A/N: I love both of these universes so much that I would own both of them in a heartbeat. But alas, I don't. They belong to the universe, as they should. Reviews would be lovely! I've gotten some follows and favorites, which I love, but any sort of constructive criticism/details I should flesh out, etc. are greatly appreciated! NO matter what, thank you for reading, and I can't wait to continue on with this story in a hopefully timely fashion, Inshallah.

Jim was alone on the bridge, minus a few crew members he wasn't quite familiar with yet who were still lingering at their stations. It was night. Well, okay, technically in space it was always "night." Let's just say it was the time his normal "day" bridge crew would take their leave to their quarters for an eight hour period to sleep or whatever they wanted to do in their (entirely too limited, Jim felt) free time. And normally, Jim would leave, right along with them, hopefully to chase the sandman for at least a few hours.

But Jim couldn't sleep that night.

Which wasn't unusual, really. In fact, as a boy in Iowa he'd sort of become known for sneaking out of the house late at night, to either meet up with one of the other local boys to hang out by the quarry or to simply gaze at the stars from the roof and wonder if he'd ever be able to get up there, like dad did, and, if he was being honest with himself, he'd wonder if he would eventually meet his death up there, like dad did.

On occasion during those visits to the quarry, Jim would get as close as security protocol would permit him to witness the birth of starships being built for Starfleet. He'd watch the bright sparks fly from machinery, hear the men yelling at each other or laughing as they told stories about their latest lay, their skin grimy, their voices loud and husky. He'd listen to the groan of the bowels of each ship, wondering what it was like inside them, what it'd be like to captain one of them, to take them out farther than anyone had done before.

Now, he need no longer wonder.

And that was fucking terrifying.

Yeah, Jim Kirk had defied the odds, done his training in three years instead of four, just like he'd promised Pike, defeated the man who was responsible for the death of his old man, just like he'd promised himself, and had received the status of captain of the best ship in the fleet—and he was only slightly biased in his thinking that. Typically newest meant best, and she was basically fresh from the womb of a shipyard before Nero got his hands on her. But now she was all bright, shiny, ready for whatever met her out in the depths of space. Just like he was.

In theory.

He just….he wanted to live up to the image he'd projected to the world outside him. He might put on a tough act, talk a big game, but really, James Tiberius Kirk gave way too much of a shit what others thought of him, whether it was his mom's ex-boyfriends or his commanding officers. During the encounter with Nero, Pike's disappointment in Kirk wounded him more than he had time to let on, and even knowing that initially his first officer essentially hated him admittedly through Jim slightly off his game. Slightly.

I mean, if the guy just to go know me, he'd like me. Well, tolerate me, Jim had thought after getting over his initial rage as his balls shriveled to the size of shriveled grapes on Delta Vega before he'd narrowly become a meal for a vagina monster.

It was this pattern of thoughts about his childhood, his father, his former captain, his first officer—all the men who meant something to him and who he hoped he meant something to—that Jim found himself reflecting upon for like the billionth time when he heard a clipped "Captain" from behind him, and wondered if his first officer's ears were burning.

"Yes, Mr. Spock," Jim replied, not turning around because, in truth, he was a bit embarrassed considering his private thoughts he'd just been lingering on, and how they involved Spock, specifically, for like the billionth time.

"We will be approaching the Doranian system in approximately 6 hours, 54 minutes and 18 seconds."

Jim couldn't help but grin, and turned to look at Spock before speaking in a slow, teasing tone.

"Why, Mr. Spock, it's almost like we don't have a computer system on the bridge that I can turn to right now and see where we're headed and the time until we get there," Jim replied, turning to look at the computer system on the bridge that showed where the Enterprise was heading and what time the crew would get there. "But thanks, just the same."

Jim mimicked his first officer by putting his hands behind his back as he walked closer to Spock. "Now, since you're smarter than I am, or probably any computer in this room, I'm wondering what you really came down here for?" He lowered his voice slightly, still aware of the others at their posts within relative earshot. "Isn't this meditation time?"

