Jim handed his final PADD to his yeoman and stood from his chair, back popping. Turning to the side, he opened his mouth to invite Spock to go a few rounds in the gym, and promptly closed it again. The man standing at the scanner was dressed in Science blues, but he wasn't Spock.

He stepped into the turbolift, a frown pulling at his lips. Spock almost always lingered on the bridge after his shift overseeing the shift change and waiting for Jim to finish any lingering tasks. In fact, now that he thought about it, Spock had been distant since the encounter with the Dakk. Jim had assumed it was because he was busy analyzing the data they had gotten from the vessel, but what if it was something else?

The turbolift came to a stop, and Jim made his way down the hall to his rooms to change into something more appropriate for the gym.

Spock had called him something on the bridge today in Vulcan. Could that be the reason his First Officer was withdrawn? Spock had never slipped into Vulcan while on duty before, but the situation on the bridge had been stressful, and Jim would readily admit that he had been going on a hunch when he called the Dakk's bluff, a trait he knew his First was less than fond of. Honestly, it was surprising it hadn't happened before. Had it really bothered Spock that much? Uhura and Chekov had both called him 'captain' in their native languages before on the bridge, and he hadn't minded.

Jim pulled on an old t-shirt and his workout pants before sitting on the edge of his bed to pull on his running shoes.

Maybe he was reading too much into Spock's quick departure. The concert was tonight, after all, and Jim would bet a bottle of Romulan ale that Spock would go over the music at least a few more times despite the fact that he doubtlessly had it memorized to perfection. Plus he had said he was going to get in touch with Lieutenant Yahontov today, and it was only logical to do so as soon as possible.

He nodded to himself. He was exaggerating Spock's response to a simple slip-up. And if it turned out that he wasn't, it didn't matter. He knew his friend hated to make mistakes, and so he wouldn't mention it—things would go back to normal soon enough. Decision made, he stepped to the door, a small smile playing on his lips.

It was such a simple thing, trading one word for its twin in another language, but it made the Vulcan seem so much more...real. Less ephemeral, untouchable. And it had sounded beautiful falling from Spock's lips.

. . .

Music filled Spock's quarters, long repeated notes that hung heavy in the air as he played. On Vulcan, music was considered one of the most logical arts as it was full of patterns and could be performed with near-mathematical precision. And because it was a safe outlet for emotion. Despite the claims of many of his people—and at times himself—emotions ran deep in his race, and music was a way to give them a voice without allowing them to usurp logic. And so Spock played, fingers moving to pluck the strings in a rhythm that seemed drawn from his soul.

At first, he had attempted to calm his mind by practicing the pieces he would be playing at the concert tonight. He had completed only a single play-through, however, before he had begun to play from his heart instead of his mind.

The repeated motions calmed him somewhat, shaping the edges of his turmoil into something more defined. His heart still beat too quickly in his side, and he used the pulse to mark his eighth notes, forcing it to slow further. Steadily, a more complicated rhythm began to emerge, his fingers flitting between the strings as his mind flitted between thoughts.

Jim had noticed his mistake and his quick departure from the bridge, he was certain, and yet the man had not said anything nor sought him out. Was that because he did not deem the incident important enough to remark on? The look in his eyes had seemed to suggest differently, but Spock could not claim to know the intricacies of his asha—his captain's mind. Perhaps he had forgotten, in the adrenaline of yet another successful encounter with the unknown. Spock hesitated to count on this possibility.

Or perhaps Jim had taken note and had looked up the word in the computer database and now knew the truth. If so, why had he not sought him out? Did he wish to let Spock believe the incident was forgotten and thus spare his friend the gentle rejection that a confrontation would result in?

Spock chafed at the lack of answers, and he had to force his fingers to slow their movements on his lyre, bringing the music back to something more subtle than the agitated tempo that had begun to take hold. He played for several minutes, allowing his mind to empty save for the notes that filled the air, his breath and heartbeat evening.

