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Chapter Text

Kirk receives the confirmation with... well, not surprise, certainly. He wouldn't go so far as to say he expected this; he knew it was a possibility. He thanks Admiral Nogura for the news, plastering on the expected smile that gives away nothing of his churning emotions.

Flattery. Excitement. Dread. Hope. Despair, shock, resignation...

“And what about Spock?” Kirk asks, trying to distract himself. He tries to sweep away the niggling doubt in the back of his mind.

Who isn't nervous about a new job? It doesn't mean anything.

“No official decision yet – but I think it's safe to say he's a shoo-in,” says Nogura, unusually warm. “Congratulations to you both, Admiral.”

Jim doesn't spread the news, of course; it's not the done thing. People will learn when the promotion lists come out.

But he makes, naturally, two exceptions.

The Enterprise happens to be two days out from Deep Space Station III when he gets the news from Nogura. There's less than 3 months left to their five-year assignment, and DS3 is likely to be the last shore-leave destination before their final return to Earth. There's a mingled air of excitement and gloom over the prospect. Kirk managed to wrangle a few more days than usual – less out of a sense of festivity, and more because he expects some crewmen will be nursing truly spectacular hangovers.

But he takes advantage of the stop, too, by inviting Spock and McCoy to a fine restaurant with an utterly unpronounceable name. Spock, even in his bright-blue science uniform, looks stoic and at ease; McCoy glances around at all the glittering crystals and pristine tablecloths with an air of suspicion.

“I feel like you're trying to bribe us – or tell us you're dying,” McCoy mutters as a blank-faced waiter leads them to a table.

“What, in public?” Kirk can't help but ask.

“Sure,” says McCoy, gingerly picking up the gilded menu. “Gotta have an audience to stop Spock from blubbering all over you.”

Spock turns from his own perusal of the menu with affront.

By the time their argument dies down they've all received water, and Kirk and McCoy both nurse their drinks of choice – whiskey and bourbon, respectively. “Well, why did you bring us here?” McCoy asks.

“What, I can't just bring my friends somewhere nice?”

“You have an announcement,” says Spock.

“Are you reading my mind? It's rude not to ask,” Kirk complains. Spock sips his water.

McCoy huffs. “Well, spit it out then.”

Alright, alright. “Just wanted to celebrate – Nogura tells me I'm being promoted, just as soon as we're back on Earth.”

Kirk's not sure what reaction he expected, but it isn't, “Are they insane?!”

“Well, tell me what you really feel, Bones.”

McCoy waves a hand at him. “You've only been a captain five years – this will make you the youngest Admiral in history. Sounds great for the PR, which is about the only benefit – you really lookin' to be tied to a desk already?”

Not really. “That's where they want me.”

“Then say no!”

“That would kill my career, Bones.”

“Bull. And taking this job won't? Spock, tell him he's an idiot!”

“You are an idiot,” says Spock dutifully. Kirk chokes on his whiskey.

While he coughs, McCoy says, “Even Spock agrees with me!” which in his favor is indeed a rare phenomenon.

Spock doesn't seem keen to elaborate. He sits back and lets McCoy rant, then grumble, then fall into sullen silence as the food is brought out. It all looks delicious. Multiple courses: crisp autumn salad, warm bread, spicy soup of some kind Kirk doesn't recognize. Spock has some glazed vegetarian dish while he and McCoy get something... similar to beef.

Kirk barely tastes any of it through the alcohol.

He had to accept. Anyone would accept the promotion, Kirk tells himself. It's the best move for his career – the only move.

“You're really doing this,” says McCoy at last, after they decline dessert.

“Yes,” says Kirk.

“Well. Congratulations,” McCoy says. “And good luck, I guess.”

It sounds less like well-wishes and more like a portent of doom.

McCoy disappears elsewhere for the remainder of leave; Spock and Kirk beam back up alone. They pause in the hall outside their quarters.

“You haven't said much tonight,” Kirk says. He's not sure what he wants – some reassurance, some sign this was the right choice.

“I do not want to leave you,” says Spock simply.

It hits like a punch; Kirk almost staggers, but manages to keep his composure. “Neither do I. But it's inevitable.” He manages a wan, resigned smile.

Spock looks at him blankly. “Then congratulations, Sir,” he says without emotion. Without another word he turns on heel and vanishes into his rooms.

Not quite the celebration Kirk was hoping for.

The weeks creep by.

McCoy gets over his irritation fast – quick to anger, quick to forgive. He still tells Jim the promotion is a mistake, but he warms a little to the notion. He's thinking about taking a sabbatical, doing some work Earth-side so he can visit old friends and family awhile. They'll still be able to see each other sometimes while Kirk works at HQ.

Spock, though...

Nothing in his behavior is inappropriate; he's the picture of Vulcan professionalism. But he's clinically distant, reserved, in a way that indicates some festering emotion boiling under the surface. The bridge crew know him well enough to recognize the phenomena, and it sets them all on edge.

Kirk hates it. If Spock wanted to argue, berate him, they could at least get somewhere. But when asked he just says he's fine, perfectly fine; is there some issue with his work, Sir? No? Then what's the problem?

Passive-aggression is a finely honed Vulcan art.

But a mere three weeks before the Enterprise is due on Earth, they're forced to reroute to Starbase VII for repairs. It feels frivolous when the Enterprise will soon undergo a massive overhaul, but they won't be at the station long.

As they sit in orbit, Nogura calls with more news. And this, at least, is a joy lacking all the complicated emotions of Kirk's own promotion. He calls Spock to his quarters to join the call.

“Congratulations,” says Nogura over the com. “You've been selected to lead the Enterprise as her next captain when she ships out in two year's time.”

Kirk beams at his friend, smile widening. Though there's a flicker of envy, he can't imagine leaving the Enterprise to anyone else. And in the meantime Spock will have a year or two overlooking the refit, sticking close to headquarters... It all sounds perfect.

“Thank you, Admiral,” says Spock. “I decline.”

- What.

“Excuse me?” asks Nogura.

“I decline the position,” says Spock, perfectly polite. As though they actually misheard. “I will not captain the Enterprise.”

“You can't be serious,” Nogura protests.

“There's no better ship,” says Kirk.

“And I would be honored to continue as a science officer.”

“You could have had a ship years ago,” says Nogura sharply. “You're wasted staying as First Officer – and we don't have nearly enough seasoned commanders. You have your orders, Mr. Spock. You will report to captain the Enterprise in two years. We will send you further details.”

“You will not give me a choice?”

“In this case, no.”

“Then I must resign from Starfleet.”

“Spock!” Kirk barks, shocked.

Spock keeps his gaze on the screen. “I have standing invitations from multiple scientific institutions. If you insist on misusing my experience, I will go elsewhere.”

“We need you as a captain, Commander, not a scientist.”

“I am not suited for command. Nor do I desire it.”

Is that what this is – some problem of insecurity? Kirk can't imagine not wanting command, but Spock's said before he's uncertain of his ability to command humans.

“You have your orders,” Nogura repeats.

“And you have my response,” says Spock. “Good day, Admiral.” A glance at Kirk. “...Admiral.”

He leaves without dismissal. Kirk scrubs a hand over his face, still shocked.

“Well, that could have gone better,” says Nogura, disgruntled.

“He said he's resigning. He's the best scientist in the fleet,” Kirk reminds his superior.

“He's bluffing. We really do need him, Kirk. I'll call again in a week when he's thought things over. And remind him to show a little respect, will you?”

Kirk doesn't chase after Spock as soon as the call ends; this is something he'll later regret.

Instead he tells himself Spock needs time to meditate. In truth, Kirk wants to sit with his own thoughts. He can't comprehend refusing the Enterprise. It must, must be due to insecurity. But Spock would be a fantastic captain. Tomorrow he'll talk with Spock, and damn all his passive-aggressive avoidance. He'll make Spock realize what a great captain he can become.

Kirk falls into a troubled sleep that night. In the morning he looks in his inbox. He finds a resignation letter – effective immediately. He goes to Spock's quarters and discovers them empty. The bridge informs him Spock beamed down two hours previous; station administration confirms he departed on a shuttle forty-two minutes ago.

That's the last Kirk hears of Spock for six months.

Accepting this job was a mistake.

There. See? Kirk can admit his flaws. But it's too little, too late.

He's starting to understand why the admiralty always seemed so distant, callous. It's hard to view people as people when you spend the whole day trapped inside an office, tallying foreign names and numbers alongside a million disasters. Entire ship complements are reduced to percentages, and ships become pawns on a chessboard where the other side is shrouded in mystery. Other sides, he amends; who knows how many players are out there, watching the Federation with malicious intent?

He hates it. Kirk was always the type of captain to lead landing parties himself, head up negotiations... he stopped by Sickbay every time an injury stuck someone in there longer than a day. He knew every damn crewman under his command; now he can barely tell apart the captains reporting to him. Stiff, formal faces. Images on a screen. A million damn emails.

It's only been six months.

The paperwork is never-ending. Even being planet-side isn't a comfort, because all Kirk sees of the planet is the path to and from Headquarters. He's starting to understand the sort of stir-crazy feeling that makes Admirals go on long and frustratingly reclusive vacations, too, but so far his sense of duty has won over the urge.

He misses Spock.

And McCoy, Scotty, Uhura, Sulu, Chekov, the Enterprise itself – but at least he knows they're alright.

Kirk can't help but feel like he nuked Spock's career along with his own. No one knows where Spock went, but inquiries discovered rumors of a place called Gol. What Kirk found when he researched the temple chills him. A cult of perfect logic. Masters of Gol can no longer feel emotion at all, the Vulcans insist. It's like a lobotomy for the soul.

Is that what happened to Spock? Maybe he misunderstands the process. He hopes he does. But it sounds like he didn't just destroy Spock's career, but their friendship – along with everything that made Spock unique. Kirk can't even bear to think about it too long, remembering the frozen, blank expression that day as Spock turned away.

Six damn months; it feels like a lifetime.

Maybe that's because it's so easy for the days to bleed together. Kirk stares outside. There's a lovely window in his office, a view overlooking the bay. It was beautiful the first time he saw it, but it never changes.

Even with all efforts to clean the atmosphere, there's still too much light-pollution to see the stars at night. He hates that, too.

Not like there's time to watch the bay; Kirk has paperwork. Just like every day.

Kirk churns through it steadily. He attends a meeting at 0830, mostly pointless. Then there's an hour reading through reports and requisitions from the USS Chen Yuen and USS Valancera. More requisitions. Another useless meeting that could have been summarized in a two-paragraph message, though it manages to eat up ninety minutes. A long file he needs to read, concerning proposed requirements for new uniforms, of all things...

Then he can excuse himself for lunch and stretch his stiff legs. As he's grabbing a jacket, Kirk gets a call from Administration.

“Sir,” they tell him, “your new secretary is here.”

Secretary? Kirk wasn't told about any secretary. Why now? He's been here for months. He stands indecisive by his desk a moment, warring between the annoyed urge to dismiss this interloper, versus the admittedly appealing idea of having a faceless aide to field calls. The latter wins. “Send them in.”

Kirk sits back down. Maybe he can invite them for lunch, he decides. That's a nice way to get to know a new report, and if it goes badly, well...

The door opens. For a moment Kirk thinks he's dreaming – but the sky outside is clear, the ground solid. They're still on Earth; this is real.

“...Spock?”

Chapter Text

Kirk has rarely seen Spock out of uniform.

Even on the few occasions he was bullied into taking leave, Spock generally preferred his blue science garb. The coloring isn't flattering on anyone; it had a way of making him look tall and spindly.

So it's jarring, now, to see him at Starfleet Headquarters in civilian clothes. Vulcan, certainly. Though it reminds him of certain formal wear from India. Slate-gray, with lighter patterns over the cuffs and chest, studded by black gems in glittering lines over the seams. The whole effect is slim and graceful, elegant, rather than the gangly awkwardness of his typical presentation.

But they aren't here to discuss Vulcan clothing. Kirk finds himself grinning. He moves around the desk to hug Spock, who tolerates it with the smugness of a spoiled cat. “I didn't know you were on Earth,” Kirk says, already in a much-improved mood. “Apparently I have a meeting with some new secretary – give me a minute to get rid of them and I'll take you out to lunch.”

“That is a contradiction,” Spock informs him, folding into the opposite chair; the shifting light reveals glittering silver over his eyes. The Vulcan-look really does suit him. “I am your new secretary.”

It takes a moment for that to sink in.

“You resigned.”

“Yes.”

“And, Mr. Spock, you are – incredibly overqualified.”

“Also true,” says Spock, unfazed.

“...Why wasn't I informed you applied? I didn't even know I was looking for a secretary.”

“It took some arranging. Additionally, I used an alternate spelling for my name.”

Spock's full name regularly caused glitches in the system for some untranslatable letters; that's why all his paperwork simply listed him as 'Spock of Vulcan.' “You hid your identity to apply?” Kirk asks, not sure whether to be amused or appalled.

“As the son of an ambassador, I clearly possess the appropriate clearances for this work.”

“...and, also, because you're an officer.”

“That was not relevant to my application.”

Kirk sits down so he can briefly rest his head in his hands. The amusement is winning, though. He heaves a sigh. “Spock. Does Starfleet know you're here?”

“I imagine someone has realized,” says Spock. He folds his hands on the desk; Kirk looks up. The familiar sight of that quirked eyebrow sends a burst of fondness through him. “You mentioned lunch?”

Lunch. Sure. Why not.

Krik changes his previous plans – a little, quick cafe two blocks over – and instead wrangles Spock into a lovely Italian restaurant across town. It's a bit much for a casual meeting, but they're able to get a private booth. This is going to be a long talk.

“You could have at least given us a warning,” says Kirk.

Spock coats his bread in an obscene amount of olive oil. “Yes,” he acknowledges. “I do apologize for my abruptness, Sir. It was unfair to you. But I – needed to sort through my intentions alone.”

Spock has always been the sort to hide away and lick his wounds in private. Kirk can understand that. But he still doesn't know why the prospect of promotion rattled him so badly. “I was afraid I'd never see you again.”

“You nearly did not. That was my intention.”

The confirmation chills Kirk. He watches, without appetite, as Spock steadily tears through the bread basket. “I don't understand. Why did you leave? Why are you here? And not in uniform – I thought you left to stay in the sciences, not become another paper-pusher.”

Spock considers his response long enough Kirk is tempted to grab him, shake him – anything to elicit an answer. “I needed to consider what I wanted.”

“And what is that?”

Again Spock pauses. Kirk sits half-seething with impatience as the waiter comes to get their orders.

Then Spock says, “I am tired, Jim.”

There's something final in this admission; Kirk watches him closely.

“I do not want the captaincy. At the moment, I am uninterested in research as well. I considered going to Gol – where I could finally rid myself of all disturbing emotions.”

It's rare for Spock to admit his emotions exist, much less that they bother him. “What kind of emotions?”

Spock pretends not to hear. “But one should not pursue Kolinahr merely to avoid reality. I am tired, Jim. My only certainty now is that I want to remain with you.”

That doesn't really lessen Kirk's concern – but it is an explanation of sorts, and he's starting to form a picture he doesn't really like. Is this some sort of – breakdown? Crisis? Spock can't handle the stress and wants to turn his immense mental abilities to tedious secretarial work at Jim's side - is that what he's hearing?

“And this is what you want?”

“The only conclusion I could reach is that I want to be with you.”

“Then you will,” says Kirk, abruptly decisive. It will be good for both of them – and maybe he'll be able to help Spock through whatever this is.

Once the odd mood fades a little, they do have a pleasant lunch. Albeit excessive; cranberry salad with truffle oil, rich pasta in white-wine sauce, stuffed peppers overflowing with seasoned rice.

Spock is cryptic about how he's spent the last few months. But he's eager to hear about Jim's work; he'll need the context, he points out, to assist Kirk properly.

Even aside from his desire to help Spock, Jim's glad for the prospect; his schedule's been a mess.

Right now the most pressing item on Kirk's agenda is handling the Klingons. Starfleet's been making overtures toward an alliance of all things. Personally Kirk thinks it's mad; their ideals are simply too different. Avoiding outright war is the best they can ever hope for.

Spock disagrees. “Perhaps we merely have yet to reach a place of mutual understanding.”

“Unfortunately that's why this mess was handed to me. I have the most first-hand experience with them. Nevermind most of that experience was in combat.”

“That may be in your favor as well – Klingons respect warriors,” Spock points out.

Well, he has a point there. “The delegation won't arrive for another week or two, so you'll have time to catch up.”

As he finishes his own meal, Kirk watches Spock's throat work draining the last of a sweet grape juice. Something aches in his chest again, but not so painfully.

“Well,” he says, with not a little regret. “Shall we?”

Fleet Admiral Nogura is waiting in Kirk's office when they return. He rises to his feet when the door opens.

“My apologies, Sir – I wasn't aware we had an appointment,” says Kirk. He already knows where this is going.

“I will schedule it in,” says Spock.

“Thank you – we'll need to get you a desk.”

“I have already submitted the request.”

Of course he has.

“Commander Spock,” Nogura begins.

“I would prefer not to use my rank at the moment, Sir,” Spock interrupts. “Given that my commission is currently retired.”

“You haven't been discharged, Commander, which means you can be recalled to duty.”

“Due to wartime draft. Or order of the Federation President, my planetary leader, or unanimous Admiralty vote,” says Spock. “Has there been such a vote?”

“I'm afraid I'd have to veto,” says Kirk cheerfully.

Nogura shoots him a poisonous glare. “Then why are you here, Commander?”

“Mr. Spock,” Kirk corrects.

Spock nods to him. “Administrative postings are sometimes open to non-officers. With proper clearances, which I do possess.”

“People are saying Kirk hired you as his secretary.”

“Yes,” says Spock, not batting an eye. They might need to have another talk about Spock's hacking problem, Kirk reflects. There wasn't much actual hiring, but Kirk nods. Gossip travels fast; admin must have been chatty today.

Nogura takes a breath. “Commander Spock. You have an A7 computer classification. Multiple degrees. Commendations, awards – you were noted the Federation's most valuable scientist in last year's polls. We've offered you captaincy of a Constitution-class vessel. And you want to answer Kirk's messages.”

“So you agree I am qualified,” says Spock.

“Our Science Department will riot if they think we've shackled you to Administration. It's a damned waste!”

“I disagree.”

“You could get any posting you want - “

“That is not what I recall.”

Nogura's mouth becomes a grim slash. “Is that what this is?” he asks, harsh. “Some power-play bullshit because we told you 'no?'”

Kirk steps between them. “Spock has made his decision, Admiral.”

“You – don't pretend this isn't ridiculous, Kirk. People will think he's being punished for something, you realize that? You want him so bad you'll ruin his career for it?”

“I don't think anything I do could ruin his career, Sir. Spock's already established a reputation for himself, as you've reminded us. If he wants to pursue something different for awhile - “

“Something different?” Nogura shakes his head. “I don't know what you're playing at, Kirk, but it's not going to work.”

The thing is, Nogura's assessment isn't wrong – not any of it. Spock will be wasted here. People will assume it's a punishment. It won't ruin Spock's future, but some doors will be closed for him.

I am tired, Jim.

This is about something bigger than careers. If this is what Spock needs, if this is a reason to avoid vanishing into the monasteries or wild space, than Kirk will fight tooth and nail to keep him close.