Spock suddenly looked unsure of himself, which always threw Jim off, because of course it happened, but rarely. Very rarely.

"I find myself…unable to meditate at this juncture," said Spock. "I also returned to the bridge to insist that you take your necessary and scheduled leave and return to your quarters to acquire a medically acceptable amount of Rapid Eye Movement-induced sleep. You have deprived yourself of such for far too many weeks now."

Jim opened his mouth in protest, but Spock promptly cut him off. "I had Doctor McCoy provide me with your charts. And before you respond with a lecture about your privacy as captain, I must remind you that it is Starfleet protocol, of which you should be all too aware, for a first officer to have the most current and accurate information on his captain, should his captain's health become cause for vexation."

"Oh I'm aware," Jim replied smarmily. "And don't necessarily object. But I'm fine. I don't see any cause for concern. I've never needed that much sleep. I assure you, despite whatever computers are saying, I am perfectly adequate at this time," he continued, almost gently mocking his first officer's tone and vernacular. All in jest, of course.

"I must disagree with you and your distrust of computerized information, citing your blood pressure levels, which on this most recent chart from approximately 7.5 days ago show that your systolic number is 120 and your diastolic number is 80, which is the beginning stages of prehypertension."

Jim opened his mouth, but again wasn't able to get a word in before Spock continued.

"Before that, approximately 11.3 days ago your levels were 119 and 79, literally just below the hypertension level."

"Spock, come—"

"And approximately 12.8 minutes ago I received your newest levels, which show you to be at 122 over 83, which also constitutes the prehypertension levels."

Jim looked nervously at the other crew members who, fortunately, still appeared to be paying them no mind—or they were listening so intently and taking mental notes about how incompetent their new captain was. Jim could never be sure. And how come Spock was all of a sudden okay with discussing Jim's personal medical history in front of numerous crew members? It just seemed like such an….un Spock-ly thing to do.

"Spock, you're a logical guy. Is the bridge really the best place for this discussion?"

"A captain's health and safety within reason are public knowledge to crew members." Spock briefly, oh so briefly paused. "And I have not been able to make contact with you in a more private setting." Jim swore Spock's cheeks were slightly green, although of course it could've been his imagination. But he suspected it wasn't.

"Oh, uh, I see." Jim cleared his throat, "And why didn't you just sic Bones on me and have him give me the lecture?"

"Because given your previous interactions with the good doctor ,I assumed that you would find a way to dismiss his medical expertise, thus warranting a discussion from your immediate inferior officer."

"And how did Bones react when you told him this?"

Spock's mouth immediately shut, and Jim laughed. "That's what I thought. Well thank you for your concern, really, but like I said—and I meant it—I'm fine. In fact, you're right; Bones has already approached me about this and I told him what I'm telling you now."

"Captain, I am not one to invade the privacy of my fellow crew members (bullshit, Jim thought) however, as your first officer, I must inquire—"

"And I must answer by telling you that it's fine," Jim replied. Spock stood silently, studying him. Finally Jim let out a sigh he didn't know he'd been holding in.

"Okay, okay, Spock, it's just…" He lowered his voice and turned away from the other crew members, his first officer mimicking his actions. Jim couldn't' help but notice that they were standing closer than most Vulcans typically permitted, but didn't say anything.

"I mean, if we're gonna be honest here, it's the job, Spock. Anyone in my position, who has the fate of 400+ crew members in my hands alone, is probably gonna have some hyperventilation now and then…..and maybe like, three cheeseburgers."

Spock opened his mouth to interrupt, but this time Jim took pleasure in interrupting him right back.

"I just…" Jim locked eyes with his first officer. "Am I doing ok so far, Mr. Spock?"

Jim was surprised by his sudden candid question, but as soon as he said it he was glad he did, because if there's one person he needed to ask, it was his first officer—plus it was nice that Vulcans technically cannot lie, even though experience had taught jim first hand that that sentiment was complete bullshit.