He opened his eyes, unaware of when he had closed them. A small part of him urged action—he should find Jim and inform him of the nature of his mistake and accept his reaction, whatever that may be. He schooled that impulse. As he so often did, he would allow Jim to lead. If his ashayam sought him out he would withhold nothing, but there was no logic in ruining a friendship that could yet be salvaged.

The last note faded out as he reached his decision, and he carefully set the lyre aside and crossed the room to pick up his PADD. He had four hours and seventeen minutes before the concert began, three hours and two minutes before his final rehearsal with Nyota. That allowed him time to speak with Lieutenant Yahontov, review the reports of the encounter with the Dakk, and ascertain the progress of the Lab 7 experiments.

He took a steadying breath and turned on his PADD.

. . .

The rec room that had been set aside for the performances tonight was alive with quiet murmurs and laughter when Jim stepped inside. He had meant to be here a quarter of an hour ago, but he had run into Ensign Silva in the hallway and stopped to let her know that she would be shadowing Lieutenant Yahontov starting next week. Her eyes had lit up the second he told her, and he had listened with a smile as she explained the experiments that she was hoping to be a part of once her assignment was official. They were difficult concepts that she wanted to explore, but Jim had encouraged her enthusiasm. Where better to tackle the unknown than the flagship of Starfleet?

Jim waved to a few crewmembers as the door closed behind typical open-layout of the room had been shifted sometime during alpha shift to create an open area on the wall opposite the entrance with four rows of chairs situated facing it. Temporary walls had been erected in one corner of the room, creating a small space for the performers to wait. He took a seat in a chair on the edge of the front row so he could slip out if need be but was still close enough to enjoy the performances. Right now Chekov was in the center of the stage, double and triple-checking the sound system to make sure it was working. In all honesty, the room was small enough that the system probably wasn't necessary, but Chekov had been experimenting with this one for months and was eager to try it out.

He glanced around the room as people began to move to their seats and saw Bones in the corner talking with one of the engineers from Beta shift. Their conversation seemed to fade out, and he motioned for his friend to join him.

"I hope you've got a plan of how you're going to make this up to M'Benga," Jim said with a wide grin as Bones sat in the chair next to him.

Bones nodded, shifting in his chair until he was comfortable. "I'm covering an extra shift for him next week so that he can watch the Taekwondo tournament."

"I had forgotten about that. Do you know if—" Jim cut himself off as the lights in the room dimmed, and Uhura stepped to the middle of the stage.

"Pavel says the sound system's good, so we'll get started," she said, smiling brilliantly. "Questions about what the different pieces mean to our cultures will be answered after all of the performances. This is going to be very informal, but if you could hold your applause until the end of each performance, we'd appreciate it." Uhura fixed her gaze on a young ensign in the middle row, who blushed nearly as dark as the red uniform he wore. His friends nudged him and laughed, and Uhura carried on. "Alright, Pavel Chekov is performing first, and we'll just move from performance to performance after him. Thanks for coming and sharing cultures with us!"

Uhura disappeared into the temporary room, and Chekov stepped onto the stage. The young man flashed a wide smile at the crowd, all teeth and eagerness, before grabbing the microphone and pressing a button on the side. Music began to flow from the speakers overhead and in the walls, several stringed instruments playing a lively tune. Jim didn't recognize the instruments, but they sounded wonderful.

A few seconds later, Chekov began to sing, the Russian words sounding perfectly natural on his lips. The universal translators had been turned off for the performance, so Jim didn't know what most of the words Chekov was singing meant, but he smiled anyway. It was easy to see from the way the young man moved to the music and sang, eyes closed, that whatever the song was about meant something to him.

A few minutes later, the last note faded—Chekov had held it for an impressively long time, his voice much clearer than Jim had expected—and the room broke into happy applause. Chekov took a grinning bow, nearly knocking the microphone stand over as he did so. He blushed and quickly righted it before exiting the stage to sit in the crowd and cheer on the rest of the bridge crew.

Next was Uhura. Out of the corner of his eye, Jim saw a couple of crewmembers lean forward in the seats, excited grins decorating more than a few faces. It was well known across the ship that Uhura had a wonderful voice, and it was almost equally known that when she sang in Swahili that voice took on an almost enchanting quality.