“Mr. Spock is here as a civilian,” says Kirk firmly. “His commission is retired; there's nothing more to discuss.”

Kirk learns – some time after Nogura storms out in a huff – that Spock's staying at the Vulcan embassy.

In theory, that sounds fine. Luxurious, even.

I'm tired, Jim.

But it bothers Kirk.

He's seen how Spock gets around other Vulcans – stiff, self-conscious of every muscular twitch that might betray an errant emotion. Obviously, he invites Spock to stay with him.

And in truth Kirk could use the company. He thought, when he was assigned this post, that one perk he'd really enjoy would be the increased space. As an admiral he's been granted use of an entire house in a small, gated community not far from HQ. There's even a private transporter station in the middle of the suburb for emergency use, and the entrances are carefully guarded. It's discreet, aesthetically pleasant, and unutterably dull by comparison to the bustling Enterprise.

It's spacious, though. Either people expected Kirk to bring a family or entertain often – maybe both. He supposes schmoozing is part of the job, now, even more than before. Well, he doesn't have a family. But Spock fits neatly into one of the guest rooms, and there's something comforting about the familiar scent of incense that creeps into the hall by the time Kirk wakes the next morning.

And when he trudges out into the kitchen he finds a plate that's undeniably his, judging by the perfectly poached eggs. It's accompanied by toast and blackened potatoes. “I don't think becoming my assistant requires you to do the cooking,” he tells Spock, already halfway through his own breakfast; he seems to have traded the eggs for tomatoes.

Spock ignores him with the practiced poise he assumes when The Human Said Something Ridiculous, and stands just as the coffee machine goes off. A moment later, bemused, Kirk has a steaming mug of hazelnut coffee. He doesn't remember stocking coffee. Or eggs, come to think of it.

It's a good way to start the day.

Spock must have abused a Vulcan's ability to go without sleep. By the time they arrive at Kirk's office the whole room has been rearranged to make space for another desk in the corner; thankfully Admiral-status seems to merit offices of ridiculous size, larger than his quarters on the ship. Kirk sits and grabs a padd, only for Spock to snatch it and hand him another. It's open already to a much-streamlined version of his schedule.

“I could have sworn I had more meetings than this,” Kirk says, squinting.

“You did. I removed them.”

Oh. Well, that's probably fine.

Spock eyes him a moment, then taps on the stolen padd. A new notification pops up on Kirk's.

“...You set up an eye appointment.”

“You are squinting.”

So he is.

Just yesterday Kirk was lamenting how much he hates this new life on Earth. Kirk finds himself smiling as Spock sits at the new corner-desk, already typing away.

One small change – but what a change! Maybe Kirk should have kept the Enterprise, kept the team together... But this, well. This, he can work with.

Chapter Text

With Spock's assistance Kirk suddenly feels his load lighten considerably. Meetings disappear from his calendar. If one trundles on past the point of use, Spock appears to say there's an urgent matter, Sir, and Kirk can excuse himself with relief.

His inbox is filtered before he goes near it. Spock stonewalls and dismisses people who don't need his attention, organizing cohesive information before presenting him with the ones who do.

This is especially amusing when people seek out Kirk in person. Spock will step out into the hall and, usually within a few minutes, return alone with an air of smug satisfaction. This could be conducted more efficiently if he has a desk outside the office. But they have noise-muffling technology to keep calls at their desks separate, if necessary, and if Spock were outside Kirk wouldn't be able to chat with him in-between calls. So that wouldn't work.

Still, not everyone is so pleased with Spock's presence. Nogura's prediction proved accurate; Kirk's been receiving some indignant looks from science-track officers, and just this morning the pushy Director of Scientific Research halted him in the lower section of HQ, demanding to know if Spock would be pursuing any research while on Earth.

“If he finds the time,” Kirk said, just as Spock appeared from the ether with his coffee. The Director practically vibrated with rage watching them walk away.

Kirk's been watching Spock too, of course. Looking for... impatience? Regret?

But Spock seems perfectly content with his new, simplified role. Though he certainly doesn't pursue it with any less attention than he gave to his first-officer duties. He attends Kirk's meetings without input to take notes. Schedules in regular breaks, and points out events he might like to attend at the nearby Academy. At home he acts as a yeoman, ignoring Kirk's protests.

Kirk is going to become horribly spoiled, he muses.

But the thing is – he knows Spock. And instead of becoming restless, or showing any dissatisfaction with these chores, Spock slowly seems to relax.

It's not easy to act as both First Officer and Science Officer on a Starfleet vessel. Spock was one of the first to do it – the only one on a frontline, Constitution-class ship. First Officers usually serve in that position only; a few are also pilots, or helmsmen. Kirk headed the security sub-department of Tactics in his own stint as XO, which was good experience for directing ship-combat but not typically an active job.

So Spock's workload was always insane; no wonder this could seem like a holiday by comparison.

Which isn't to say it's unskilled labor. In between re-organizing his desk and fussily pressing food onto Kirk, he creates neat, succinct briefings on all the politics, planets, and players who appear in ship reports. Kirk barely has to pull up a mission proposal before Spock can tell him exactly why it's a good (or bad) idea.

Maybe they should have made Spock the Admiral, he thinks more than once, ruefully.

But Spock seems genuinely content. So Kirk leaves it alone, too. He's clearly misunderstood Spock's desires somewhere in the past few years; he isn't keen for a repeat of his last mistake on that front.

Six months of silence, wondering.

I am tired.

If Spock wants to play yeoman – well, that's an easy enough thing to give him.

Nogura is Fleet Admiral, but Kirk's direct supervisor these days is the Chief of Staff, Admiral Morrow. Morrow's an older Nigerian veteran, previously captain of the USS Vigil. He's briskly practical in most conversations, but also easy-going, genial. Quick to look for solutions, rather than blame; Kirk likes him well enough.

Morrow isn't thrilled about Spock's role either.

In fact, Kirk realizes halfway through what he thought to be a social lunch, Morrow only invited him out today to discuss Kirk's new secretary.

“You know what it looks like,” says Morrow. “Did you see what he was wearing today?”

Spock's apparently taken advantage of his new civilian-status to experiment with his wardrobe. Today's outfit was one vaguely similar – though more flattering – to that worn by one of the guards at his kal-if-fee. It's a glimmering, silvery garment that left most of his chest bare. “It's cultural dress, Admiral. I've seen other Vulcans in something similar. What does that have to do with anything?”

Morrow's face twitches a moment; he abruptly changes the subject. “You don't think this is beneath him? Fetching and carrying for you?”

Kirk really doesn't want to share his concerns about Spock's stress, his mental-health. “I think that's really for Spock to decide.”

“I know you're... fond of him, Jim. But there's a time when you have to let your, ah, officers find their own way. Or at least...” Morrow trails off, uncomfortable.

“Or?” Kirk prompts. He can't help but sound annoyed; he is annoyed. Is Morrow suggesting he just drop Spock as a friend?

No, of course not; he reminds himself that this is perfectly reasonable of Morrow. Back on the Enterprise, when Spock was first ordered to take the captaincy, he'd urged Spock to accept. Parting was inevitable; even Kirk thought so.

Spock does have a way of making him believe in miracles.

“Is this some stunt?” Morrow asks. “Does he want something?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“His father's an ambassador, Kirk. You realize there could be political repercussions?”

That makes Kirk laugh. “I assure you, Sir, Ambassador Sarek realized the futility of getting Spock to do what he wanted years ago.”

“Jim - “

“I don't control him, Harry.”

“That's not what I've seen.”

Kirk spreads his hands. “I'm sorry, Admiral, I really am. But if you want Spock working somewhere else, convince him yourself.”

Apparently, Morrow takes the suggestion to heart. And he doesn't waste much time.

Immediately after the luncheon Kirk checks his new, Spock-approved schedule and sets out to join a meeting in the Archer Conference Center. It's a pretty name for what is, essentially, a war-room.

It has the look of one, too. Displays, screens, and monitors on every wall constantly churn out new data. “The IKS Melota has confirmed they're enroute,” Nogura tells the assembled group. “We've got the Lexington and Seleya as escorts. The Seleya reported unusual tachyon readings from surrounding space.”

Grumbles; those readings have recently been identified as signs of cloaking devices, but interpreting them remains an inexact science. Somewhere within a few million miles of local space, within the past few hours, doesn't really help much in combat. Also the Romulans have started deliberately dumping high outputs of tachyon radiation as false trails. “And they aren't from the Klingon ships?” Commodore Devi prods.

Kirk answers this. “They confirmed their ships lack cloaking capabilities. I'm inclined to believe it – they'd never bring that technology to Earth.” In fact they're almost certainly bringing ancient ships; anything else would be stupid.

“So we're thinking Romulan interference,” someone summarizes.

“But the Lexington didn't pick up anything?” Commodore Devi persists.

Nogura isn't concerned. “Well, you know the Vulcans,” he says, not bothering to elaborate; Vulcan High Command is notorious for their reluctance to share technology. “Question is whether the Romulans are just monitoring the situation, or planning to intervene. An alliance wouldn't be good for them.”

The Romulans are too smart to bother, is Kirk's private assessment. The whole idea of an 'Alliance,' that word people keep brandishing around – it's just a pipe-dream. Even the approaching delegation is just meant to test the waters, not formalize anything. Doubtless the Klingons will start a fight, take offense that honor-duels aren't allowed, and stalk back to Qonos in high-temper. Morrow tells them, “We're monitoring their approach carefully. In the meantime, we just need to be careful not to provoke them further – apparently there's been a rather violent disagreement over the ownership of Sherman's Planet.”

“What, again?” someone blurts.

“Again. Yes.”

Everyone groans.

By the time the meeting ends, Kirk's thinking quite wistfully of that no-longer-lonely house in the suburbs. He's surprised to find his office already occupied when he returns.

Director Byrd throws Kirk a harried glance, then ignores him. “You've read the proposal, haven't you? You won't even consider it?”

“I already sent a reply, Director.”

“You just wrote 'no.'”

“Was something unclear?”

Byrd flushes. He seems agitated; his eyes keep flicking up and down Spock, lingering on the wide swath of skin revealed by his Vulcan attire. “We could use your skills, Commander. What are you doing here?”

Spock lounges back in his chair, legs stretched beside him. “Serving Admiral Kirk – in whatever capacity he might require.”

Byrd's face flushes further. Anger? Or something else? Kirk steps in. “I think Mr. Spock has been quite clear. Unless there's another matter you're here to discuss - “

Byrd whirls. He stalks out past Kirk without a word, sending him a look full of disgust.

Kirk watches his exit. “You know, I'm starting to think you just enjoy being contrary,” he tells Spock.

“That would be illogical.”

“Hmm; so it would. Well, I have some news. Remember Kang?”

“A rather vicious Captain.” Spock understands immediately. “He is among the visitors?”

“The ship's captain. And Koloth, leading the diplomatic team... like a reunion. I have to wonder what they mean by it.” He spares a moment to wonder how Koloth's ship handled the thousands of tribbles they beamed over.

“Given Klingon proclivities, the peacetalks could be a useful facade for a... rematch, of sorts.”

That's what Kirk concluded too; but it seems egotistical to tell Morrow. “A lot of fuss for all that. Well, I suppose we'll find out. But it does feel useless, doesn't it?”

“The delegation, or your new position?”

Spock knows him too well. “Either. Both.”

“I will remind you, Admiral, of the many occasions you complained about short-sighted decisions by your superiors; you can accomplish a great deal of good in this role.”

It's still jarring to hear Spock call him Admiral, though at least less jarring than it would be from someone else. The intonation, maybe; he says it the same way he used to say Captain. Something distinct about it, for Kirk alone. “That's the hope. Don't mind me, Spock. Just feeling a bit nostalgic. I'm surprised you aren't – you're sure you don't want to work with Director Byrd? Even as a side-project?”

“Entirely, Sir.”

“I don't mean to pressure you. I suppose it just seems like you'd be bored.”

“On the contrary, I am well occupied with... personal matters.”

“Oh?” Kirk asks. Spock leans further back, foreign clothes and silvery eyeshadow glistening under the light spilling through the window. But he does not elaborate. “Not unpleasantly occupied, I hope. Is your family alright?” It didn't occur to Kirk until now that Spock might be trying to stay near the embassy, or perhaps even more distant human relatives.

“They are well. My considerations are private, Sir, but not troubling.”

“Well, I'm glad to hear it.” Kirk can tell when Spock intends to be taciturn. “But don't let me stop you if you want to get back to the labs, is all I'm saying.”

“I assure you, Sir, I do not want to be anywhere else.”

Among the never-ending backlog of work, Kirk does experience some reprieves.

Of his old senior staff, only McCoy – and, debatably, Spock – have stepped away from Starfleet. Scotty, ever loyal to the ship, remains on the Enterprise; his expertise is useful enough he was spared from the usual shifting of duties. Uhura's been promoted to commanding long-distance communications from Earth orbit – a low-stakes but busy job, though she's managed two visits with Kirk. Chekov is now lieutenant-commander on the USS Isokaze, and Sulu first-officer on the Menominee; he's already being eyed for promotion in a few years.

Kirk's delighted to find that among all the laborious reports and briefings that make up an admiral's daily news, Spock's seen fit to compile a brief bulletin of significant events relating to his old crew. Ensign Singh just got married last week – still recent enough for a congratulatory letter to be appropriate. Lieutenant Rao left Starfleet, but received an offer to a prestigious research institute on Rigel II. Ensign Nagarkar just had a baby.

These, at least, are happy emails. He beams at Spock as they're preparing to leave the office. “You softie,” he accuses.

Spock raises an eyebrow; Kirk is glad for any excuse to look at him. Today's makeup is striking. “Sir?”

“That briefing on the crew – you're getting sentimental on me!”

“An accusation of emotion.”

“I don't believe that's an answer, Mr. Spock.”

Spock pauses by the door, considering. “I do not follow the dictates of emotion, Sir. But I do not believe there is any logic in building communal bonds only to discard them.”

Kirk can't stop himself from smiling. “So this is purely logical, of course.”

“Naturally, Sir.”

“I see; my apologies. Is that why you're on Earth – for purely logical reasons?”

Teasing Spock comes naturally. But Spock doesn't immediately answer. “No,” he says at last, not quite looking at Jim. “But this is where I want to be. Regardless of logic.”

He steps out, leaving Kirk staring after him in dismay.

He feels like he ruined the mood. He still doesn't really understand why Spock came here. He seems more relaxed; surely that's not a bad thing. But is there something he's trying to escape, to avoid? Does he need help? Kirk wishes his friend were the type to be blunt – for all his Vulcan logic Spock becomes frustratingly vague whenever emotions are involved.

Well; all the more reason to keep Spock close. If he went to all this trouble to make himself Kirk's assistant, he's not planning on leaving soon. Kirk will unravel this mystery eventually – and he'll figure out how to help Spock, whatever it takes.

Chapter Text

Part of being back on Earth means creating new routines. And Jim, well – he's made plenty of those. But not the good kind.

This fact becomes apparent when his morning routine of sleepily ignoring the alarm clock is interrupted by a pile of clothes dumped onto his chest. He jolts awake, flailing.

“My apologies, Admiral,” comes Spock's precise, definitely-not-amused voice. “Given your alarm has been active for fifteen-point-seven minutes, I assumed you were awake.”

Kirk manages to find his way out from under the pile, blinking blearily. “...You are far too alert,” he accuses.

“I have been awake three hours,” says Spock, serenely, and glides away.

By the time Kirk stumbles out into the kitchen area, Spock's ready to slide a plate in front of him. The food is perfectly hot. He squints at it suspiciously. This is a kindness that somehow still feels like insubordination.

Also: “What is this?”

'This' refers to the clothes he's wearing – the ones Spock dumped on him. Notably, not his uniform. Or anything else he owns; it's skintight athletic-wear.

“You have not been exercising sufficiently,” Spock informs him. “We will be running before going to Headquarters.”

“Oh, will we?”

Spock ignores his tone. “I have scheduled fifty-seven minutes for morning exercises, which includes travel time. Tomorrow it would be more prudent to exercise core muscles at the Starfleet gym.”

Kirk notices something. “Spock. What time is it?”

“Then you have a meeting at 0930,” Spock continues.

“Spock. Spock. Did you change my alarm?”

“If I didn't, there would not have been time for the jog.”

Kirk slouches down into a chair, briefly resting his face in his hand. “Where did you even get these clothes?” he asks, unable to articulate his tangled rage and amusement. Well, at least he knows why he's so tired now. Although it still irks him that Spock seemed to precisely time his reaction to the alarm-clock.

Probably that's why he waited a few days before initiating this.

“I purchased more suitable athletic-wear for you. You have gained weight.”

Kirk makes a squawk of protest. “I have not!”

“It isn't noticeable yet,” Spock assures him briskly. Kirk rubs his face again.

“The clothes,” he stresses.

The clothes are nice. Too nice, really. Compared to Starfleet-standard uniforms they're luxuriously soft.

“Do you not like them?” Spock asks, pausing by the table. He touches Jim's shoulder, feeling the smooth material.

That makes Jim smile a little, rueful. “I like them. But you're really doing too much.”

Spock tilts an eyebrow; the moment he decides to ignore Jim is apparent. He drops his hand. “Please be ready to leave in six minutes.”

Under that stern eyebrow, Kirk quickly finishes his coffee and eggs.

They set out eight minutes later, but Spock assures him he 'factored in Jim's tardy tendencies.' Kirk's further exasperated to find that he has, indeed, lost some fitness; within a few blocks he's already short of breath. “I feel like I've aged ten years in six months,” he complains, thinking of some recent away-missions. He feels a vague slither of unease at the thought that right now, he couldn't run full-tilt from hostile attackers if he wanted.

“You have been confined to an office, and without the time or energy to exercise properly,” Spock says. He's running easily at Kirk's side in slim blacks, no sign of exertion visible.

“A chair-bound... paper-pusher,” Kirk wheezes between breaths. It comes out more bitter than he intends.

“A Starfleet Admiral,” Spock corrects. “With urgent demands on your time. I will ensure you retain the room in your schedule for this, however.”

Though he can't say he likes it, Kirk appreciates the thought. And there is something freeing in it, just getting to run around in the green morning dawn. It strikes him he hasn't been outside much since he came to Earth – nowhere except the grounds of Headquarters, the little cafes between it and his new housing. The run is tiring, but at least he feels alive.

They make it back precisely when Spock's schedule dictates. Did Spock somehow calculate his new running speed, too? Kirk immediately goes to take a shower. Hot water-showers are one Earth-luxury he enjoys, at least.

By the time he exits the shower, Spock is moving clothes into the dryer.

Kirk is now awake enough to be chagrined. “Spock, being my new assistant does not mean you need to do the laundry.”

“I assure you I am capable of the immense mental effort required,” Spock deadpans.

“I think you've gotten more sarcastic since you left Starfleet,” Kirk muses, rifling through his cupboards. He's confronted with a neat wall of healthy snacks. He blinks, chagrined again. “Where did you put the heat-packs?”

Spock seems to materialize by his side; Kirk spares a thought to wonder if Spock somehow traded his lab-competency for teleportation skills in pursuit of becoming the ideal assistant. “Are you injured?”