Spock studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable (typical, really), and then said "It is my belief, captain, that you are doing the job as competently as anyone in your position can be expected to perform."

Jim took a second to translate the Spock-speak and grinned. "So you're saying…I'm adequate."

Spock inclined his head and gave an almost smile—a far cry from the anger that seemed permanently etched on his face in those first few hours that the pair had known one another.

"That is accurate, Captain."

Jim was drugged. That much he could tell. He had spent enough time in sickbay in medically induced comas after plenty of away missions to know that the inability to immediately open his eyes, along with feeling like he'd just woken up from death, were the typical symptoms of morphine.

As his eyes slowly opened and adjusted to the light, he began to put the memories of what had happened earlier together as he looked around the room. But even as he noticed the large living room filled with Egyptian artifacts and heavy, expensive-looking books covering nearly every surface, in his mind he could only picture one thing—his first officer's unconscious body.

He knew if he dwelled on that image too long he wouldn't be able to focus on anything else, and under his current situation—which he'd already labeled as "fucked," gathering as much data as he could about where he was and what was going on—without his first officer and his equipment, he would have to serve as his own scanner.

Without moving, he surveyed as much as he could. Okay. He appeared to be laying on a very large, very nice leather couch by a roaring fireplace, which he found ironic, given that he could see out of a window on the opposite side of the room exposing the image of sand dunes as far as the eye could see. From what he remembered of his Terran studies, Egypt got cold as often as Vulcans got drunk. Sitting in front of him on a large coffee table, inspecting what appeared to be a box, was Evie, the woman who'd been the least asshole of the trio involved in Spock's little car accident. Okay, technically she hadn't been an asshole at all. But Jim couldn't help but feel anger towards her by association. But he pushed it to the back of his mind. At this point, without a first officer or any of his 23rd Century equipment, this 20th century woman was his best hope at finding help—and maybe even some answers.

"Evie, would you give it a rest? You've tried everything to crack that thing—might be time to accept that it's probably just gonna need to go sit in a museum and collect dust as is." Jim recognized the voice as the American man, Rick, who was seated in a large chair behind Evie, his feet propped up on the coffee table.

Evie made a sound between a gasp and an "ooh" as she turned to look at Rick. "If I can figure out how to crack open a 3,000 year old sarcophagus and a 4,000 year old tomb, then I should able to figure out how to open this container."

"Uh huh, and we remember how well those two discoveries went, don't we?" Rick said sarcastically. Evie turned around and slapped him on the leg playfully.

"Maybe it's just not meant to be opened—by you or anyone," Rick finished.

Evie sat silently for a second, looking disappointedly at the trinket that she kept turning over in her hands. In the dim light, Jim could just make out the shape of a cat on both sides of what appeared to be a small, circular object. Evie's eyes left the object and immediately made eye contact with Jim's.

"Oh, you're awake! I'm sorry, I didn't realize. How do you feel?" She put the item on the table and knelt before him, her arm on his. "Do you need any help sitting up? Rick?"

Rick sighed and left his comfortable spot, taking Jim's other arm, the pair slowly helping him to sit. His muscles cried at the new position, and he let out a sharp breath of air.

"Oh, I am so sorry. Rick. Fetch me a cold compress and a glass of water, if you will."

"Well now, wait, Evie, the guy hasn't even spoken a word yet since he woke up…however long ago," Rick returned, giving Jim a blatant "I don't know if I trust you yet, bud" look. And of course, logically, Jim couldn't blame him. But then again, he could, cause this guy was in the car that hit his first officer. Jim mirrored Rick's look and finally said "A compress and water would be just great."

Evie shot her husband a look and he finally gave in to her and Jim's request.

She turned back to Jim, her expression suddenly uneasy. "Your friend is the same as he was before we brought you to our home, I'm afraid, but at least nothing has changed for the worst that we know. We have him resting upstairs, and as penance Jonathan is keeping an eye on him."