Unlike Chekov, Uhura stayed in the center of the stage, moving only to turn the microphone off. For a long moment, she stood still, commanding the silence of the room, and then she began to slowly sway, clapping her hands to a beat only she could hear. The tempo picked up, and soon she added her voice to the percussion of her hands and feet. Her voice rose and fell, drawing Jim with it.

He didn't realize he was swaying in his seat until Bones swatted him on the arm. He grinned and turned his attention back to Uhura. Pure joy seemed to radiate out from her, filling the rec room as she sang.

Her song ended with a final clap that resonated through the room and seemed to hang in the air for several seconds after the sound had faded. Then, as if some invisible barrier had been broken, the room erupted into applause and shouts of praise. Jim added his voice to the mix, grinning widely as Uhura bowed. Instead of moving off the stage, however, she simply stepped over as Spock walked out, carrying a chair in one hand and his lyre in the other.

As they set up for their duet, which would be sung in Federation Standard but include elements of both of their cultures according to what Spock had told him over chess, Jim made a mental note to allow civilian apparel at the next performance. Seeing people connect with and share their cultures while dressed in their uniforms was wonderful—and matched the spirit of the Federation very well, a small voice that sounded like an odd agglomeration of different admirals' voices said in the back of his mind—but it wasn't the same. Jim wanted to let people celebrate their culture through their dress as well as their music. And Spock so rarely got the chance to wear his Vulcan robes.

After a few moments of positioning, Spock took a seat in the chair with Uhura standing behind his shoulder. Quiet fell again, and Jim watched Spock flex his fingers before slowly bringing them to his lyre and plucking the first few notes. The tempo was sharp and the notes high, and Jim saw red sands shift in his mind's eye.

He would have to go back to Vulcan again sometime with Spock when neither of them were on duty or in danger of dying. Spock could show him his home, and Jim would be able to experience his friend's culture for himself, would be able to take the time to learn about it and appreciate it the way he hadn't been able to yet. What would it be like, he wondered, to stroll down the streets of Shir'Kahr at Spock's side?

His musings were cut off by a run of notes in rapid succession, drawing Jim's attention once more to the agile way Spock's fingers seemed to float across the strings. He played another run, lower this time, and then Uhura's voice joined him.

It was beautiful.

Uhura's voice, full and rich, complimented Spock's playing perfectly, and as her voice rose in a swelling note, Spock's fingers danced in a complicated countermelody. This was the point of it all—the exploring, the First Contacts, the effort to make allies in nearly every race they encountered. It was so that things like this could happen, so that two people of vastly different backgrounds could come together and make something new without forgetting where their roots.

So many people feared what cooperation with other races and cultures would do to their own, but this here—his ship, his crew—was living and breathing proof that the whole could be greater than the sum of its parts. They had the opportunity to share the best parts of humanity and learn from the best parts of everyone else, and there were people who would reject that! Well, those people had never seen Spock, face the closest thing to serene Jim had ever seen, move his fingers across the strings of his lyre while Uhura sang at his shoulder, her entire body swaying as she poured her soul into a song of homecoming.

Jim stared, transfixed, at the pair, and wondered how he had been blessed enough to be the captain of such extraordinary people.

All too soon, Spock's finger's stilled on his lyre and a few beats later, Uhura's voice faded out of the last note. The two shared a glance, the corner of Spock's lips lifting just a fraction as Uhura smiled blindingly and then bowed to the audience who burst into applause.

It was a solid minute before the clapping died down and Uhura took a seat in the audience, her part in the performances over. From his peripheral vision, Jim saw a number of people lean over and whisper in her ear, and from the way she seemed to glow, he knew they were words of praise. Good. She certainly deserved it.

The sound of a single soft note snapped his attention back to the stage like a rubber band, and he grinned sheepishly. He should have known Spock wouldn't wait until everyone's attention was on him to start, that wasn't his style. He plucked a second note from the lyre, and the quiet murmurs that remained fell away.