“No, no. Just feeling a bit sore. Not the run,” he adds, already seeing Spock mentally re-organizing his schedule to account for this. “Just slept on my neck, I think.”

“I see. Please sit down.”

“You did keep the heat-packs?” Kirk complains, automatically obeying. He's bare-chested, letting the air finish the drying process. Spock, ignoring his whinging, plucks away the towel around his shoulders and nudges him forward in the chair. “I – Spock. Now you're really being ridiculous.”

Spock has given him backrubs before – usually for medical reasons, though. The Enterprise has a physio-therapist for that function, but the combination of his telepathy, physical strength, and superb control lets him excel at the task. A pity Vulcans as a whole are usually uncomfortable with touch; in another universe they'd be galaxy-renowned masseuses.

So normally Kirk wouldn't mind the spoiling. In context against the rest of the morning, it's excessive. “I appreciate it, Spock, but this is unnecessary. And aren't we going to be late?”

“I ensured you have nothing pressing on your schedule for the first half-hour of the day, in case of unexpected delays,” Spock informs him. Because of course he did. “And as an admiral, you may set your own working hours.”

“Three days in and you're already encouraging me to skip school,” Kirk laments. “If anything, I'd expect you leaving the 'fleet to put us on more equal ground, Spock. I don't want you feeling like you have to do everything around here – that's not why I offered the spare room.”

“If I feel I am doing 'too much,' Sir, I will inform you. And if you do not consider my position sufficient for these allowances, then allow me to assist you as a friend.”

Well, that's always a gut-punch. Spock rarely uses this word; it's a bit like cheating. All Kirk's protests die in his throat.

Frankly, it would be hard for him to protest further; Spock is very good at massages.

Within less than a minute Kirk's leaning forward, elbows on the table, head hanging. It's been a long time since anyone touched him outside of formal handshakes and fake-genial slaps on the arm. Spock's hands feel good rubbing slow and firm over his shoulders, squeezing and pressing into the dip of his neck. A sigh escapes him as the hands press lower, digging deep around the ridge of his spine.

“You're going to send me straight back to sleep,” Kirk mutters, nearly into the table. His head buzzes – half with the physical sensation, and half, he suspects, with a faint echo of telepathy. The edge of warm fondness seeping against him isn't all Kirk's, and he willingly sinks into that rare connection.

“It is always an honor to serve, Sir,” says Spock, quiet, behind him. His hands move to rest on Kirk's shoulders, warm. “But you are correct; we do need to leave soon.”

Kirk sighs. His neck no longer aches. Now he feels stretched and liquid; he could gladly go straight back to sleep. Instead, he pushes to his feet. Starfleet isn't going to wait any longer.

Morrow freezes when he enters Kirk's office that afternoon. He stands in the doorway unblinking for long enough that Kirk frowns. “Sir?” he prompts. “Did you need something?” With Spock's assistance he's quite certain he didn't forget any meetings.

Morrow slowly shifts to look at Kirk. Then, back to Spock's corner of the room, where the Vulcan taps steadily at his computer. “Are you two... busy?” asks Morrow, slow and deliberate.

“Not at all,” says Kirk, still concerned by the man's demeanor. He follows Morrow's gaze to Spock.

After their exercise, Spock changed into yet another outfit Kirk's never seen. Evidently his civilian status has let him indulge in more interesting fashion – or maybe he never felt comfortable to dress as he liked in Starfleet. There were at least some occasions he could have worn civvies, so Kirk makes a mental note to ask about that; he hates to think any of his crew felt they would be judged, or needed to alter their behavior for concern over backlash.

His recent style is noticeably different. Vulcan, definitely. And, by any human standards, today's outfit is quite feminine. He's wearing a rather striking deep-blue dress with beaten-gold embroidery and cape-sleeves past the elbows. Very different from anything he's worn before, but the high collar, thick material, and modest ankle-length lend it an air of formality that still seems appropriate for Headquarters. He even has some winding gold wristlets Kirk's never seen before; it reminds him of an outfit he once saw on a high-class Risan courtesan, years ago.

Maybe Spock needed that six months to accessorize, he thinks, amused.

Morrow looks a bit red. “Kirk, may I talk you in private a moment?”

Kirk glances at Spock, who continues typing a moment without looking up. He finishes whatever he's writing and wordlessly exits. Kirk gestures at the seat. “Something wrong, Sir? I'll remind you Spock does still retain most of his clearance.”

Morrow grimaces a little, glancing at the door. “Jim, you know people are – talking.”

“Excuse me?”

“About Commander Spock.”

Oh, not this again. “Harry, I don't see the point in rehashing this. Spock has been quite clear that he doesn't want to work with the research department right now.”

“That's – a different matter entirely. Did you even see what he's wearing, Jim? It's not appropriate. It's not – the whole – look, look. I'm going to be blunt. Your 'assistant' is dressed like a Risan prostitute, Jim.”

Kirk stiffens. His voice grows hard, without conscious decision. “I hope, Admiral Morrow, that I'm misunderstanding you. Starfleet represents hundreds of different cultures, and whether or not Mr. Spock remains part of this organization, he deserves to be treated with respect.”

“Oh, come off it,” says Morrow, sharp and annoyed. “You saw him - “

“What about him?” asks Kirk, sharply. “Explain to me what he did that comes across as inappropriate – I'm fascinated to hear your reasoning.”

Morrow glares, caught. Starfleet comes down harshly for discriminatory behavior, even – especially – from upper brass. When he speaks, he clearly chooses his words with more care. “Kirk. It's not about Commander – Mr. Spock's preferred presentation. It's about the overall... picture he makes here, with you, casting aside his career to play secretary.”

“I fail to see what one has to do with another. Is there an issue with Mr. Spock's appearance? Bearing in mind that he's functioning as a civilian?”

“...No, but - “

“Then I don't see that we have anything to discuss.”

Morrow presses his lips together, folding his arms behind his back. “I like to think we've worked together well, Jim. I'm saying this as a friend, and as someone – concerned – about both of you. Talk with Mr. Spock about the possible consequences of what's happening here.”

Kirk finds himself gripping his datapadd with white knuckles. “It sounds to me, Admiral, like you're insinuating there will be reprisals for Mr. Spock's personal lifestyle. I'm certain I am incorrect, Sir,” Kirk adds.

Morrow clenches his jaw. “I'll see you at the meeting tomorrow,” he says, tone a clear dismissal.

Kirk glares after Morrow as the man leaves.

He takes a slow breath, trying to fight against the rage simmering in his veins. In his opinion, it's nice to see Spock experimenting. Maybe this kind of old-fashioned judgment is why Spock never deviated from the uniform in Starfleet. Does that have anything to do with Spock's edginess, his unexplained decision to leave? Probably not. But just the idea makes him so damn angry...

Spock re-enters shortly after Morrow's departure. His eyeshadow is a bright and eye-catching blue today. “A problem, Sir?”

“No,” says Kirk, more shortly than he intends. Spock quirks an eyebrow, but goes to his desk and starts packing; it's about the time they usually leave.

As they exit the grounds of Headquarters, Jim places a hand on Spock's shoulder.

Spock isn't the sort who responds well when people make a big deal of things, good or bad. Too much praise can sometimes make him shy away just as much as criticism; he doesn't like anyone noting his deviations, always with the potential implication that his choices are emotional, irrational.

He does not enjoy scrutiny.

So Kirk keeps his tone light, conveying his approval indirectly. “Is it warm enough for you here?”

Spock glances at him with surprise; it's a pleasant day, 23 degrees C. “Yes, Sir.”

“I just noticed you've been wearing thinner clothes,” Kirk says. “Lovely choice today, by the way.”

Spock does not smile, of course. But his eyes crease a little, and Kirk knows what Spock sounds like when he's pleased. “Thank you, Jim, I am glad you think so. But the temperature is no worse than the ship; I am accustomed to it.”

“Well, feel free to turn up the heat in the house.”

“That is unnecessary.”

“I promise it's fine, Spock. Especially at home; if I get hot I can just take off a shirt.”

A pause. “Well,” says Spock, thoughtful. “...That is true.”

And with that, Kirk's fury toward Morrow recedes a little. At least he can make Spock comfortable at home.

And it would be such a shame, he thinks, if Spock really stopped wearing these new clothes...

“Though perhaps I will to see how you adapt to your new exercise regimen before increasing the temperature,” Spock adds. “We should not strain your body with heat in addition to exhaustion.”

“Mr. Spock, I think you just called me unfit.”

“I will wake you at 0610 tomorrow, Sir. We can review traditional Klingon greetings during tomorrow's exercises.”

Ah. Hmm. Maybe being unfit wouldn't be so bad.

He wonders if Spock has more creative workout clothes. It's nice to see him starting to express himself more.

Chapter Text

The next day Kirk's still thinking about it – not just Morrow's reaction, but how Spock's behaved since joining him on Earth.

He's been much more relaxed, open. Kirk would like to chalk it up to the less-strenuous work. But is it just distancing himself from Starfleet that's the relief?

I am tired, Jim.

He still doesn't know what that means. In this day and age it's baffling to think anyone would feel unsafe because of...

Well, Jim isn't sure what to think. Gender presentation? Sexuality? Some of his choices are cultural, but he's pretty sure male-presenting Vulcans don't usually go around in the kind of outfit Spock wore yesterday. Though, how would he know?

Starfleet isn't perfect, of course. He finds himself thinking of Janice Lester. Her brilliance hid a deeper psychosis, but she was right that Starfleet still hasn't seen any frontline female captains. Women captain research vessels, emergency medical ships. Not Constitution-class cruisers like the Enterprise. It's nothing written down or official, of course. But it still happens. It's easy to praise equality – harder to put it into action. And Spock, of all people, is well aware of that. What other biases exist – has Kirk even noticed them?

Of course, Spock's mind is mercurial at the best of times. His recent presentation is simply the most obvious change in behavior; that, and his sudden career change. Kirk's doubtless missing some nuance – probably some Vulcan cultural angle he'd never consider. Hopefully Spock will explain more in time. But right now it's easy to tell that Spock is comfortable with his new position as a civilian. Kirk can't imagine he'll disdain research forever; once Spock starts getting restless he'll press the point.

For now, Spock seems perfectly content abusing his newfound ability to bully his old superior.

“That is not the correct angle,” Spock informs him, not looking up from his omnipresent datapadd.

They're at the gym. Starfleet HQ has a number of amenities branching off the main grounds – one of them being a huge, well-equipped private facility for exercise. It's located right between the gated housing and HQ, so Kirk's hardly the only senior officer to come here. But the average users are Academy cadets or instructors who don't mind travelling for the better facilities; Kirk and Spock attract a lot of stares.

Although part of that might be, again, Spock's new journeys in fashion. Kirk's in the standard red leggings and nothing else. Spock's opted for something that must be Vulcan – a clingy burnt-copper garment with a crossed front that reveals a shocking amount of skin, It's more blatantly alien than previous choices, though Kirk couldn't say why. Something about the angle of the cut. It's a little dizzying.

“You haven't even looked at me,” Kirk complains, lowering himself to the ground.

“You always complete tricep dips at the wrong angle if not corrected.”

This must count as some form of workplace harassment, Kirk thinks, briefly lying on his back to catch his breath. He begrudgingly climbs to his feet. “Come spar with me.”

Spock follows Kirk past a few miserable cadets on the treadmills.

Between HQ and the Academy, San Francisco is home to an enormous number of Starfleet personnel; the gym is proportionally huge, with tall ceilings and wide halls hopefully proportioned for the potential of future Federation species. One hall holds dozens of sleek machines, all grouped in noisy, ever-moving rows. Individual halls line the walls they pass – some for personal use, others for classes. As they walk they see what look like dance, yoga, and physical therapy groups moving in tandem.

Kirk aims toward another wide hall, which takes a few minutes of walking. It's mostly bare spaces, floored by soft, forgiving mats. Other officers are in pairs or small groups around the room; a lieutenant with a medical patch supervises by the wall. “We should go over the Klingon customs again,” says Spock as they find an empty spot.

“Not while sparring, Spock.”

“I cannot imagine a more appropriate venue; you are likely to be challenged to at least one fight, Jim.”

“And you think I should accept?”

“They will consider you a coward if you do not.”

“Of course they will. I'm more surprised you're encouraging it.”

“I would say that I am resigned to it,” comes the dry reply.

As they take positions, Jim grins. “How about this, then; try to fight me like a Klingon.”

“I am not a Klingon.”

“I hadn't noticed. You have similar strength; and I know you've studied them.”

Spock doesn't refute this. “The logic of a Vulcan will always differ from a Klingon's more... impulsive style.”

“Sounds like a coward's excuse,” Kirk teases, right as Spock lunges for him.

They fought in the gym frequently, back on the Enterprise. Kirk quickly realizes his mistake. This Spock is not being careful with him, portioning out his strength and staying at the edge of human tolerance. Nor is Spock focusing on perfection of his own technique; Kirk knows the Vulcan usually sees their spars as a way to train muscle-memory and maintain physical conditioning.

But today he throws himself at Kirk with bare, unfettered force. The first collision nearly flattens Kirk, who doesn't expect it.

But he hasn't gone this long without learning how to handle stronger opponents. It's an unfortunate fact that many humanoid species have greater muscle-mass than standard Terran humans. Kirk finds his arms shaking as he fends off Spock, but he manages. For a while.

Skill only prevails when the stronger opponent isn't also trained in combat. After less than forty seconds Kirk's pinned on his chest, gasping, as Spock's body pins him down. After a moment's useless writhing he slumps in defeat.

Spock tends to run cold; it's even more apparent now. Every place they touch is a cool balm to Kirk's overheated body. Kirk's gulping for breath, winded, so he flings out his mind the way Spock taught him years ago.

Kirk isn't a telepath, not even in the occasional weak way of humans. So he doesn't feel Spock when he does this – doesn't feel anything. But Spock knows what his mind feels like, and he can recognize the mental tap-out for the signal it is. He rolls to his feet, a great pressure lifted, and pulls Kirk up.

Kirk staggers against him a minute; Spock is sturdy, solid as a tree. “That is not how you usually fight.”

“The Klingons will not go easy on you, Sir. But I can decrease my effort if you have become too unaccustomed to physical exertion.”

Spock's trying to sting his pride; it's working. “Let's go again,” Kirk says, ignoring the cadets gathering nearby to watch.

Spock's on him before he finishes the sentence.

By the time they walk to HQ Kirk's bruised, sore, and physically exhausted. He's at least feeling more awake. “Do you really think we're going to accomplish anything?” he asks Spock as they pass into HQ grounds.

“I assume you reference the Klingons.”

“Of course I do. All this planning and preparing... You've seen the messages. Events & Recreation have been harassing us over dietary concerns. All the work we could be doing, and we're stuck planning to schmooze up some Klingons who will probably punch me in the face and leave.”

“Perhaps,” says Spock, clearly acknowledging it as a genuine possibility. “But consider: whatever the personal desires of Kang and Koloth, they were sent here by the Klingon High Council. I doubt their government rated a personal feud between captains as important enough to send their members on a resource-consuming trip into Federation space with no ultimate purpose.”

“The purpose could be espionage.”

“It is more likely they want to punch you in the face.”

Kirk laughs, but he isn't wrong; Klingons tend to loathe spies. One good thing about their intense ideas of honor.

Still: “Koloth was at Deep Space Station K7 with a spy,” he points out. “One dressed like a human.”

Spock actually slows a moment. “I had not considered that,” he admits, now more thoughtful. “From what we know of Klingons, it is hard to believe he was not shamed – first for using a spy, and secondly for failing.”

“And then we beamed aboard a few thousand tribbles and defeated him with cute pets,” says Kirk. “If this is some sort of punishment-duty for Koloth, that doesn't speak well for the talks either.”

“It does not,” Spock concedes. “But we are only speculating. That encounter was several years ago, and we do not know enough of internal Klingon politics to know Koloth's station.”

Also true; Federation spies in the Klingon Empire have a bad habit of confusing cultural norms and getting themselves stabbed for the trouble. Klingons were surprisingly tetchy about proper manners. For a given definition of 'proper.'

“We're just too different,” he says as they enter Kirk's office. “It can't work.”

“People once said the same of Vulcans and humans,” says Spock, sitting neatly at his desk.

“Yes, but those people were stupid,” Kirk explains. Spock arches a brow, which he ignores. “Vulcans and humans have more in common than we don't.”

“You speak as someone who has never visited Vulcan.”

“I've visited!”

“Beaming down and being immediately asphyxiated did not expose you to the culture, Sir.”

Kirk snorts despite himself. It's rare for Spock to mention that horrible memory of his first pon farr, much less so lightly. “Yes, well... I know you.”

“I am half-human.”

“No one would be able to tell,” Kirk insists, mostly because he knows this always pleases Spock. Then he starts looking through his schedule. “Wait. You arranged for me to speak with a reporter tomorrow?”

“After your eye-exam,” says Spock promptly. “To express your optimism that the talks will progress smoothly.”

“...Ah.”

Kirk gets a pair of reading glasses the next day.

Plenty of people wear glasses, even in this modern age where surgery often solves vision-problems. It's still somehow galling. Kirk isn't old! He's not even forty yet!

But the glasses make him look old.

They're not ugly. Gold, delicate-looking. Just... is he really old enough to need reading glasses?

Well, at least it will make his paperwork easier. Maybe. Hopefully.

He wears them as he walks to the designated location of the interview. Spock managed to arrange it on the grounds of Starfleet Academy, presumably more picturesque than HQ. There's a small news-crew huddled around the pond outside Mayweather Hall; from this spot they can see passing students wandering by the trails, the blue glimmer of the Bay on the horizon.

Spock's wearing mascara today.

He's also in a similar dress to the blue one, but dark purple, with golden accents. And a twining gold-purple sash; Vulcans love their sashes. Kirk steps away from the path and pauses a moment. The makeup creates a startling effect. When he turns and spots Kirk, Spock's eyes are deep and prominent. He approaches, the two of them out of earshot of the crew. “Sir. You have twelve minutes until the interview begins.”

Kirk vaguely recognizes one of the hosts of a local news-station a few dozen meters away; she's speaking quietly with a tech. “Any problems?”

“No, Sir. I have reviewed the questions and they seem acceptable.”

Ah, so Spock managed to wrangle some concessions then. “I don't suppose you could give me some warning?”

“They requested I did not. You are perfectly capable of improvisation, Sir.”

And if he wasn't, Spock would tell him. Kirk frowns but accepts it. “Alright. And my new glasses won't make me look ancient on camera?” he teases.

Spock contemplates him. “Many people find glasses attractive,” he says.

Well, that's probably meant to be placating. But it's a nice thought. “I can see better,” he says. He plucks at Spock's sleeve, passing his hand over the delicate embroidery down the tight forearms. “I couldn't see any of these details before, not even standing next to you.”

“I am glad it helped,” says Spock. “Ms. Asakian is coming over.”

So she is. Kirk straightens as she winds through the news-crew to reach them. The host is a species he can't immediately place – maybe a cousin to Caitians, though there's something more foxlike about the shape of her face. “Admiral Kirk – lovely to meet you! Thank you for agreeing to meet with us today.”

'Agreeing.' Kirk supposes he did, in the sense he agreed to let Spock manage his entire life. “Of course. Where exactly do you want to do this?”