"I'nt that right, Jonathan?" Rick yelled towards the ceiling as he came back with a cloth and glass of water that he handed to Evie. She pressed the compress into Jim's hand and he immediately placed it against his forehead. The heat from the fireplace was really starting to get to him.

"Yes, yes!" came an annoyed yell from Jonathan. Jim hoped maybe the volume of his voice and its irritating pitch might somehow render Spock from his coma. It was like that incident in Waco, Texas that happened—well okay, technically would happen, if he really was in the 1930s—where if a person is tortured by a horrible enough sound for a long enough time, they will finally give in. But from the lack of any other response from Jonathan proclaiming Spock suddenly cured, that didn't appear to be the case.

"Uh, thank you, for uh, for everything. Maybe I could get some help going upstairs to check on my friend?" Jim ignored the cry of his muscles and attempted to stand up, but in the end their screaming won out, and he sat back down.

"Please, I promise, Jonathan will look after your friend for us," Evie attempted to assure him.

"Right, just like he did with his car."

Evie looked down, and Jim suddenly felt slightly guilty. It wasn't her fault, he knew that. And he would, at the very least, need to kiss these peoples' asses in order to get more answers and then, hopefully, wake his first officer from his coma and get them the Hell home.

"Sorry. I shouldn't be taking this out on you." In that moment, Jim knew he could trust this woman. He couldn't exactly explain why, maybe her personality, maybe just a gut feeling that he'd told Spock about so many times before, but he knew she was on his side. However, logic still dictated that he should be careful about how much he should divulge up front. Perhaps, for the moment, a name would be enough.

He stuck out his hand in the normal Terran fashion. "I'm James Tiberius Kirk."

Relaxing at his apology and introduction, Evie gladly took his hand.

"I'm Evelyn O'Connell ne Carnahan. I serve as a curator at the Egyptian Museum in Cairo and Rick here is, well, between jobs at the moment. He's my husband, Mr. Richard O'Connell."

Rick leaned over and slapped his hand into Jim's, his grip extremely tight as he shook hands vigorously. Jim's arm muscles were just beginning to echo a scream when Rick finally stopped at the insistence of Evie.

"So," he began, and although Jim barely knew the guy, he could already tell Rick's tone was about to take on a smartass tone. "How ya been, how's life going for ya? Oh, and one more thing…who the hell are you guys?

"Rick!" Evie looked flabbergastedly in her husband's direction.

"Hey, it's a legitimate question. I mean we round the corner, and these guys are just standing there, like they're frozen, wearing some sorta futuristic space cadet outfits, and I'm supposed to just accept 'I'm James Tiberius Kirk' as an answer? What do you do? Are you Italian, Tiberius? Where are you from? What's your story?"

However, Jim didn't have any time to refute Rick's request. A loud, sudden squawk from upstairs interrupted the trio, and they all looked up to see a bedroom door slam open and Jonathan run out, looking like he'd just seen a ghost.

"What's wrong?" Jim demanded.

"He's…I mean…he's—" Jonathan was cut off by his body suddenly being slammed into the wall by some sort of unknown force. Suddenly, Spock emerged through the door, not even bothering to glance at Jonathan as he took to the stairs.

"Spock!" Jim threw the blankets off of him and leapt over Evie and Rick, ignoring the raw pain of his joints. He ran up the stairs halfway to meet his first officer, and stopped dead, his jaw dropping. As if Jonathan yelling from the top of the stairs as he remained pinned against a wall wasn't weird enough, Spock's eyes were slitted like cat eyes.

Cat eyes.

Jim blinked to make sure his vision hadn't deceived him, and indeed it hadn't. Spock was sporting some serious cat eyes.

"Spock…" Jim reached up to place a hand on Spock's shoulder. Mistake. Spock's head cocked in the direction of Jim's arm, and Spock hissed….he fucking…hissed! And before Jim could react, he found himself being slammed into a wall with the flick of Spock's wrist.

Yeah. He was getting really fucking tired of having his body slammed into things today, thanks very much.