Jim had heard a few measures of this piece before, drifting through the open 'fresher doors when he was sitting at his desk doing reports and Spock was practicing, but this was something else. Before, it had been mathematical in its execution, and this...wasn't that. He frowned softly and leaned forward, closing his eyes to focus on the sound.

It was lovely. Where his and Uhura's duet was stong and lively, this was gentle and almost melancholic, the notes lingering on the air, overlapping enough to give the music only a vague shape. Jim had never paid much attention the few music appreciation/theory classes he had taken—in fact, he had only really started learning about music theory when he had found out how many of his crew members were musically gifted—but he knew somehow that there was something incredibly complicated about the music that seemed to drift through the room, despite its slow nature.

All of a sudden three staccato notes pierced the air, and Jim's eyes snapped open. He blinked, confused by the change, and looked up to see Spock's eyes boring into him. There was something unreadable in the Vulcan's expression. The tempo continued to increase, and the notes rose in volume and pitch, still beautiful but piercing.

Jim saw the red sands of Vulcan again, shifting and roiling under his feet. He felt the heat of the planet on his skin, heard the sound of a gong being struck. He saw armies clashing, smelt the copper of Vulcan blood in dry air. All of it seemed to swirl in his mind, anchored by the dark eyes of his friend.

Then, the tempo slowed just as suddenly as it had changed earlier. Now the notes were long, drawn out like a gentle tide against the sand. Spock's eyes slid closed, breaking the invisible string that had connected them, and Jim felt something in his chest give. A few seconds later, a deep chord played and the song came to a close.

As it had with all the previous performers, applause followed, but Jim found himself too dazed to join. Spock caught his eye again as he bowed—a deep nod—and then turned away to take a seat on the other side of Chekov.

"That...was something, I'll admit." The sound of his friend's voice pulled Jim from the strange miasma that had fallen over his mind, and he turned to Bones blinking. "I knew he could play, but I'll be damned if that wasn't nearly emotional!"

The words caused a grin to slip across Jim's face, and the odd feeling in his chest began to fade. Strange, the things music could do. "Maybe that was the point, Bones," he suggested with a chuckle. "After all, if there's no emotion in music, what's the point?"

Bones snorted. "Hmph, well, after what he and Uhura did, anything less would have been a let-down. Still, I'm surprised he—"

The doctor's words were cut off by the sharp whistle of the intercom. Jim flashed his friend an apologetic grin—Bones rolled his eyes—and crossed the room. "Captain Kirk here, what is it?"

"Sorry, Captain," crackled Ensign Stolar's voice, Uhura's counterpart on the bridge right now. "I have Admiral Sheen on vid-screen in conference room three for you and Commander Spock. New orders, sir."

Jim let his eyes close for an instant, pushing back a sigh. "Understood, Ensign. Let the Admiral know that we'll be there right away."

"Aye, Captain."

The rec room had fallen silent while he had been talking, and he turned back to see crew members looking at him expectantly. "Sorry I'll miss your performances, Soctty, Sulu," he said, nodding to the two men who were setting up what looked like an assembly of potted plants in the middle of the stage. "Mister Spock?" Spock rose from his seat with his usual grace and was at his side a few moments later as they stepped through the door.

It wasn't a long walk to conference room three, and they were nearly at the door when Jim stopped, causing Spock to do the same and turn to him, one eyebrow raised. "Thank you for performing tonight," he said, holding his friend's gaze. "I'm glad you shared some Vulcan culture with us." The words sounded awkward on the air, and he silently cursed himself for his inability to put this feeling into words. He didn't want to mention the emotionalism he had picked up on and risk offending his friend, but he also wanted to ask if Spock had felt it to—the strange connection between them.

"It was my honor, Captain," Spock replied, and the moment slipped away.

It was probably better this way; they didn't have the time for the kind of conversation he thought might come if he voiced any of his other half-thoughts. Instead, Jim plastered on a smile and squared his shoulders. "Shall we see where we're boldly going next?"

Spock raised an eyebrow, and the last of the something in his chest slipped away.