It's a brief interview, Asakian assures him. She directed him to stand in a spot that lets the camera-angle glimpse the backdrop of passing students, the water, the Starfleet buildings in the distance. Casual and friendly-looking; meanwhile with some dozen crew and Spock standing behind the cameras.

(Kirk decides he is buying Spock a birthday present, this year. Maybe a party-hat. A giant cake. Of course he'll need some frivolous gifts. Kirk will bring it all into the office and bully Spock into being 'grateful' for the human consideration; Spock's hilariously uncomfortable accepting gifts.)

“We're here with Admiral Kirk at Starfleet Academy,” says Asakian. The green light's on – oops; they've started. “He has agreed to speak with us about the upcoming Klingon visit to Earth, where they will enter talks with Starfleet and Federation diplomats! Admiral Kirk, check my memory; have we ever invited Klingons to any founding planet of the Federation?”

“Not in any official capacity.” Kirk almost says, though I'm sure there's some around right now, before he catches the look Spock gives him behind the camera. Right; maybe not the right crowd for dark jokes about interplanetary espionage. Optimistic, he needs to seem optimistic...

“So this is an historic occasion,” Asakian gushes. Her tail twitches excitedly. “And you've met the Captain and Ambassador leading the talks – your ship defeated them in combat! Do you think that will influence anything?”

“It's an exaggeration to say we defeated them. We... uncovered some, ah, contentious dealings on behalf of Koloth – which I suppose was a diplomatic victory. As for Kang, his crew and the Enterprise were both targets by the same third party. It was only working together we managed to extricate ourselves from the situation – so, you could say there's precedent for establishing cooperation.”

He sees Spock nods, and tries not to feel too pleased.

“So you think there's hope for these talks?”

“I do.”

“What was your impression of the Klingons you've met?”

Kirk chooses to believe she's just referencing Kang and Koloth, preferring not to consider the brutes on Organia or Neural. “Forceful, assertive. Which aren't necessarily bad things for a ship's captain. They were very... sure of themselves, proud of the Empire. But they weren't stereotypes. Koloth struck me as clever, under all the loud fuss he made over our, ah, political disagreements. And Kang was perfectly willing to do what was... logical in the situation, and put aside his personal feelings to save his crew. We have certain cultural differences, but there's no reason we can't learn to see each other as allies.”

“That's wonderful to hear!” chirps Asakian. “And you're still single, Admiral?”

Kirk's brain glitches a moment.

What? What does that have to do with anything? And didn't Spock get these questions before-hand?

Kirk's eyes flick over to Spock. The Vulcan quirks an eyebrow at him, one corner of his lip curving for a fractional second. Ah.

Forget embarrassing birthday gifts; he's thinking an entire party. With a mariachi band. And silly hats.

“My duties keep me busy enough,” Kirk tells the disappointed hostess, smiling kindly. “But, who knows? Maybe I'll have more time now that I'm on Earth. I wouldn't expect that to influence discussions with the Klingons though!”

Spock was honest about one thing; the interview is brief. They walk back as the sun sets; too late to return to HQ. May as well heard home. Spock looks so pleased with himself Kirk can't even be annoyed about the personal question.

“How did you do that?” Kirk asks as they pass the gates.

He came here pessimistic; in inventing fluff for the news he somehow finds himself feeling better about the upcoming talks. A little better, anyway.

“I do not know what you mean, Sir. You are squinting again.”

“These glasses aren't powerful enough to see inside your mind, Mr. Spock. But I'll have to keep trying!”

Chapter Text

One more day before the Klingons arrive. Maybe that is why Spock decided to surprise Kirk like this. “When did you have any time to arrange it?” Kirk asks.

They're waiting patiently by the transporter hub. Kirk isn't in any particular rush, but the young transporter tech – a pimply midshipman from the Academy – clearly feels unnerved to be transporting such VIPs, double and triple-checking the machine before nervously confirming coordinates with the ship in orbit.

That ship, of course, is the USS Aspirante. She's currently undergoing major repairs after fleeing from a fight that put her straight into a meteor-storm. Her navigation was damaged badly enough to put her straight into the path of danger. The Aspirante is a smaller research ship, equipped with only light shields; it's a miracle she wasn't destroyed.

There's no real reason for an inspection of the repair-progress; Spock must know that. If anything an admiral might be inclined to survey things when the repairs end. Spock clearly scheduled this because he knew Kirk loves seeing different ships. Spock probably has 'give the admiral environmental enrichment' on his checklist, he thinks wryly. Once a week, maybe, right between meetings.

“I have been monitoring the movements of all ships in the fleet for your briefings,” says Spock. “It was not difficult to arrange. Captain Abbas is currently heading a training-cruise near Andoria; I will also compile a list of any issues that should be brought to her personal attention.”

The Enterprise is undergoing her own major refit right now. Kirk visited her twice in the first month of his new assignment, but a few pointed hints from the head of the lunar station – and from Morrow himself – discouraged repeats.

Maybe he should stop by again, chat with Scotty...

But then, the Enterprise isn't his concern anymore. He sighs.

“Sirs? We're ready to transport.”

They're greeted on the Aspirante by a stiff crewman wearing both engineering red and the protective coveralls of local station workers. Not an officer, but a mark on the coveralls indicates seniority.

“Welcome aboard, Sirs. Forgive the lack of welcome; there was a small fire on the lower decks that's being assessed right now.”

“Of course – is this a bad time?”

“They're just running some checks as a precaution, Sir. Ensign T'Pae will be with you soon to go over the recent repairs.” Before the tour begins they're handed environmental suits – the simple kind, used for interior areas lacking oxygen or heat.

Ensign T'Pae turns out to be a young Vulcan woman. She looks perhaps twenty, with all the gangly thinness of a youth – though knowing Vulcans, she might be older. She has their characteristic sharp features, and there's something a little hard in the way she strides up to them, eyeing Kirk for a moment before turning on heel. “Commander Spock,” she greets.

“I am not here in any capacity as a Starfleet officer,” Spock informs her.

T'Pae's gaze slides to Kirk. “So I have heard,” she agrees, somehow even more chilly. “It is said on Vulcan you have been attending to Admiral Kirk's needs quite... selflessly.”

She says this like a dirty word.

“I find Mr. Spock's assistance invaluable,” says Kirk.

“I do not doubt it. Of course, Commander – Mr. Spock would have many opportunities on Vulcan. Many offers.”

“I am content,” says Spock.

“I have a brother,” says T'Pae, bizarrely.

“...Is he interested in Starfleet?” Kirk asks, sensing she awaits a reply.

“He could be.” T'Pae continues glaring at Kirk a moment, then turns on heel. “Allow me to show you the improvements.”

Most of the visit is standard enough. Ensign T'Pae shows them the recently refurbished portions of the ship first. They aren't quite finished – things like superficial wall-paneling and decorations will be put on last, when the whole ship has been repaired, since there's little point covering wires and connections that might need more work.

Unfortunately, the damage is still extensive. The environmental suits prove necessary to step into some sections. These aren't the full, armored, self-propelling suits used for working on a ship's exterior – just a thin barrier to provide air and heat in the areas with damaged environmentals.

Or parts of the ship with gaping sections of hull that leave the interior exposed to endless space. That's usually not great for humans.

“The shields must have been decimated even before they entered the asteroid field,” says Kirk, shocked as they drift down the patchwork halls. Forget 'refit' – it seems like it would have been almost more efficient to scrap the Aspirante. If she weren't such a new vessel...

Pilots can dodge giant asteroids. It's the tiny pebbles, sometimes hurtling at hundreds of miles an hour, that will really kill you when the shields are down.

“Their shields were indeed already destroyed,” says Spock.

“As the reports indicated,” T'Pae adds, pointed. Kirk's definitely getting the impression she's not fond of him – unless she's just short and snappish all the time. Which wouldn't be too unusual in a Vulcan. “One-hundred twenty-six crewmen were killed between the attack and the meteors.”

Ah, Kirk concedes, immediately abandoning any thought of addressing her hostility. Okay; he wouldn't want to talk about it either.

Over a third of the crew. He wonders how Captain Abbas is handling it. Kirk himself felt he was going mad when the crew of the Farragut were killed, and he wasn't even captain. It makes him remember Kang, too. Klingon crews are usually much smaller, but Kang had one of their largest vessels. He'd been left with only seven crewmembers from a complement of over four hundred. The rage he expressed toward the Federation that day was borne of grief more than xenophobia.

They continue drifting through the wreckage. Some sections are nearly untouched; in other areas whole chunks of deck have been blasted away. Mostly the damage is apparent through sections of patchy, pockmarked hull barely held together. It's like looking at a half-decomposed corpse. Or an old, ruined crypt.

Kirk makes a mental note: he definitely needs to check how Captain Abbas passed the appropriate psych scans before her training-cruise. “Estimated time of repairs, Spock?”

“For full functionality, eight to eleven months,” comes the swift reply.

“We have estimated six,” says T'Pae.

“Ninety percent of long-term ship repairs are underestimated,” Spock informs her. T'Pae drifts ahead without reply.

Most of the damage is on the levels closest to the hull – but not all of it. At one point Kirk pauses and peers over the side of a long, deep hole extending down three levels. In addition to a lack of air, this area has no gravity. He grabs the side of the gap and pushes himself down.

“Sir?” asks T'Pae. Spock simply follows him.

Gravity abruptly reasserts itself – fortunately with only a meter or so under him. Kirk stumbles on the landing, but he's fine. Spock, noticing, hovers clinging to the wall above his head.

They're in crew quarters – a four-person cabin, with discarded personal items still drifting through the space. Spock turns with his gaze. “A serious oversight,” he says, followed by a sharp inhalation from T'Pae; so much for Vulcan control.

“Ensign,” says Kirk, tight. “Do I recall correctly that survey teams searched and assessed the entire ship?”

“...Yes, Admiral.”

“I want repairs halted until they do so again. Every site marked for repairs – or marked as safe – should be re-confirmed. And I don't want a repeat of this, understand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Kirk holds up an arm; without further prompting Spock pulls him back into zero-gravity. Kirk takes the severed human hand with him as they return to the transporter room.

The discovery sours Kirk's mood. He'll compose a blistering reprimand for the survey-team later; right now his thoughts dwell on the dead crew.

When they walk back through the lunar repair port, still waiting for the time of their scheduled transport, they halt in front of one of the many windows that peers out over Earth. Kirk will never get over that sight; it soothes a little of his anger, his grief.

“I apologize, Admiral. I did not mean to trouble you further.”

“I'm glad we came; at least we know the survey needs more thorough eyes.” Kirk stares down at Earth, thoughtful. “Why did you join Starfleet, Spock?”

If Spock is surprised by this question – something Kirk's never asked despite their years as friends – he doesn't show it. “Curiosity.”

“Scientific curiosity?”

“No; not entirely. I had unlimited professional options,” says Spock. He states this very matter-of-factly, because it's true. The VSA would have taken him, which means virtually any place in the Federation would have taken him. If not for the sciences, he could have followed his father into politics. Could have pursued engineering, music, linguistics, medicine... Kirk doesn't doubt he would have excelled at all of them. “It is true Starfleet's missions intrigued me. Primarily, however, I wished to join an organization aimed at... the investigation, and celebration, of different cultures.”

He doesn't really need to elaborate on why. Kirk hums. “We've seen all sorts of different societies – beautiful, strange, and ugly.”

“Ugly to us, Sir.”

“Yes. And it's hard to get past that, isn't it? But the beautiful parts are worth it.”

Was there anything beautiful about Klingon culture? It's hard to imagine. But even the Vulcans, who Kirk has always respected – they have some ugly skeletons in their past, too. So do humans.

“We should come back to visit Uhura soon,” Kirk says, stepping back from the transparent-aluminum windows. “But not today, I think.”

“Agreed.”

Kirk and Spock didn't keep consistent schedules on the Enterprise, and that's true on Earth too. Even when they retire back to the house, they stay up for hours with plates of take-out reviewing details of Klingon culture.

Most of it is likely useless, of course. But there's no need to given the Klingons a genuine reason to cry mistreatment or deliberate rudeness. They're liable to make up reasons just fine on their own.

Despite the unpleasant subject matter – Kirk hasn't checked the latest version of the menus but he desperately hopes there's never 'gagh' for dinner – it's rather nice to sit like this with Spock, curled comfortably on the couches. It's a warm day, but the fire's going; Spock's poised at the edge of the closest chair and keeps leaning absently into the heat. It's a bit funny to see him realize this every few minutes and correct his posture.

Two weeks, and Spock already feels invaluable. Like he fits here perfectly; like they belong together. Kirk can understand a little better, now, why Spock gave up so much to stay with him. He already can't imagine a future here where Spock isn't by his side.

Of course it's inevitable; Spock won't be content with this odd dynamic forever. He'll want to return to his labs, to research, discovery. They're both young, but soon enough Kirk will be old, and Spock will leave him for some more exciting future.

But for now, they're together. He's grateful for that.

Chapter Text

They get up bright and early the day the delegation is due to arrive. And by 'bright and early,' Kirk actually means 'dark,' because they trudge into HQ well before sunrise despite the late night spent pouring over protocols.

They're both in formal attire – Kirk wearing his unpleasant high-collared dress uniform, and Spock in sleek, formal Vulcan robes with curling silver script down the sides. Kirk doesn't know much – read, anything – about Klingon fashion. But they and Vulcans do seem to share a love of pointy shoulder-pads.

He's opted for mascara today, too. It's distracting.

Anyway, they only stop briefly by HQ, where Kirk takes a few reports and has a hurried call with an anxious captain out by the Neutral Zone, apparently paranoid about potential attacks. Kirk informs him that a suspicion Romulans MIGHT have entered the Neutral Zone is not, in fact, incentive to do the same without further prompting.

Then they're rushing out again – this time, beaming to the lunar station where the IKS Melota will be docking. They could have beamed the Klingons directly to meeting rooms on Earth, but apparently some excitable bureaucrat decided this would be more dramatic, with an assembled greeting party of station personnel and the backdrop of Earth itself. As if they hadn't seen the planet from their own ship...

Kirk sees Uhura as he walks to the front of the shuttle-bay with Admiral Morrow. She flashes him a quick grin, and he feels himself smile automatically, nodding.

It's odd to stand in a neat line with the other senior staff and not have Spock at his elbow. Spock isn't here as a Starfleet officer, of course, much less a high-ranking one; he's standing back with the minor aides and yeomen. That rankles a little, though he's sure it doesn't bother Spock at all.

The wait stretches. People shift and murmur. From here they can see the larger ships through the clear windows of the shuttlebay. The two Starfleet escorts look bright and bulky next to the narrow, spindly shape of the IKS Melota. It could reasonably take a few minutes for a shuttle on low-impulse to make the trip – not because shuttles are slow, but it's hard to keep them at a safe speed in close quarters. The IKS Melota rests securely in the port's docking-clamps, but no shuttle appears from it.

And Kirk doesn't, at first, see any problem. Not until someone gasps, and he realizes the growing glow on the Lexington's hull isn't reflected light; it's fire.

The fire appears, vanishes, and repeats several time in quick succession. Everyone is silent for a frozen second. Morrow turns on heel; Kirk opens his mouth.

A brilliant burst of light cuts him off before he can shout a command. Morrow jerks, nearly falling over in his haste to watch. Kirk steadies him as they both see it happen.

The light is blinding; no one looks away. It radiates shifting patterns from every window of the Lexington. There's no noise through the void of space. For a moment it just seems like the ship swells – as though it were a balloon instead of solid duranium. Then, without ceremony, the Lexington splits down the middle. The hull shatters like glass, expelling appliances, scraps, and human bodies in a belch of fire.

The deck becomes chaos as people scramble.

The honor-guard of officers awaiting the Klingon contingent find themselves immediately thrown into rescue and relief efforts. Spock disappears swiftly – Nogura barks at him to go to station control and take over scans, “and fuck your rank, Commander!” Spock doesn't argue; it will be hard for anyone to get stable life-signs out of this mess, and the poor in-training cadets that usually staff Earth's well-defended lunar station must be scared witless.

The other officers are hastily divvied up. There's a lot of damage control to be done; they need to beam out potential survivors, or get shuttles in immediately if that isn't possible. They need to find out what happened, and whether it's even safe to approach the wreckage. Does the station need to be evacuated, the nearby ships released to reach a safe distance?

(Despite this possibility, absolutely no one suggests releasing the IKS Melota as a safety precaution.)

Uhura herself goes to station control, too, to field calls from the remaining ships and Earth itself. Commodore Kishan departs to oversee medical triage. Commodore Devi starts bullying civilians and general rubber-neckers out of the nearby halls, snagging unclaimed cadets to keep away the curious.

Morrow assigns Kirk to question the Klingons.

It chafes, being asked to step away from the frantic hive of activity. But this is an important task, too – and a fraught one. He has to wait by the transporter a few minutes as the lieutenant at the controls – the one who took over from hyperventilating cadets – fields a rushed mess of people beaming in and out. Admiral or not, the lieutenant has his priorities straight; Kirk trading insults with the Klingons isn't urgent by comparison.

Finally there's enough of a lull for the transporter tech to wave Kirk forward. He springs onto the padd, and the station vanishes in a haze of blue.

For a moment Kirk thinks something's gone wrong; the Klingon vessel is lit with a harsh red color. Two glowering Klingon guards watch him, nearly hidden in shadows along the corners of the room. One bends to speak into a wrist-com. In the guttural Klingon language it's impossible to discern the tone.

Neither of them are officers Kirk recognizes. “Not the best circumstances to meet you,” Kirk tells them. “But welcome to Earth; are we waiting for your captain?”

The larger of the two, a broad-shouldered male wearing spiky silver arm-guards, bares his teeth at Kirk and growls. Actually growls. Alright, then.

Kirk clasps his hands and maintains a neutral smile (to their clear irritation) until the door opens in a burst of smoke. No one else seems alarmed, so that's probably normal. Klingons can be a dramatic bunch. Almost as bad as Vulcans.

Kang is the one who enters. “What happened to your ship, Kirk?” he barks.

If nothing else, Klingons get straight to business. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

Predictably, Kang bristles. “Are you accusing us of an attack? Is this some Federation trick? We would never stoop to such cowardly tactics – we came here in peace, and you insult us?”

Frankly, Kirk's inclined to believe him. Not because blowing up a Federation vessel would be out of character – quite the opposite. But, well. If they could have arranged it, the USS Lexington would have blown before the Melota was restrained by docking clamps.

It could be a setup – someone hoping this will put the two superpowers at odds. Or maybe that's what the Klingons want them to think; Koloth, at least, is capable of subterfuge.

“If you weren't involved, all the more reason to find out what you know,” says Kirk evenly. “For one thing, we'd appreciate copies of any scans you were taking of our ships and station.”

“Now you accuse us of spying on our escorts?”

“Frankly, Kang, I'll be insulted if you weren't.”

Kang glares – then, he throws back his head and laughs. He steps forward to clap an arm around Kirk's shoulders, so hard it rattles his teeth. That's probably deliberate. “You seem to understand things, Kirk! This ship is old, but we'll show you what our scans found. You have no idea what caused it?”

“Not yet.”

“We could offer our assistance with the clean up.”

“Thank you,” drawls Kirk, not even bothering to look like he's considering the offer. “But we have our own protocols; best to keep the halls clear for Starfleet.”