"YOU DARE TO TOUCH THE POWERFUL ONE?" Spock said, so loudly that the foundations of the mansion shook. Jim shivered. It wasn't just that Spock's voice was loud—it was a dual voice. On the lower surface Jim could hear Spock's voice. But on a higher, much louder level, speaking in synch with Spock, was a female voice that was almost like a…well, like a purr. And unlike a purr from a homeless tomcat who lives on a person's street, this purr was fucking terrifying.

"Powerful one?" Jim heard Evie say in awe! He looked to the couple still down below. Rick stood in front of Evie, pistols drawn.

"Listen, buddy, lady, whatever the Hell you are, this is my house, and I have certain rules of telekinesis—"

But Spock, or whoever was in Spock's body, didn't really seem to give a damn about Rick's House Rules. Rick suddenly cried out and dropped his weapons like they were hot potatoes, and both he and Evie found themselves slammed against the wall in front of the fireplace, their limbs dangling dangerously close to the flames.

Spock, having made it to the bottom of the steps now, crossed the room and picked up the object Evie had been studying earlier. He crouched down and, almost in a purposeful mimic, turned it over in his hands just as she had. And this time, he let out an unmistakable purr. Jim decided right then and there that he would not forget that sound as long as he lived.

"AT LAST," he thrummed. "JUST AS I HAD PLANNED."

He touched a spot on the object and with a sharp sound it popped open. Spock grabbed whatever was inside and unfurled what appeared to be a map.

He looked up to Rick and Evie. "YOU. YOU ARE TASKED WITH HELPING THIS VULCAN TO FIND ME, EVELYN AND RICK O'CONNELL. IF I AM NOT FOUND BY THIS DESCENDENT WHO SERVES AS MY HOST, THE WORLD WILL FEEL MY WRATH AGAIN."

Spock turned his gaze to the top of the stairs at Jonathan, who was nervously spewing both a mix of expletives and sounds of confusion.

"YOU WILL BE SILENT. YOU ALMOST KILLED MY DESCENDENT. YOU DO NOT WISH TO KNOW WHAT WOULD HAPPEN IF YOU HAD SUCCEEDED."

Finally, Spock turned his feline eyes to Jim, and he felt himself shiver all over again at the sight of those inhuman, non-Vulcan eyes.

"YOU CARE DEEPLY FOR THIS MAN," Spock said, almost mockingly. "IT WILL BE YOUR DOWNFALL, IF YOU FAIL ME. BUT I KNOW YOU WILL NOT. YOU HAVE NO CHOICE."

Spock stood up on the table and did a sweep of the room, glancing at each pinned person. "BRING HIM TO ME, OR FEEL THE BLOOD OF MAN CLEANSE THIS WORLD."

And then, with a roar, Spock's body collapsed once again onto the table. But before Jim could observe that Spock's body was beginning to move again, he and his three other companions were suddenly released from their grip. Jim fell to the ground and rolled into a standing position, running over to his first officer's form, ignoring the cries of Jonathan from upstairs as he dusted off his jacket on the flight of stairs. To Jim's surprise, and consuming relief, Spock's eyes were open—and non-feline—as he attempted to sit up in a sitting position.

"Captain, where—" But Spock was interrupted by the sudden grip of a pissed off Rick O'Connell, who, in what seemed like revenge, shoved Spock against the nearest wall where he'd just been dangling. Spock, being half-Vulcan, was one of the strongest men Jim had ever known, which let him know just how angry this angry American man was.

"Wait, please, stop!" Jim said, rushing to push Rick off of Spock, but one shove of Rick's hand sent him stumbling back several feet. But as he made to stop Rick once again, he was beaten by Evie, who put one hand on his forearm and gripped it. Immediately, Rick eased his grip and let Spock go, taking a seat on the couch where Jim had been, putting his head in his hands for a moment, before looking up at Jim.

"Let's start over, shall we, Mr. James Tiberius Kirk? I'll ask you once again: What the hell is your story?"