get our man."
Spock's face was, perhaps surprisingly, blank. Unreadable.
"History?" he inquired simply.
"History, yeah. It's nothing so tragic. Mission shit. Typical shit." Yeah knowing Jim it was literally anything but. "Just suffice it to say we weren't picked at random."
"Captain, if I may, this is your first mission. What history could you have?" his brows lowered slightly, the nearest thing to a frown.
"Oh, fuck," Jim groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I can't really go into it, and I'm not trying to hedge. I mean I can't. I'm already breaking about fifty regulations, including the Fun Treason Ones, telling you this much."
Again, his lips pursed.
"Very well." his tone almost seemed clipped, "I will begin preparation now." since it was not longer 'immediately' given this brief foray into... well, Spock wasn't really sure what it was. Information only not. Insinuation void of context which only left room for abject speculation. A rabbit hole into which Spock resolutely refused to dive.
Jim gives him a nod back, his own lips pursed, but less out of irritation and more resignation. "We've got this," he lifts his chin slightly. By the time Spock is leaving the room he barely hears Jim utter under his breath, "at least I think we've got this."
He was very reassured.