Kang bares his teeth and shrugs, as though to say, had to try. “Then let me introduce you to my scientists, Kirk, and the superiority of Klingon systems!”

Kang's wife is also his science-officer, and Kirk remembers well the vital role she played in getting their two crews to stop murdering each other. She's not thrilled to see him, and openly scornful of the destroyed Lexington; it's her opinion it blew up on its own. Probably an instability with the engines, she dismisses.

Kirk isn't satisfied with this answer. “You've experienced no problems with your own ship?”

“Of course not.”

“And your scans found nothing similar on the Seleya.”

She scoffs at him. “That's a question for your people, Kirk. Certainly nothing I could detect from here.”

Kirk's sure someone's looking into the possibility; he glances out one of the windows they pass. They can see shuttles and suited evac-teams drifting around the wreckage of the Lexington. Would the Klingons be able to detect a bomb placed into their hold, a flaw in the engine? Everyone always says Federation technology is far superior; but then they would, of course. In truth Kirk doesn't know.

It will hit him later, the unexpected deaths of the Lexington's crewmen. Already his mind shies from the thought of it; better to focus on the work. He turns from the window.

It's going to be – difficult – handling the Klingons going forward. Social wisdom dictates the representatives should be offered diplomatic housing; now they'll require more extensive guarding than anticipated. Fortunately, when he floats the idea Kang is repulsed at the mere notion of sleeping in enemy territory on “soft Terran beds.” Because it would make his warriors weak, or something.

Whatever; one less thing for Starfleet to worry about. Though arranging the monitoring of incoming transports or shuttles will still be someone's headache...

The talks, obviously, are postponed.

It's harder than Kirk expected to converse with Kang and his officers like they never tried to kill each other. He keeps remembering the derelict ship he visited with Spock. The dismembered hand of some poor, long-dead Starfleet officer, still preserved by the ice of space.

They don't know who attacked the Aspirante, Kirk recalls.

Starfleet captains are not supposed to be prejudiced. Rigorous mental screenings ensure senior officers are open-minded, empathetic... that they are able to contemplate and respect perspectives alien to them. Kirk has his own biases; everyone does. But it's generally no trouble to appreciate the worth and beauty of alien life.

Unless he's dealing with Klingons.

It's only through Starflet training and word-of-mouth that Kirk knows how Klingons value 'honor.' In his experience, Klingons seem to prize war and brute strength. Not even just in a practical sense; he's met Klingons that enjoy torture, and none that seem opposed to it.

And he knows, he knows he's only privy to a small part of Klingon culture; heck, maybe Qonos is constantly overrun with pacifist protestors. But it doesn't seem likely.

Kirk's only certainty is that the Klingons probably enjoy the idea of peace-talks even less than Kirk himself. Whether they've resigned themselves to the notion or committed violent sabotage remains unclear.

“So no one punched you,” Spock observes, not looking up from his scanner.

Around the huge control-station cadets shoot Admiral Kirk nervous glances. The actual officers present attend their tasks without paying him any mind; the activity has been dwindling, but the clean-up process will continue for days, if not longer. Kirk can see a corner of the Icarus IV shuttle even from here. It weaves slowly between singed chunks of scrap floating without anchor.

“Not yet. But I didn't even see Koloth; maybe they're working up to it.” Kirk peers over Spock's shoulder. “I saw the reports – still nothing?”

“No. It is curious; it seems the explosion came from inside. And we have found, potentially, traces of a transporter.”

Kirk read that on the report, too. But he echoes, “Potentially.”

“The ships were already starting to move personnel. We cannot be certain it is related.”

Though it won't stop people blaming the Klingons, imagining conspiracy. A spiteful part of Kirk wants to do the same; when he looks at the calm focus on Spock's face he squashes the urge.

“And has Nogura managed to activate your commission yet?”

“I am sure he is not so unwise,” says Spock, casual and unruffled in this half-threatening judgment.

Kirk grins. “Good. We have enough drama right now. How long do they need you here?”

“Scans are still intensive; but I will be relieved in twenty-two minutes by one of the Academy's officers.” Spock must sense something dubious in Kirk's silence. He adds, “The usual station science-officer had beamed aboard to speak with the Lexington's captain just prior to the incident.”

Kirk winces. “I see.” And the whole place staffed with damn trainees...

It is, in fact, thirty-one minutes until Lieutenant-Commander Stavros arrives, apologizing more to Kirk than Spock. By the time they beam down to the house it's nearly 0100.

Kirk is, frankly, exhausted. And he's scheduled for an emergency meeting at 0630. “At best we can reasonably ignore the Klingons another day or two,” he mutters, Spock trailing him into the house. Maybe they can cite security concerns and send them packing... it won't happen, but he can dream. “Goodnight.”

“Please wait a moment,” says Spock, vanishing into his room.

Kirk flounders in the hall a moment, baffled and not a little annoyed. After a beat he discards his boots and rifles through the kitchen cabinets for a snack. Maybe he can sleep in if he eats now, skip breakfast.

Spock must have filled the cabinets; he finds only apples, granola, and yogurt. Spock is perfect in many ways, but he clearly cannot be relied-upon for the acquisition of quality snacks.

Kirk's munching sullenly on an apple when Spock returns, carrying...

“Spock. What is that?”

“A plant.”

“No, it isn't.”

“It is, Sir.”

“It doesn't even look alive.”

This is not, strictly speaking, true. The thing is... pulsating. Quivering, maybe, in the wheezy and labored way of a dying animal. It's entirely out of place in the simple terracotta pot Spock holds; it could be a giant pimple, or perhaps a particularly angry skin-tag.

Spock looks put-out by this reception. “It will help you sleep.”

“It will give me nightmares.”

“Sir,” Spock reproaches.

Kirk squints. He takes another bite of apple. “...How will it help me sleep?”

“It is a telepathic plant.”

“What, is it from the Medusan homeworld?”

“Yes.”

“...Is there something about the Medusan homeworld that naturally imparts ugliness?” is Kirk's incredulous question.

“That is being studied as a possibility. This particular plant is unique; it can hold and radiate telepathic 'echoes' imparted to it. Therefore, I can convey a sense of relaxation and rest, and it will assist you in sleeping.”

Kirk really wants to refuse. The plant's a bit creepy, honestly. But Spock's looking down on it with the bright curiosity he shows toward truly 'fascinating' new lifeforms, so it would feel a bit mean.

Also: 0630.

“Alright. Thank you,” he concedes. The plant throbs in his direction. “And you're sure it's not going to... attack me, or something?”

“It is unlikely.”

Kirk sighs.

So ten minutes later he's lying down next to the ugliest plant in the galaxy. Distantly he can hear Spock still moving out in the kitchen; he hopes Spock gets some rest too.

Kirk can tell the plant is working, though. In the hectic schedule of shipboard life he's grown accustomed to falling asleep fast. But it's like all the tension is unwinding from his body; he feels immediately groggy. Despite this fatigue, a low curl of arousal flicks in his gut.

Kirk blinks. He looks over at the plant. The dim sight of that quivering red pustule-thing kills the arousal immediately.

Kirk rolls over and falls asleep.

“The plant may have been too effective,” says a voice.

It's the same voice that belongs to someone shaking his shoulder. Kirk's leaning against a solid chest, legs sagging under him. He blinks blearily, looking around as Spock presses him into a chair.

The clock glows 0510.

It takes a minute for his memory to stir. “...It's too early for this... Did you carry me out of bed?”

Spock shoves a jacket at him; Kirk blinks down at it. “We are required at Headquarters, Sir; one of the Klingons was poisoned.”

And, suddenly, Kirk's wide awake.

These talks really aren't starting off well.

Chapter Text

There are few Federation doctors experienced with treating Klingons. Even less who are here, on Earth, and not out at the border of their territories.

Fortunately, McCoy's had Koloth in his sickbay before. Though he's not exactly thrilled to be rushed up from Georgia and beamed over at what he calls an 'ungodly uncivilized time of morning.'

Kirk, Morrow, and Spock meet him at Starfleet's teaching-hospital to go over this political nightmare. He takes one look at them entering the borrowed office, and says, “What on god's green earth are you wearing, Spock?”

In fairness it's a good question – Kirk wouldn't be able to put a name to the outfit. Though it's nice, in an eye-confusing sort of way. Purple and baby-blue winding strips of fabric all over like something an avant garde model might wear. Kirk has no idea how Spock even put it on, much less in their hurry to leave.

“So it's not normal,” Morrow mutters to himself.

“Gentlemen, please,” Kirk snaps. “How is Ambassador Koloth?”

McCoy tears his gaze from Spock with some difficulty. “Well, he'll live. Which I think he's finding more an insult than any of it. Back and forth raving about how poison is a weapon of the weak, then how the cowards couldn't even kill him properly... all in between stories of how cute his pet targ is and his childhood wanting to be a florist - “

“Excuse me?”

“Poison's still wearing off; he's high as a kite. You can ask a few simple questions, if you want. But only about the poisoning,” adds McCoy, with a particular glare for Morrow. The admiral looks a little taken aback. Bones often displays a casual attitude, but when it comes to patients his morals are iron-clad.

“Well, let's see what he has to say,” says Kirk before Morrow decides to be offended.

Koloth's held in a special, private section of the hospital – none of them want curious cadets peering in on an ambassador. And while this is a teaching hospital, Kirk rather suspects the Klingon won't want to be an example.

It's weird seeing a Klingon warrior on a hospital bed. Koloth glowers at them from his position reclined against the headboard. He's wearing a mask to help his breathing, but staff must have permitted him to wear his own clothes. Probably another sign of their wariness; there's even a knife on the bedside table, which probably doesn't ease the nerves of the half-dozen security guards outside the door. Hard enough to guard a man without worrying he'll attack you himself.

Kirk steps forward, fully intending to take the lead. But Koloth's gaze slides right past him; the Klingon visibly brightens.

“Aha, you've brought entertainment!” Koloth cries. He makes a beckoning gesture. Spock, with a quirked brow, approaches the bedside. “It is good to know your hospitals are more civilized than I've been told, Kirk!”

Before Kirk can stop him, the ambassador winds a burly arm around Spock's waist, dragging him closer. McCoy makes a strangled sound of protest; Kirk raises his arms in an aborted attempt at interference. He's torn somewhere between horror and bewilderment when Koloth promptly buries his face against the Vulcan's side.

“Klingons are attracted to bright colors,” Spock tells his appalled audience, straight-backed and unfazed.

“What a shocking coincidence,” says Morrow. McCoy – getting over his own shock – yanks Spock from the bedside. He goes obligingly; Koloth huffs at the sudden absence.

“...I see you remember my first officer,” says Kirk for lack of anything better. He amends: “Secretary, now.”

Koloth appraises Spock with a squinting, almost drunken sense of suspicion. “So he was a spy,” he says, with great authority.

Kirk's not quite following the logic. “Mr. Spock is a scientist. But we're actually here to ask you whether - “

“A spy pretending to be a scientist?” Koloth slurs.

“No, we wanted - “

“Then he became a scientist to win a place in your favor,” Koloth suggests, looking Spock up and down.

McCoy makes another tortured sound; Morrow clasps his hands behind his back with a sigh. “We are not here to discuss Mr. Spock's career. Ambassador Koloth, when you were on your ship - “

“I remember,” Koloth interrupts, triumphant. “You played music! A rousing march of conquest!”

Oh. Kirk vaguely remembers that. But Spock played that song while escorting Kang's team to the Klingon border. This was after the fight with a mysterious emotion-leeching entity. “How did you know about that?” Kirk asks, distracted.

“Kang showed us! They had recordings,” which security should not have allowed. “A good song, from before the Vulcans grew weak.”

“Your government would not be wary of us if we were 'weak,'” Spock observes. “Perhaps we are simply strong enough we no longer feel an egotistical need to prove it.”

“Mr. Spock!” snaps Morrow. But Koloth throws back his head and laughs.

“A good truth is that the weakest warriors boast the loudest,” Koloth says. He reaches blearily, again, for Spock's waist. Spock doesn't seem to care, but McCoy pulls him further away with an almost nauseated expression. “Will you sing to me of war, Vulcan?”

“Perhaps after you have answered the Admiral's questions,” Spock offers.

Kirk takes this cue. “I understand you were poisoned, Koloth.”

“Yes! By cowards.”

“Right. Could you be more specific? How did you ingest the poison?”

“They did not dare fight me. They knew I would win! They snuck it into my quarters.” Koloth turns to Spock again. “Would you like to see my quarters?”

“Perhaps,” says Spock.

McCoy walks out. Kirk supposes a distractable Klingon is annoying him as much as Kirk. “Where was the poison?” he presses.

“The wine.”

“...You were drinking wine at 0400 hours?” Kirk can't help but ask.

“A good way to start the day – wine and company,” Koloth leers. He swipes almost absently at Spock again, perplexed when his hand comes away empty.

“But where did you get the wine,” asks Morrow through gritted teeth, addressing the wall.

Koloth contemplates this. Shrugs. “It was on my table,” he says cheerfully.

Klingons.

“The Melota kept some,” says McCoy, later. “But they gave us a sample. Nothing special, except the poison would only work on Klingons and not on humans. 'Course it wouldn't surprise me if they set up the whole thing themselves, 'cept Klingons don't need to invent excuses to get their hair up... doubt they wanted to stick an officer in our hospitals either. And if you're wagering on Klingon medicine, might as well consult a priest - “

“I was the only one we beamed aboard their ship, wasn't I?” Kirk confirms with Morrow.

The Chief of Staff nods, shooting Spock a wary glance; the Vulcan sits in the corner of the borrowed hospital office, hunched over a datapadd. “You were. But this mess might not even be political, or about us; Klingons sometimes murder each other for rank.”

“Not like this – if it came out someone got a promotion through poison, they'd be humiliated.”

“Then what? Can't be one of us, can't be one of them - “

“Then it was clearly whoever beamed a bomb aboard the Lexington,” Spock offers.

They all turn around. Spock, doubtless looking to create tension, continues to type.

“There was a bomb?” McCoy sighs, waving for him to continue. He's well-accustomed to this style of Vulcan dramatics.

“There was not,” Morrow snaps. “Our investigation already ruled out the possibility.”

“They were wrong,” says Spock. He stands, moving around McCoy to tap at the hospital's computer screen. The doctor rolls his eyes. A moment late the monitor on the wall shows scans from the wreckage.

“Are you supposed to have access to those?” McCoy asks. He frowns at the computer. “...or the hospital network?”

Spock ignores him. “Computer, highlight column seven... Admirals, you will notice an unusual abundance of tachyon emissions and ion radiation from the wreckage – particularly located near the initial explosion site. This would indicate, of course, a transporter beam.”

“That possibility was also dismissed,” says Morrow. “The whole place was flooded with radiation – that's what happens when a starship splits in half. We're lucky it wasn't big enough to take the station with it.”

“I do not believe it was 'luck.'”

“If it was sabotage, surely they would have wanted to take the USS Seleya too,” Kirk muses. “Unless there was another saboteur who failed...”

“Or perhaps they judged one target had a smaller rate of detection,” Spock offers. “If the goal was only to raise tensions with the Klingons, they were successful.”

“Three hundred seventy people died on that ship,” says Morrow flatly. Less than forty had been rescued alive – mostly scientists in small labs that automatically sealed in the explosion. “A military-grade starship destroyed. That's not a small security breach. No one sane would use that kind of access for a distraction.”

“Then I see three possibilities,” says Spock. “Either these talks have the potential to be more momentous than we yet realize; the security breach was also utilized for purposes we have yet to discover; or the intruder was, indeed, insane.”

Morrow doesn't care for any of these options. “Right now, the most likely scenario is that some uppity Klingon-lieutenant decided they don't like the idea of 'peacetalks.' Or maybe one of Koloth's aids poisoned him. We're upping security for the event; Commodore Devi will be in charge of that. As for you, Kirk – you're to focus on diplomacy. Not conspiracies. Understood?”

“Understood,” says Kirk, and watches with sharp eyes as Morrow exits.

The thing about chairbound admirals, Kirk reflects, is that they start to forget how much of diplomacy is about bloody conspiracies.

“What the hell is going on with you, anyway?” McCoy asks Spock.

Not again. “You already knew he was in San Francisco,” Kirk sighs, leaning back in his chair. He consults the chronometer and winces; he isn't even supposed to be awake. “You left the fleet too, Bones, don't go giving him any grief.”

“I was actually talking about the Klingon-bait outfit.”

“I'm more concerned about the poisoned diplomat,” Kirk counters. Glancing at the time again, he adds, “and sleep.”

“I have already adjusted your schedule accordingly,” Spock says. “Do you have accommodations nearby, Doctor?”

“Nah, just beamed in a few hours ago... guess they'll want me close. I'll have to wake a damned quartermaster...”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Kirk catches on. “You should see where they set me up – half a dozen guest rooms. If you're done here we can go now.”

“I'm not entirely sure I want to see how you're living now,” McCoy mutters, eyeing Spock. But in the end he comes with them anyway.

They get to HQ early. Kirk has been at his desk a full forty minutes, steadily churning through work, before he looks up and notices.

“Spock. When did that art get on my wall?”

“Yesterday,” says Spock promptly. “I forwarded you a personal message from your neighbor, Sir.”

Kirk presses his lips together. “My neighbor,” he echoes.

Spock clarifies, “Commodore Devi is hosting a barbecue.”

“That's nice, Spock. Did you arrange to have this painting put up?”

“Yes, Sir. Shall I indicate acceptance?”

“What?”

“For the invitation.”

“I – sure. We'll bring along Bones, since he's here... Is there a reason you put up the painting?”

“Many offices employ artistic decorations from alien cultures to evoke a sense of inter-species community.”

“Inter-species community.”

“Yes, Sir. I have put the barbecue on your schedule.”

“Great. You know, Spock, I would actually describe this more as an, ah - “

“Sir?”

“It's an orgy, Spock.”

“It does display many different species exhibiting friendliness toward one another.”

“Friendliness. Well, I suppose it does.”

“I found it aesthetically pleasing.”

“Oh, it's very hard to look away. I'm just concerned it may not, ah, meet usual professional expectations for a Starfleet office.”

Spock considers this. “Shall I have it removed to your home?”

Kirk meets Spock's mildly put-out expression, guilty. Then he finds his eyes sliding back to the painting. He shifts in his seat. Imagines the distraction it would give him at home, and how Bones would react.

Also, Spock's already starting to look dispirited by this rejection of his artistic tastes. A miniscule slump of the shoulders.

“...No, no, it's fine,” says Kirk. “Just, ah, it startled me. Maybe we can decide any further decorations together.

Spock straightens. “I have already acquired three more pieces of art,” he declares. “They will arrive tomorrow.”

“Great.” Kirk rubs his face tiredly. Whatever. His job is to fill out paperwork and play politics; if people don't like how his office is decorated he frankly doesn't care. Ah, well. Maybe he can use it as a tactical distraction sometime... “What was that about a barbecue?”

Chapter Text

The initial, 'official' meetings with the Klingons are postponed by virtue of the fact that their head-diplomat was nearly murdered. Not that this seems to deter them much; Spock rouses Kirk earlier than usual to inform him they have a 'meeting' at the Starfleet gym. By the time Kirk staggers out after him to question this, he finds Bones at the kitchen table watching Spock's efficient cookery with the bemused air of a researcher struggling to understand something alien.

“Did you get married when I wasn't looking?” asks McCoy as he sits.

“Funny,” says Kirk. “Why're you awake?”

“The Klingons want to 'spar' with you. Figured I'd better come along instead of waiting for a call.”

Great. Well, if there's going to be another murder attempt, it'll be today. Kirk sighs and takes a swig of coffee. At least breakfast smells good.

McCoy squints down at his plate. “...Jim.”

“Yes?”

“Are there people having sex on this plate.”

What? Kirk blinks, looking down. “I hadn't noticed.”

“You hadn't noticed.”

Kirk doesn't remember getting the plates at all, actually, though he recognizes them as the ones Spock has been using since he started. “Did you buy these?” he asks Spock.

Spock is focusing on the stove. “No. They are from Vulcan – family possessions.” A beat. “Traditionally, they are used to serve meals as a form of sexual proposition.”

“Oh. And no one minded you took them?”

“They were not being used.”

Well, that makes sense. Nice that Spock could have a little bit of home. “Very detailed,” Kirk muses, eyeing them. It's always fascinating to learn more about Vulcans.

McCoy thunks his elbows on the table, dropping his head in his hands. Kirk adds, “Don't worry, Bones, I'm sure the Klingons won't be too bad – they are here as diplomats.”

“The plates,” McCoy says, feeble.

Spock takes away McCoy's plate and replaces it with a neutral blue one before the food is done.

McCoy doesn't seem worried about Kirk's possible death-by-Klingon. But on the way to the gym he does insist on scanning Spock. After reading the results with a suspicious frown he demands a blood sample when they get back.

“Why?” Spock asks.

“Because this,” McCoy shakes the scanner, “is lying to me. Something's wrong with you and you know what it is.”

“There is nothing wrong with me, Doctor.”

“Bull! Then why are you - !?” McCoy gestures at Spock in mute fury.

Spock suddenly halts a few dozen meters from the gym entrance. He turns to McCoy, and says, “I am fully in control of myself, Doctor.”

They stare at each other a moment. McCoy starts to redden. “...that may be worse,” he says.

Spock keeps walking.

Kirk looks between them, trailing back with a suddenly pale McCoy. “What was that?” he asks.

McCoy grimaces. He does not answer.

The security at the gym is, frankly, outrageous. Today the place is barren of cadets; incidentally, it's full of totally-here-for-a-normal-workout senior officers. They pass double security posted outside nearly every empty, private room.

“Klingons 'gonna think we can't piss without a guard monitoring it,” McCoy mutters. Kirk stifles a smile.

They're both astonished, though, when they reach the same area where Kirk and Spock had sparred several days ago. McCoy recovers quickly; he storms ahead, pushing right past a few bemused Klingons holding bat'leths. Around the room red-shirted guards shift nervously.

“You!” McCoy barks, wagging a finger. “I just left you at the hospital! You're not meant to be up yet!”

“Ah, the fierce doctor!” Koloth says, beaming. His expression is a bit more focused now; compared to the delirium of his hospital-bed, that doesn't mean much. “I have healed well.”

“No you haven't! You were poisoned!”

“And you have healed me.”

“The hell I have!”

“I'm glad to see you up and about,” says Kirk, more diplomatically. He spots another familiar face, too. “Captain Kang.”

Kang bares his teeth in a toothy, vicious grin. Kirk's heard that Klingons deliberately file their teeth to points, sometimes; he believes it. “Kirk. Your Vulcan said you will fight with us?”

Gee, thanks, Spock. “Maybe not with the weapons,” says Kirk, eyeing the nearby crewmen with their bat'leths. “Accidental deaths tend to derail political discussions on Earth.”

“Perhaps you should upgrade your inefficient protocols.”

“I'll get right on it. Who am I fighting?”

“Me,” says Koloth at once.

“You are going back to the hospital!” McCoy whirls on him.

The doctor does not, in fact, convince Koloth to leave the gym. But even the other Klingons hassle him into sitting down; he finally takes a seat by the wall with a disappointed air, huffing. “We will have a match before I leave, Kirk!” he warns. Spock moves to the wall, sits primly by Koloth's side, and leans over to murmur something.

So Kirk fights Kang instead.

Kang is a thickset man, with bushy eyebrows that nearly obscure his vision under the prominent brow-ridges all Klingons share. His hair is wild and frizzy, but he hasn't bothered to pull it back; Klingons probably find that shameful too, or something. When Kirk stands in front of him he grins. “We will have a fine show for my wife,” he says, and barrels straight into Kirk when he automatically turns to look for her.

The Klingon crewmen surrounding them roar their approval – literally, they roar – as Kang throws him to the ground. Kirk rolls with it, grabbing Kang's shoulders and kicking up at his chest.

It actually isn't that much different than fighting with Spock. Klingons don't have quite as much strength as the average Vulcan, but neither does his half-human friend.

Spock's never tried to bite him while sparring, though. As they grapple Kirk soon acquires half a dozen small cuts, though Kang fortunately never gets a good grip with his jaw. At one point Kirk forgets himself and outright punches Kang in the face, which for a human would be pretty bad manners; Kang just laughs, blood gushing from his nose. The other Klingons hoot, and then Kirk's trying not to get bitten again.

As he struggles he catches glimpses of the surroundings; curious and anxious guards on the sidelines, McCoy scowling heavily. And Spock, barely watching, head turned in conversation with Koloth and Kang's wife, Mara. Mara grins at something he says. Koloth laughs, reaching out to clasp Spock's arm.

Kang gets a hit through to his stomach; Kirk drops. He brings his arms up to defend just as Kang plows into him, teeth gnashing into his arm. A sudden surge of annoyance inspires him. Kirk couldn't even describe the next twists his body makes, moving on pure instinct, but a few seconds later he has Kang pinned on the man's stomach. Even Klingon strength can't grant him leverage; Kang writhes furiously a moment, then slumps, half-laughing and half-snarling. “Yield!” he barks.

Thank god.

Kirk helps him up; all the Klingons cheer. Possibly this is because of the good fight, or possibly because Kirk's chest is equally slick with blood as much as sweat. “Your teeth are sharp,” he complains.

“We have tools for that if you would like one,” says Kang. Ha. No. “Vulcan! Will you spar?”

“I will fight Ambassador Koloth,” says Spock immediately. Koloth jumps to his feet.

Still panting, Kirk gladly joins McCoy on the sidelines. “You aren't going to stop this one?” he asks the doctor.

“I ain't got nothing to do with this nonsense,” McCoy informs him. Kang's wife, Mara, peers around the doctor and bares her teeth in a smile that Kirk thinks is friendly.

The fight between Koloth and Spock seems a bit... gentler. Which makes sense, given Koloth's health. Kirk has the sense they're feeling each other out a bit, ducking and meeting in quick clashes before leaping back. The watching Klingons aren't as loud or violent in their enthusiasm, but still watch raptly.

Then, all at once, the combat gets close. Koloth pins Spock – Spock flips him, knocking Koloth to his back, the two of them rocking back and forth with a brief struggle. Kirk doesn't see what Koloth does, because it still looks like Spock has the upper hand, but he doesn't do anything to fight it when Koloth rears up and gets on top of him, kneeling around his waist groin-to-groin.

Something about it reminds Kirk of fighting Spock during the kal-if-fee.

The Starfleet officers in the crowd look a little scandalized; Kirk hopes no one is trigger-happy enough to start panicking just because a Klingon's winning a spar.

Spock must be struggling more than is visible, because Koloth shifts his hips to keep his place. The Klingon's growling softly, head bowed over him, glaring into Spock's face.

“Well he's obviously feeling better,” McCoy mutters. He's covering his face again. “Can I go back to Georgia now?”

Though the work-out with their visitors is a surprisingly refreshing start to the day, Kirk's slammed with work – and meetings – as soon as he's back at Headquarters.

There's an ongoing media frenzy about the destroyed ship. Spock keeps a news channel on in their office as they work; displayed near-constantly is the same series of scenes. Starbase footage of the USS Lexington bursting apart, broken bodies blurred as they drift through the open spacedock landing area.

And the question, again and again: did the Klingons do this?

No evidence of that whatsoever, says every expert they interview. Kirk agrees; it isn't the Klingon style. But he knows it's still possible. Kang seemed almost friendly today, but it sickens him to think what the 'diplomats' could be planning.

“It was not them,” says Spock as he's brooding on the possibility. Kirk looks up. Spock is silent for a moment – he's reapplying a rather bright lipbalm – and then clarifies, “Someone is clearly trying to disrupt the talks.”

“We don't know that. Besides, what is there to disrupt? There's no treaty, nothing official. It's just a... friendly visit.”

Spock gives him a Look. “The Klingon Empire has never before sent representatives to the Federation, Jim. You know this is significant.”

Okay, yes, he does. Kirk sighs. “If it's not them... I can't decide if that's better or worse. Imagine if the Melota was the one destroyed. We could be making preparations for war today.”

“The Klingon Empire does not want war. They are a warrior culture, but the Klingon High Council is not foolish. They are relatively equal in power to the Federation; war would be too costly.”

“Maybe they need a pretext that would make them sympathetic. To attract allies,” Kirk plays devil's advocate.

“The Klingons are rarely bothered about looking sympathetic.”

Also true. “Then we need to determine who would benefit – which would be much easier if the Klingons weren't so unpopular. There's plenty of planets within the Federation who wouldn't want an alliance, even if we ignore our enemies.”

“I have made a list of the most likely culprits,” says Spock. Because of course he has. “I will forward it to you. Starfleet Intelligence rejected my assistance, but I will continue investigating independently.”

Kirk contemplates Spock's lack of rank and decides he probably doesn't want to know what that means. “Alright. In the meantime I need to talk with Harry about - “

“It will need to wait, Sir. You have a meeting in half an hour.”

“Another?”

“This one is not on your schedule; Commodore Devi requested discretion.”

Well; that has the potential to be either very interesting, or else a total waste of time. Given Commodore Devi's usual personality, Kirk would suspect the latter if not for Spock's diligence. “You think he knows something about the poisoning?”

“I believe he genuinely thinks he knows something,” Spock says. “Whether that is true remains to be seen.”

So half an hour later Kirk meets Commodore Devi in the man's office. He immediately regrets leaving Spock behind; it's always comforting to have him along, and to know there's at least one other sensible person in the room.

“Oh, Admiral,” Devi enthuses. He bounds over to shake Kirk's hand almost the second he steps over the threshold. His earnest smile fills Kirk with immediate dislike. Fawning, Devi ushers him to a chair. “Oh, Admiral, thank you so much for taking the time out of your day... you don't know how relieved I was to learn you're taking this seriously!”

Kirk makes a vaguely agreeable noise, which hopefully doesn't convey the fact he's only here because Spock shooed him out the door. Or that he has no idea what Devi wants to talk about. “Starships don't explode every day, Commodore. Every piece of information can help.”

“Exactly, exactly,” comes the fervent agreement, as though Kirk said something profound. “You see what's happening, don't you?”

“Oh, well, the investigation -”

“The Klingons are working with the Romulans!” Devi circles around his desk, smacking his hands on the table.

Kirk is briefly baffled into silence. “Sorry. You mean you think they plotted together to destroy the Lexington?”

“Exactly!”

“...but why?”

Devi leans forward. “My wife was telling me all about some of her friends. Commander Green, Captain Abbas, you know,” Devi says. That would be the captain of the Aspirante. “They have some theories. She has friends on the Federation Headline News, too.”

“The paper?”

“Yes!”

“The gossip magazine recently charged for colluding with Orion crimelords?”

But Devi barrels on. “So I did some research,” he says, and Kirk tries not to laugh. “And you know what I find?” He doesn't wait for a response, smacking the table again. “The Captain of the Lexington had relatives on the Venus colony!”

“...Okay,” says Kirk, polite.

“And everyone knows the Romulans have a major presence there!”

Kirk squints. He absolutely does not 'know' this, but after a fuzzy moment remembers seeing some sort of conspiracy-theory about it on the sort of news shows that talk gravely about How Humans Only Rule the Galaxy Because They Time Travelled to Found the Federation.

...Granted, that theory looked pretty convincing. But still.

Anyway, Romulans coming all the way to Earth is a pretty ludicrous idea; Kirk doesn't even try to follow the rest of the logic. “You think the Lexington's captain colluded with Romulans to kill himself?”

“I – well, that part probably wasn't intentional...”

“Sure,” Kirk agrees, amiable.

“But it was him and the Klingons. That's the important part.”

“I see. Have you shared your, ah... insights with anyone else, Commodore?”

“Not really – they just won't listen to me!”

“I wonder why. Well, I'll have Mr. Spock look into your – theory,” as payback for scheduling this meeting.

“Thank you, thank you! I knew the rumors were wrong about you.”

“The what?”

“Oh, nevermind. And I'll see you tomorrow, of course?”

“Tomorrow?”

“The barbecue I'm hosting,” Devi prompts.

Oh. Kirk has a hazy memory of that; Spock already accepted for them both, didn't he? Kirk can't imagine anything he wants to do less than attend a faux-casual meal with this man and other officers after a day of work. But he pastes on a smile. “Looking forward to it,” he says.

Chapter Text

Kirk's developing a headache by the end of the next day; and instead of going home to rest, he gets to look forward to a barbecue with a dozen 'neighbors' of varying high ranks. Joy.

It's Spock's fault, though Kirk can't even be mad. He relied on Spock to get him through the whole day, frankly. To keep him sane through the whole day.

The Klingons don't really think the Federation blew up one of their own ships. But of course they have to grandstand, threaten - cast aspersions on their honor one minute and their security the next – it's all part of a political dance that includes pointed insults and shifting hierarchies as much as overtures of comradery. Kirk's a little surprised to find himself thinking regretfully of their sparring in the gym. He could almost like the Klingons, one-on-one. In small doses. But in the political arena they're aggravating. At one point, Koloth – acting as their head ambassador – decided the Federation refusal to share their scans of the destroyed ship is such an insult that he stood, flipped over the table, and roared in their faces.

Admittedly, security bursting in was a good excuse to break for lunch. So there's that.

“We should invite the Klingons to this barbecue,” Kirk tells McCoy as they prepare to leave the house. Fifteen minutes back from HQ, and already planning to step out again. “Think about it. Eat some meat, play horseshoes, throw food at people and set things on fire - “

“What the hell kind of barbecues have you been at?” McCoy asks. Then Spock steps out to join them.

Kirk brightens. It looks like Spock used the informal opportunity to experiment with his clothes again. He's wearing a slimming black dress with long splits up the side, the fabric mostly a sheer mesh, and knee-high boots. Thick glittering eyeliner makes his eyes seem impossibly large; it's hard to look away. “Oh, you look nice,” says Kirk.

“You look like a two dollar whore,” says McCoy.

“Thank you,” says Spock. Presumably to Kirk. “The event starts in six minutes.”

The gated community where Kirk lives has dozens of identical houses, all with tall fences dividing the properties (and forcefields over the fences, and noise-canceling devices everywhere). Despite this, there's been some effort at establishing communal spaces. They depart at 1745 toward a small park not far from the emergency transporter station.

There's a wooden pavilion in the middle of the park, surrounded by benches and squat tables. To Kirk's mild disgust the whole place has the distinct feel of a Starfleet function, informal appearance aside; it's something in the organization, the carefully neutral tablecloths, neatly familiar glasses and plates and dishes that all look Starfleet-standard. Commodore Devi is clearly using the opportunity for more politicking. Kirk knew he was a brown-noser.

He mutters as much to McCoy, who rolls his eyes. “Hate to break it to you, Jim – that's your life now. Ain't gonna have a moment without politicking ever again.”

“Fortunately I will handle his schedule and meetings,” says Spock.

“Uh-huh,” McCoy peers around Kirk to eye the Vulcan as they walk. “I saw that, uh, diplomacy you had going with the Klingons.”

“Interspecies relations are certainly my priority,” says Spock breezily.

McCoy makes a noise in the back of his throat; Kirk can sympathize. Thinking of the Klingon diplomats too long can sour his mood too. “Oh, there's the commodore over there... let's stay on the other end.”

McCoy cranes his head. “Oh, and that's the head of Medical,” he says, in a strangely self-satisfied tone. “He live here?”

“A few houses down.”

“Great. I'm retired now and I've got complaints.”

Kirk snorts with surprise as McCoy promptly abandons them. “Well... let's hope Bones doesn't burn all his bridges today. Oh, let's see if there's anything vegetarian for you...”

The vegetarian options are sadly lacking; Spock's face tightens a bit as they survey the food-tables. Probably more due to the strong smell of smoked meat than anything. Kirk's contemplating a plate of suspicious-looking pastries when someone steps next to them.

“Admiral Kirk – I've been hoping I would meet you.”

White teeth flash in a smile. Kirk looks away from Spock, surprised.

The speaker is a young woman – unusually young, given the mockery of commodore-stripes on the sleeves of her dress. Most people here aren't in uniform, but evidently she still wanted to display rank.

It doesn't look bad, though; albeit it would be hard for anything to look bad on her. The woman is slim and pretty, tall – an inch taller than Kirk himself – with startlingly bright gray eyes, like looking through misted glass. Maybe a little alien heritage. Her hair is a shade darker than even Spock's, and she's looking at Kirk with a curve to her lips that he recognizes.

He smiles back reflexively. “You have me at a disadvantage.”

“Right where I want you – the great Captain Kirk at a disadvantage,” she teases, touching his arm. “Admiral now, I suppose... my name is Ariadne. I oversee communications and relations with sector 72.”

The border of Tholian space. “I wasn't aware we had any communications there.”

“We don't. That's also why I'm a specialist in encrypted communications.” Her eyes roam to his side. She nods politely, loosing some warmth. “Commander. Would you excuse us? So few people have met the Tholians...”

“I am among that number,” Spock informs her.

Spock can be a bit oblivious sometimes. “Would you mind making sure Bones doesn't get himself charged with treason, or something?” Kirk asks. He can hear the muffled, but strident tones of McCoy's voice rising a few dozen meters away.

Spock eyes him narrowly for a second; he's always been distinctly unimpressed by Kirk's affairs. After a moment he says, “Sir,” and strides after Bones.

Kirk probably just disrupted some 12-step plan for Spock to shove him at the officers statistically likely to be useful to his career; he'll have to apologize later. But even Spock's impressive scheduling can't account for everything.

“You must be busy lately,” Kirk says, turning back to Ariadne. “With everything after we lost the Lexington.”

She sighs, plucking up a glass of wine from the table. “It's been exhausting; and useless, which is worse. Scanning for signals, looking for patterns... it's all tedious enough in deep space, you know? Imagine that with all the interference around Earth! And if anyone caused that explosion we still haven't got a clue... But I didn't want to talk about work.”

“Then what did you want to talk about?”

“Well.” Ariadne leans forward, smiling slow and sweet. “Mostly, I wanted to find out if all the rumors about you were true; do you think you can live up to your reputation?”

Almost immediately after arranging a date Ariadne is pulled away; Kirk himself is absorbed into a crowd of boring paper-pushers complaining about some software update. It doesn't dampen his mood; there's a bounce in his steps, a smile on his lips, as he chats with all the stuffy bureaucrats eager to stay in his memory.

It's been awhile since he's had a date – too long, considering how many months he's been back on Earth. Nice to know women are still interested.

He manages to have some pleasantly-meaningless conversations, excusing himself when people seem inclined to start talking Business. He automatically scans the crowd for his friends. McCoy is easy to spot, and hasn't really slipped Kirk's notice at all, considering the increasingly-loud snatches of conversation he keeps overhearing.

“...and the requisitions process is too damn slow, I'll have you know, I don't have time to wait six weeks for approval of new drugs when I've got some idiot ensign with a bleeding dick in my Sickbay...”

Kirk decides maybe he'll find Spock instead.

This, surprisingly, takes a little searching. In Kirk's experience Spock is wildly popular at Starfleet functions – usually because officers from a dozen different specialties all want to pick his brain. But eventually Kirk tracks him down; he's a distance away from the main pavilion, sitting on one of the bland wooden benches with a slender woman Kirk doesn't know.

Before Kirk can introduce himself, Spock says, “Did Commodore Jansens have anything interesting to say?”

He must mean Ariadne. “Oh, very – I think she's going to be good company,” says Kirk cheerfully. “I'm sorry, I don't think we've met...?”

“Maritza,” the woman shakes his hand. “Surya is my husband.”

Kirk smiles and responds with a blank nod. He glances at Spock, who unusually offers no assistance. “Of course,” says Kirk. “Very nice to meet you.”

“...Surya Devi,” Maritza says, still with the same politely-fake smile. Evidently he didn't hide his lack of recognition well enough. “We're hosting.”

“Of course,” Kirk repeats, guiltily.

Spock just arches a brow. “I imagine the Admiral was distracted with Ms. Jansens,” he says, mild, “and merely forget to thank you for the invitation.”

“I did see you chatting,” Maritza says, smiling coaxingly. “You're single, aren't you, Admiral? I don't suppose you were making plans.”

Kirk hopes Commodore Devi's wife isn't trying to hit on him. “We did,” he says easily. “But who knows when we'll really have time, with all the work lately...”

“We were discussing Ms. Devi's Vulcan ancestry,” says Spock abruptly.

Kirk double-takes. “You're Vulcan?” he asks.

“Barely,” she laughs. “More Rigelian than Vulcan, really. Kaylar. And a little Angelus.” referring to the system Angel-One, “with some Argelian thrown in.”

She doesn't look like a Vulcan – certainly she lacks the ears – but there's something a bit sharp in the angle of her eyebrows, now that he looks. And the rest explains why he hasn't heard of her; Spock's always said to be the first successful Vulcan-human hybrid; a Vulcan-Rigelian-human-something-else-altogether hybrid might not have qualified for the title.

“Do you find it as cold here as Spock does?” he teases. Spock's been slowly inching up the temperature at home; McCoy got grumpy and annoyed when Kirk wanted to take off his shirt yesterday, though. Said he 'wasn't planning to stay at a damn strip-club.'

Spock argued against the human idea of nudity taboos for awhile, but McCoy put his foot down, and the shirt stayed on.

“Oh, it's not so bad,” she said. “Rigel was colder... But it's so nice to speak with someone with a Vulcan background! Spock here said you'd both join us for dinner next weekend.”

“Oh,” says Kirk, glaring at the Vulcan in question. Spock tilts his head innocently. “Well, with all this Klingon business - “

“I will ensure your schedule allows for it,” Spock says smoothly.

Kirk is starting to wonder if he did something to annoy Spock. He can't think of anything, but Spock's favorite revenge is passive-aggressive annoyances like this. “Then I look forward to it,” he lies.

Maritza Devi smiles.

“You realize I have to work with that man,” Kirk tells McCoy later that night, the three of them nursing drinks in the sitting-room. Spock just has tea, of course, though it smells as strongly as the liquor.

McCoy says, “Bah.”

“I'm serious.”

“The head of Medical? He's got nothing to do with you.”

Kirk sometimes, privately, thinks McCoy has no idea what an Admiral actually does. “You made him cry, Bones.”

“All the more reason to go at him. Idiot needs a wake-up call if he never realized what his policies are doing.”

“You could have done it in private.”

“Well then it would have been easier for him to get away.”

Kirk sighs. He gives it up and turns to Spock. “You seemed friendly with Devi's wife, anyway. Did she spend a lot of time on Vulcan?”

“None; she was mostly asking questions. I suspect she is actually Romulan.”

Spock sips his tea as this statement registers. McCoy drops his glass of whiskey with a THUNK, stares a moment, then picks it up again to take a huge gulp.

“...That might have been relevant to mention earlier,” says Kirk after a pause.

“I am mentioning it now.”

“So you are. Why do you think she's Romulan?”

“Multiple reasons, including physical, behavioral, and anecdotal based upon her vague discussion of her background. Her linguistic patterns are also similar to those of Romulan Standard speakers.”

McCoy pours himself more whiskey, then throws it back.

“Commodore Devi told us his wife thinks the murders are a Romulan conspiracy,” Kirk points out.

“Yes.”

“...Why would the Romulans want us to know they blew up the Lexington? If they did?”

“An excellent question,” says Spock. “We have dinner with the Commodore and Maritza next Saturday.”

Kirk opens his mouth.

“I will bring a pasta,” Spock adds. “And I would advise wearing a listening device and subdermal tracker. As a precautionary measure.”

Kirk closes his mouth.

McCoy takes another shot of whiskey. “I did not miss either of you,” he declares.

That's probably fair.

Chapter Text

“The Klingons are going to complain,” insists Lieutenant Simmons, peering around Spock as he tries to nudge her toward the door.

“Ms. Simmons,” says Kirk, losing his patience. “I do not care how much the Klingons complain; we are not letting them murder an alligator for dinner. Much less bare-handed! All sanitary concerns aside, please feel free to discuss the optics of that situation with PR.” Simmons huffs. “If you'll excuse me, I have a meeting.”

He doesn't, but she finally leaves. “Spock,” he starts. Spock promptly closes and locks the door. “Yes, that.” Sighing, Kirk leans back in his chair.

You would think that the destruction of the Lexington would be his first priority right now. Or the reports on his desk about an unusual first-contact mission currently taking place through the USS Sabre. Or the reports about a flu spreading in the Andor system. Requisitions, even.

But, no. Everyone in HQ urgently needs to know Admiral Kirk's opinion on Klingon meals, entertainment, social rituals, what damn colors they should put up during meetings... he has half a mind to insult the Klingons and send them packing just to avoid the politicking.

The worst part is that there's no clear direction for the talks, either. No singular goal. Kirk's directive is to establish warmer relations and mend current disagreements. As though the Empire has ever been anything but hostile to them!

Kirk closes his eyes a moment, scrubbing at his face. He opens them and immediately jolts to find Spock just in front of him.

“You have a headache,” Spock announces, scrutinizing Kirk like he can see it.

“We've talked about the mind-reading,” Kirk says. Though he isn't wrong.

“Allow me to assist you.”

“I really can't sleep in the middle of the day,” says Kirk hastily, eyeing Spock's hands. Spock once chose to 'assist' him after a long mission by neck-pinching Kirk; he was unconscious nearly sixteen hours.

Which was very restful, admittedly, but the Admiralty hadn't liked it much. And the drool had been awful.

“There is a Vulcan technique - “

“McCoy banned you from blocking pain-signals.”

Spock gets a look on his face that says he does not listen to McCoy, thank you very much. “I was going to suggest a meld, Sir.”

Oh.

Kirk considers it. They've melded a few times – usually in the line of duty, and once or twice to share memories that were hard to verbalize. It's always an interesting experience. “You think that would help?”

“Yes.”

“And it wouldn't require removing my ability to feel pain?”

“You seem very concerned about that.”

“Pain generally helps humans avoid dying, Mr. Spock.”

“I would never let you die.”

“Spock - “

“It would not remove your pain, Sir. With a meld I could command your muscles to relax, and remove tension. It is a simple technique.”

Well, that doesn't sound so bad. McCoy would still be furious; but McCoy isn't here. And headaches are miserable, especially when Kirk's meeting with Klingons soon. “Yes, alright,” he decides.

So Spock pulls over a chair. To Kirk's amusement he also pulls a stick of incense out of his desk – so that's where the smell came from. “Does the incense actually help you meld?”

“It promotes the proper state of mind,” says Spock with great dignity. Though he refuses to elaborate when Kirk asks whether his preferred scent of bergamot somehow promotes telepathy better than vanilla.

It should probably feel awkward to have Spock do this. It's an intimate thing even if one discounts the telepathy itself – the way Spock curls his hand over Kirk's cheek, fingers splayed, staring into his eyes. As he mouths that familiar mantra, my mind to your mind, Kirk watches his throat move. Watching the glint of Spock's eyes fade and blur as they both fall into another place, some vague artist's rendering of a world.

It's hard to describe what a meld feels like. It's a little different every time, and Kirk suspects this has less to do with familiarity than the fact that his impressions vary by Spock's mood. Maybe his own, too. Kirk's mind fills in vague details that don't exist, wispy impressions of light and smoke and stardust.

When they melded for the first time on Amerind the meld was like a storm. Maybe because they were in a storm, or maybe just because the meld had to do so much. Kirk was grieving and upset; Miramanee had died. And here was some stranger drilling into his head, striking lightning through him like the ruthless hand of God. Zap – he remembered his mother, walking him through cornfield. Zap – he was starving on Tarsus, the lands barren, staring at the dead. Zap – kissing Ruth at the Academy. Zap – Spock, Spock, Spock.

And then a different disaster, a little like an earthquake. His whole mind rearranged and split around the information Spock returned to him. He was no longer Kirok, but James Kirk.

The meld on the Melkotians' planet was easier by comparison. Though still... strange. There Spock was almost duplicate of Kirk himself, a Jiminy-Crickett whispering that everything on the planet was an illusion. He was a conscience, a ghost, sliding in and out of shadow. And Kirk trusted that shadow implicitly, though Scotty, McCoy, and Chekov all later claimed to be unnerved by the experience.

This meld... isn't like either of those.

It makes sense that it relaxes him; that's the whole point. But Kirk's shocked how sudden and abruptly he feels better. Tension he hadn't known existed drains from him. And in his mind's-eye he sees Spock again, now a narrow shaft of light pricking at his muscles. A touch here, there, and Spock sweeps off the weights dragging down his body. Kirk's rejuvenated, free of leaden chains he'd ceased to notice.

Spock's form in the meld is mercurial, flickering from one spot to another, decisive yet hard to discern. Kirk tries to follow him; but the impressions slip from his memory like sand, leaving behind only a vague impression of the experience.

He has little sense of self in the meld – not until the end, when Spock draws a close, assessing him. Kirk wishes he would come closer. He reaches out with arms like winding branches, trying to pull Spock -

Kirk blinks back to the office.

He's surprised to find that Spock abandoned the chair at some point during the meld; he's instead seated on Kirk's desk, back bowed so his face is just a few inches away. His eyes are dark. Kirk experiences a fleeting impression from the rapidly-vanishing memory of the meld. Stardust and dark space all around, twining together. But still not close enough... Without thinking he clutches Spock's arm.

“Did that help?” Spock asks. The low rumble of his voice is shocking in the silent office.

Kirk nods. The question only registers belatedly, but it really did. His headache is gone, and along with it all his tension. He feels more relaxed than he has in...

Well, since he was on the Enterprise, probably.

“Thank you,” says Kirk. Spock opens his mouth; the office door opens.

Morrow pauses in the threshold. He looks at Kirk. At Spock, still sitting on the desk. Inhales deeply, perhaps smelling the incense.

After a long, frozen moment, he speaks. “Kirk. Why don't you keep the door open, from now on?”

Kirk blinks, taken aback. “The security protocols - “

“I do not care. Keep it open.” Morrow moves as if to take the seat across from Kirk, visibly rethinks it, and instead stands awkwardly with his hands clasped behind his back.

He opens his mouth, pauses, and looks at Spock.

Spock takes the hint and slips back to his own seat.

“...I'm, uh. The Lexington.” Kirk raises his eyebrows. “I'm here about the Lexington,” repeats Morrow. He looks a little flushed. Doggedly he continues: “They found something.”

Kirk straightens. “They know what caused the explosion?”

“They believe they do,” offers Spock from his own desk, watching the pair. Under Morrow's gaze he languorously swivels the chair one way, then another. “I did not bring it to your attention, Admiral, because they are incorrect.”

Ah.

Morrow frowns at Spock. “We only just received the report,” he says.

Spock fiddles with his padd. The large monitor on the wall immediately displays the first page of what is clearly a long, comprehensive assessment. Still slumped in that indolent position, he explains, “Engineers on the lunar space station discovered a minor flaw in the conduits between the main engine and ship weapons. The flaw was theorized via logs and traces of radiation, as well as examination of the Lexington's remains. But it did not cause the explosion.”

“The engineers swear it did,” says Morrow. “98% probability.”

“Then your engineers are incompetent,” says Spock, crossing an ankle neatly over his knee. Morrow grits his teeth. “I would estimate 7% at best. The Lexington had no reason to be using its weapons; the chances of such a flaw resulting in a major explosive force, without any prior indications of overload, are almost infitesmial when the system was not in active use. Even if someone decided to activate weapons, there would have been periodic outages from the overload long before any explosion. The black box does not indicate any such issues. It is far more likely another, primary explosion simply sparked an ignition at the weak-point, nearly simultaneously.”

Morrow presses his lips together. “You are not an engineer, Mr. Spock. The investigation is over. They have concluded the conduit exploded first.”

“Then either they are incompetent, or accomplices,” Spock muses.

Morrow elects to ignore him. “The timing is bad, Jim, but we can conclude the Klingons have nothing to do with any of this – thank god for small mercies.”

Kirk stands, crossing his arms as he contemplates the admiral. “Henry, I think you're forgetting something obvious. Ambassador Koloth was poisoned.”

“Klingons killing Klingons; that's not our concern. There were none of our people on that ship.”

Which means they can't blame us, is what Kirk hears. “I can't decide if you think this visit is important or not.”

“Important? Of course it's important. Which is why we shouldn't go inviting trouble. We'll be holding a memorial service for the Lexington next week; I'll send you the details. Might be another interview over it. That's all I wanted to tell you.” Morrow rises; again he hesitates on the theshold. Looks between them. “Door open,” he repeats, and goes.

Kirk frowns. “Do you think Henry's feeling alright?” he asks Spock.

The Vulcan shrugs.

There's at least a little cheerful news; Spock informs Kirk Uhura will be on Earth tomorrow, as she handles her own reports on the Lexington disaster. She's invited Kirk to go shopping, since “clearly he'll need something nice to wear for his next interview.”

“I have dress uniforms,” Kirk points out. It's not really a complaint; he likes spending time with Uhura.

“She will find a way to make your uniform better,” Spock assures. Which is probably true.

Kirk does pry his schedule from Spock's iron grip long enough to slot in another addition; a date with Commodore Ariadne Jansens, who he met at Commodore Devi's little cookout. Spock eyes him a little judgmentally when he learns.

“You indicated in your recent interview that you are too 'busy' for relationships, Sir.”

“Busy isn't dead, Spock.”

“I will remind you we have also arranged to meet with Ms. Devi. And her husband,” he adds, as an afterthought.

“Ah. The Romulan spy.”

“Perhaps,” says Spock. “We have not yet confirmed that.”

In Kirk's mind Spock having a theory is basically confirmation. “Easiest way might be to get a DNA sample. I know they're similar to Vulcans, but there are markers, aren't there?”

“Subtle ones. But you may recall that Mrs. Devi also claimed descent from multiple races, including Vulcan and human. It would be quite impossible to tell.”

Kirk hums. “She could be lying about that, too.”

“Possible; even likely. Regardless it is not conclusive.”

No, probably not. “I looked into her background; nothing concerning on the file. Though I didn't expect to find anything. I'm sure she was cleared when they married.”

“She is a civilian; I doubt the background-check was thorough,” says Spock. His expression doesn't twitch, but the disapproval is clear. “Again, inconclusive.”

“Right. You accepted her invitation for a reason, though.”

“I did,” says Spock. “But that plan will require your primary participation, Sir.”

“Oh? I'm at your disposal.” Kirk spreads his hands. “What did you have in mind?”

Spock tells him.

“...You want me to befriend Devi,” Kirk repeats, resigned. “While you befriend his wife.”

“Yes, Sir. She will quite likely be enthusiastic at the idea of attaining more sources of information.”

“...Can't I befriend the wife?” asks Kirk plaintively, thinking of the brown-nosing Commodore.

Spock is without pity. “As we are both 'Vulcan,' I am the logical choice.”

Kirk's still fairly certain this is revenge for something.

“This pasta is excellent,” says Maritza Devi. She's doing an admirable job not staring at Spock's attire, Kirk thinks. Her husband is not nearly as subtle in his appraisal. His head bobs between the plate and the glittering trail of glass beads swirling over Spock's emerald-gold Vulcan robe. A long string of tightly-stitched amber thread spells something down the arms, but Kirk needs to brush up on the language; he can't parse more than a word that seems to say 'willing,' and another that might be 'serve,' based on his memory of the classic Vulcan greeting. “You made it yourself?”

“My mother's recipe.”

“Oh, lovely. I cook a little, you can see, but Surya just uses the replicator,” says Maritza brightly. Commodore Devi nods absently, still staring at Spock. “You're quite fortunate to have him, Admiral.”

“Oh, certainly,” says Kirk, automatic. He's always ready and willing to praise Spock. “Mr. Spock has many unexpected talents.”

Maritza twirls some pasta on her fork. “I saw you with that lovely Commodore Jansens at the park,” she says. “You aren't meeting her?”

“Oh, soon.”

“Hmm. I'd have expected you to be taken already,” she says. “Maybe with someone who works close to you...”

“Well, things were always busy on the Enterprise.”

“Of course! Spock here has told me about some of your missions.” What? Has Spock been talking to her more than Kirk realized? “You've been through a lot together, haven't you?”

“I wouldn't be here today without Spock.”

Maritza rests her chin on her hand, smiling sweetly. “That's lovely, really. That you're such good... friends. It's great to have someone you're really comfortable with, that sort of intimacy...”

There's something suggestive in her voice. Her eyes pull away to Spock, lip curling.

Kirk squints at her. He's – not quite sure what's happening. Is Maritza trying to flirt? And with Spock? Kirk thought she was flirting with him at the barbecue. But her husband is right here...

Oh, god. Please, please don't let them be swingers. If Commodore Devi tries to flirt with Kirk, he won't be able to keep his composure.

“No one at all,” he tells her. She doesn't seem deterred; in fact, her smile widens.

Commodore Devi switches subjects, trying to complain about Admiral Morrow's recent behavior – as though the man doesn't have good reason to be hassling his officers, between an exploded ship and earthside Klingons. Kirk's dislike of the Commodore grows every second.

He hopes Spock finds this conversation useful; Kirk certainly doesn't. He tries to steer things in the right direction by asking Maritza to tell them more about her background.

“Oh, I was born on Rigel, then born on Angel-1 – adopted, you know. My mother was on a ship that went down in nearby space, when I was a baby – it was years before I met my father. Doctor visits were a mess, let me tell you, with a whole mystery-cocktail of ancestors from different species...”

“I'm sure the Admiral doesn't want to hear about that,” says Devi, patting her hand with a condescending air. Maritza's smile dims. “You were born in Iowa, weren't you, Admiral? An exciting place to live!”

“I can't say anyone's told me that before,” Kirk observes.

Devi coughs. Spock offers, “You were discussing your family, Maritza?”

“Yes, my father -”

“Why, he reminds me a bit of the Ambassador, now that I think of it!” Devi interrupts frantically. “How is Ambassador Sarek doing?”

Spock spears a vegetable. “I expect he would not care to inform you,” he says, “since you are not acquianted.”

“Right. Right.”

Maritza clears her throat delicately. “My own father was visiting recently, it's so nice when family - “

“More pasta?” Devi asks. He tries to thrust the bowl Spock brought toward Kirk, and manages to fumble it over the edge of the table. It drops with a ringing crash of splintering glass.

Spock peers at the ruin without emotion. “That was an antique,” he notes. Devi stutters apologies, scrambling to fetch a broom. At least Spock didn't bring any of the provocative designs tonight; he really seems to like those ones.

“So, your father,” says Kirk to Maritza.

“How did you find the food, Admiral?” Devi asks loudly. Then he stumbles, catches himself, curses. Maritza scrambles to fetch a bandage when he raises a bleed hand; he must have landed on one of the shards.

Kirk looks across the table. Spock quirks an eyebrow and eats some more pasta.

Okay.

Things calm down. The broken glass is swept away. Kirk rubs his face, offering a pained smile when Maritza sits again. “So your husband mentioned you had some friends with the Federation Headline News,” he tries.

Maritza regards him blankly. “No?”

“...he said you had some theories about the Romulans?”

“MAYBE WE SHOULD GET DESSERT,” Devi calls from the kitchen. Maritza rushes away to help him, harried.

Kirk catches Spock's eye again. Spock manages to seem judgmental without shifting expression.

They have angel cake and strawberries. Kirk half-expects Spock to say something rude about the illogic of dessert; instead he tops his fruit with a ludicrous amount of whipped cream.

“What a lovely house you have,” Kirk grits, desperately trying to break the awkward silence.

“We'll have to find a good place for that painting you brought once you leave,” Maritza says. Which, honestly, why does Spock suddenly insist on all these nude paintings...

The night doesn't get any more productive. When they leave – after another painful twenty minutes of polite smalltalk later, using the excuse of the mess and Devi's shaken nerves – Kirk tells Spock, “We didn't learn a damned thing.”

“But you agree Devi was suspicious?”

“Well, obviously.”

Spock nods. “Then we must arrange more meetings.”

Kirk sighs.

Sometimes he wishes Spock could be correct less often.

Chapter Text

The Klingons are... weirdly amused during the next meeting. Kirk doesn't trust it.

It's nothing obvious, nothing he can call out. Just an undertone – something in the traded looks between officers, the undercurrent of glee that prevails even during mind-numbing discussions of this or that planet, a disputed border, reports of minor conflict. Even when Kirk says something that ought to start an argument, he just gets the impression the Klingons are laughing at him.

It starts to make him paranoid. Are they planning something? They've given no indication thus far that they had anything to do with the Lexington explosion. They seem serious about discussing territory disputes with the Federation, too. So why the amusement?

As they prepare to break for lunch, Koloth tells Kirk, “Tell your Vulcan I will be ready to meet him when we discussed.”

“Meet him?” Kirk asks, surprised. “If you mean when we talk with the Minister of Agriculture, Spock won't be attending that meeting.”

Behind Koloth one of his officers laughs, jeering something at a fellow in their own language. “Oh, no, he knows what I mean,” comes the cheerful reply. Koloth sweeps out, nudging and baring his teeth at another Klingon in a friendly way that only makes Kirk more suspicious. But he doesn't have time to chase the issue; he needs to meet with Ambassador T'Fia.

Kirk was more than a little worried when he learned a Vulcan ambassador would be participating in the ongoing talks. Thankfully, it's not Sarek; Kirk doesn't know what Spock's father thinks of his son's career-change, and frankly he's a little afraid to ask.

This Vulcan is named T'Fia. Kirk only met her briefly; she's still being briefed. He met T'Fia's husband, too, a diminutive man named Selor who simply stared at Kirk unnervingly the whole time. Kirk has no idea how the Klingons will receive them. Historically, Klingons view the Vulcan people with disgust due to their strict pacifism. “Pacifism is acceptable only in races too weak to attempt anything else – the Vulcans are only cowards,” is something he heard once. Spock, at least, usually receives a little more respect for being a military officer. For previously being a military officer...

T'Fia, Selor, and a few aides are slated to finally join the talks this afternoon. Kirk takes a quick lunch and goes to find her. He ends up having to hassle a few different admin-officers before tracking down the Vulcans; they've absconded with an unused conference room a few floors up, and receive his interruption with blank faces. It's impossible to tell what they think of the intrusion.

“Captain Kirk – it is not time to meet yet,” says T'Fia. Okay, definitely disapproving, then.

“I wanted to speak with you before the Klingons, Ambassador, so we can coordinate.”

“There is nothing we need from you,” is the curt reply.

Great; what a promising start. “Ambassador, we are both protecting Federation interests in this discussion...”

“You are protecting Federation interests. And your own, no doubt,” says T'Fia. “I am here to find the most logical solution to any disagreements.”

This is a common problem with Vulcan diplomats, actually. As neutral intermediaries, Vulcans are the best. As negotiators...

Vulcans usually try to be fair toward everyone, and they are famously unbiased.

Starfleet doesn't like that. Starfleet wants Federation politicians to be biased toward the Federation, thank you very much.

But T'Fia must have been given this assignment as a reason, so Kirk stifles his initial response. And the second. And the third. Finally he says, “If you don't need anything at the moment, Ambassador, I encourage you to reach out to Mr. Spock with any concerns you might have. Perhaps once you've spoken to Ambassador Koloth we'll have more to discuss.”

Now, Kirk has spent the last several years working closely with a Vulcan. So he can't say exactly what he's picking up when the atmosphere in the room shifts; expressions don't change, and no one says anything. But Kirk's neck pricks like he's under the gaze of predators.

“Noted,” says T'Fia coldly. “You may leave now.”

Kirk starts to wonder if the Klingons are drunk.

Or high. That or they're plotting something... there's no other reason for the distinctly vindictive glee they exude through the meeting. Although, in fairness, he also gets the sense they're amused by the hostility of the Vulcans.

Kirk's always gotten on decently well with Vulcans – not just Spock. But these ones seem pre-emptively prepared to hate him. Or perhaps that's too emotional; they clearly see him as something disgusting, though. Kirk's not sure why. If Spock were here he'd ask if he's managed to commit some cultural faux pas; it's still feels strange to know Spock is so close but can't accompany him to these things. But he's just a 'secretary' now.

Today's discussions are mostly about border disputes. Old news; even as a Starfleet captain Kirk always kept well-apprised of the latest territorial scuffles, and they rarely change much. This side makes a claim, that side makes a claim, there's a minor scuffle with some supposedly off-duty officers, a satellite explodes and the lone Klingon cruiser nearby denies responsibility... etc, etc. Lots of useless posturing and infuriating political denial.

At least reading the news in his quarters Kirk could roll his eyes. Now he has to keep a polite expression as the Klingon spouts off things everyone knows are lies. Though there's at least a few occasions Kirk needs to lie, too, like when he tells them a Starfleet medical vessel totally wasn't at the border last week for spy purposes, no, definitely just responding to a distress call...

He never felt this slimy as a captain. Even when he was acting as the Totally Innocent Spy.

Given their reticence, there's a part of Kirk that's unproductively smug when the Klingons turn their attention toward criticizing the Vulcans, specifically.

There's a planet on the edge of their territories - Niobus III - whose ownership pre-dates the Federation. The Vulcans settled it centuries ago as a research outpost. The Klingons have since claimed it, as far as Kirk can tell, for the simple reason that they're always trying to encroach further onto Federation space. It has no real use to anyone except the local scientists and their ongoing studies of native fauna, but it's near Klingon space, so the Klingons occasionally kick up a fuss about 'rightfully' owning it.

“The fact we have allowed you to use it,” Koloth starts at one point.

“Pardon,” T'Fia interrupts, tone mild and polite. “You do not 'allow' it. There have been multiple attempts by your people to invade our colony; all efforts have been repulsed.”

Koloth's smile vanishes.

There is nothing Klingons hate more than a challenge to their military prowess. Except, perhaps, to find such a challenge from a race of pacifists. “We have generously allowed your people to exist there,” Koloth repeats in a booming voice – as though saying this will, somehow, make it true. “But the Federation makes a poor neighbor.”

Kirk coughs, quickly reaching for a glass of water to disguise it. Now that's a bold statement...

Koloth continues, “You people don't even use the planet. You'll pick a perfectly good world, settle down half a dozen people on some little island, and call the whole place 'colonized.' Property of the Federation! Absurd!”

“As opposed to the Klingon approach,” Kirk muses, “which I suppose includes strip-mining the world of all its natural resources.”

“And why shouldn't we?” Koloth demands. “No one even lives there!”

Kirk doesn't believe for a moment the Klingons would be deterred by the presence of a native population. T'Fia more diplomatically points out, “People could in the future. Our scientists study the native life of Niobus, which deserves a chance to develop unmolested.”

“You cannot protect every creature with the mere potential for intelligence millions of years in the future,” Koloth scorns. “If you at least consented to a joint venture with the Empire...”

Ha. And allow them a foothold? Absolutely not.

The meeting devolves from there, tempers fraying until a call for break nearly two hours later. The Vulcans remain utterly unmoved as the Klingons and Federation staff rise from the table in a flurry of movement, stomping off to mutter their grievances with their own colleagues under the guise of fetching drinks or equipment. Spock has said before he finds mid-meeting breaks illogical.

Koloth doesn't seem inclined to stretch his legs either. He leans over the table, catching Kirk's attention.

“So where's your Vulcan, Kirk?” he asks. “He's usually skulking behind you like a targ.”

Kirk doesn't know what a targ is. “Spock isn't in Starfleet anymore – I told you.”

“But he's still serving you.”

“He's still working under me,” Kirk agrees. The half-dozen Vulcans seated nearby turn toward them as a unit, faces eerily identical. “But technically - “

“Is he making some statement, then? By quitting your military?”

“No, I wouldn't say he - “

“He is making a great many statements, judging by his appearance lately,” says T'Fia in a disapproving tone. Kirk stiffens.

Koloth bares his teeth. Kirk wishes he could judge the emotion behind that; amusement? Derision? Malice? “Not a fan, Vulcan?”

“My opinion is irrelevant,” says T'Fia. “But for any Vulcan it is apparent he is... making a rather desperate offer.”

Desperate! “Mr. Spock has limitless potential,” Kirk protests. “He could go anywhere he wants.”

“Yes,” says T'Fia. “That is precisely why it is unfortunate to witness; he would fare much better if he left.”

“He's already left Starfleet,” Kirk says. But Koloth interrupts with wild laughter, and then the others return, so they have to get back to work.

The meeting does not get any better.

“I just can't figure out what they're upset about,” Kirk contemplates. “And I don't need to be arguing with the Vulcans on top of the Klingons...”

He trails off.

They're standing in a shopping center, him and Uhura, wandering past stalls; Uhura looks like she's trying not to smile. “Sir,” she says. “Have you considered that you have – ah – maybe a reputation with Vulcans?”

Kirk has not. “Reputation? What do you mean? I've only visited the planet once – I shouldn't be any more well-known than other captains.”

Well; that's not entirely true. Kirk is one of the faces of Starfleet and he knows it. But Uhura allows him the pretense.

“Sure,” she says. “Maybe you would be. Except for Com - ah, for Spock. He's famous on Vulcan for all sorts of reasons... and that makes you pretty well-known by proximity. Maybe they're upset about Spock, or... something about Spock...”

She sounds like she's hinting. Kirk slows his pace for a moment, contemplating this.

He starts to get angry.

Why is everyone going after Spock lately?

“You think they're upset because he switched positions?” he contemplates. Sarek always wanted Spock to go into politics – or, if not that, then to at least do research through Vulcan institutions. Maybe Ambassador T'Fia is a friend, or holds similar views. Maybe it's a class thing; his clan is prominent on Vulcan.

Uhura gently clears her throat, steering Kirk into a store. She fingers the cloth of a particularly sheer garment they pass, and Kirk wonders if she's been shopping with Spock lately – that might explain some of his recent clothing choices, actually. “Well, no. I was thinking maybe they're, ah, more upset about his... way of representing himself. And specifically that it might not be particularly dignified for him.”

That's even worse. “I know Vulcans can be a bit more – reserved – but that's outrageous! They don't have any right to judge him.”

Uhura, uncharacteristically, stumbles. Her shoulder bangs against a protruding corner as they browse the shop. Kirk grabs her arm to steady her. “You alright?”

“Oh, I'm fine – just feeling bad for Mr. Spock, suddenly,” she says wryly.

“He shouldn't have to deal with this,” agrees Kirk. “Do you know Admiral Morrow has been making comments on his appearance, too?”

“I'm shocked, Sir.”

“I think he looks quite nice lately.”

“That was the point,” says Uhura. “We went shopping a few times.”

Aha! “I thought I sensed your influence.”

“I assure you the choices were all his own, Admiral.”

Well, that aside. “He shouldn't have to worry about being judged everywhere he goes. It doesn't do any harm if he wants to wear some makeup and get out of those uniforms.”

“I'm not sure they're judging him,” says Uhura delicately. “Maybe pitying him, from what I hear.”

“Pity!” That's a completely new level of condescension. “He doesn't need pity.”

“I think I'm pitying him right now,” Uhura muses, pausing to contemplate a long red dress.

Well, fair enough. Kirk feels rather wretched on Spock's behalf, too, remembering how tired he looked when he talked about his mysterious six-month disappearance. It makes him ache a little; he still doesn't really understand what spurred Spock to leave. He doesn't need Vulcan judgment, or professional disapproval, on top of – of whatever that was.

“Sulu's planning to visit him soon,” says Uhura suddenly. “He's been really – interested – since he heard about Spock's return.”

“Oh, that's great.” It makes sense; everyone was worried about Spock's vanishing-act the last few weeks on the Enterprise. “It will be nice to see how he's doing.”

“He's planning to invite Spock out for a private lunch,” she adds, twisting around a clothes rack to inspect the options at the back.

“Of course,” Kirk agrees. Doubtless he'll have an opportunity to see Sulu, too, but it's nice Spock's other friends were concerned. “I think he'd enjoy that.”

“Sulu will make sure he enjoys it,” says Uhura.

“I just hope Spock's alright,” Kirk muses. “Sometimes it's hard to tell. He seems to be more relaxed, but everyone at HQ has been a bit standoffish, and all the science teams keep harassing him...”

“You can't blame them for that.”

“No; but he deserves a chance to take a break.”

“Oh,” Uhura interrupts, edging past him. “This is perfect for you, Sir.”

So Kirk has to drop the line of thinking. Uhura shoos him away with the outfit. When he tries it on she assesses him with plain delight.

“Oh, lovely,” she says. “Very sharp, Sir. Makes you look ten years younger.”

Kirk presses his lips together. “Ms. Uhura, I believe you just called me old.”

“Your hearing must be going,” she says without missing a beat. He laughs. “You have to get it, Sir.”

It is a nice suit – dark burgundy. Very sharp, and a perfect fit. He examines it through the reflection of a mirror. “I think Ariadne would like this,” he agrees.

Uhura reaches out to adjust his sleeve. “Who?”

“A woman I met recently.”

“Oh,” says Uhura. Her hand falls away.

Kirk buys the outfit; Uhura complains her feet hurt, and they end the day soon after.

Spock isn't home when Kirk gets back.

It's surprising, considering the hour. Kirk nearly misses the note on the counter.

It just says, Meeting with the Klingons. Will return tomorrow.

That's all.

Kirk stares at it awhile, baffled. It's 2140. Why would Spock be with the Klingons so late? Should Kirk be worried? But it says 'tomorrow,' so presumably the tardiness is expected... was Spock trying to worry him? As a message, a hint...

No, no. That's paranoia talking. Kirk shakes his head. He'll have to ask Spock tomorrow. He wonders why Spock would want to talk to them alone, though.

Kirk can't wait to get these Klingons away from Earth.

Chapter Text

“Sometimes you don't seem to appreciate how brilliant you are,” says Kirk without thinking.

It's perhaps three months into his captaincy that he says this. Kirk liked his new first officer from their initial meeting, and the impression only strengthened the more they worked together. Learning to decipher the minute twists of Spock's expressions, the subtext of his words... it's been a satisfying puzzle. Even a merely surface-level impression gave Kirk the sense that Spock's not just a good scientist, but a good person.

Spock is plainly startled, though, lifting his gaze from perusal of the chessboard. This is the first time they've played in his quarters, and the Vulcan's features look starkly pronounced in the ruddy, altered lighting. “Chess is stimulating, Sir. But hardly 'brilliant.'”

“Not the chess, Mr. Spock, you,” Kirk laughs. “I heard your people talking today – another award?”

“Starfleet offers many opportunities for new research.”

“But I don't see every science officer rising so fast. Accept the compliment. It's rare enough to be a genius; downright unfair to be humble and kind, on top of it.”

Kirk's still teasing. But this time the way Spock jolts – the look he gives Kirk – he's genuinely startled. Stiff.

In a softer tone, Spock says, “I have rarely been accused of kindness, Sir.”

Kirk's new commander is undoubtedly brilliant, competent. In this moment he also looks a little resigned.

It didn't take Kirk long into their acquaintance to glimpse a certain sadness in Spock. It's something about the way he's always carefully braced for insults. How he withstands them readily, with the ease of long practice; it's the behavior of someone accustomed to hurt.

Spock's expressive eyes don't quite hide his surprise when Kirk says, “I suppose that's how you know Starfleet isn't full of geniuses. Your scientists certainly adore you; it's clear you've earned their respect. I'm lucky you stayed on with us, Mr. Spock; I couldn't ask for a better first officer.”

Spock returns his gaze to the chessboard. He's still stiff, compensating for his superior's uncomfortable earnestness with a rigid spine and blank expression. With stilted difficulty, he murmurs, “And I am pleased to have you as my captain, Sir.”

Spock glances up; Kirk beams. Spock hastily returns his gaze to the game.

Kirk's pleased to see Spock become more relaxed, more open, as the years pass. His confidence increases too – and not only with Kirk.

Some might argue that he becomes a little too confident...

“Have you considered returning to Vulcan?” is what Kirk hears when he enters his office.

T'Fia looks unabashed by Kirk's arrival; indeed, from the disdainful glance she throws at Kirk the timing might be deliberate.

“I think I have made my desires plain,” says Spock.

“How old is that?” asks T'Fia's wife, Selor. He's a philosopher of some sort, to Kirk's recollection – some sort of logic-expert, which is greatly respected on Vulcan; albeit meaningless everywhere else.

He's gesturing at a bright copper torque around Spock's neck – it's polished and elegant. Spock casually replies, “Perhaps three-thousand years old. It was commissioned by Straalus before the Awakening.”

“...wearing that is a serious thing,” says T'Fia after a pause. She turns, pursing her lips at Kirk as though it's his fault Spock decided to wear priceless antique jewelry on a casual workday.

“It was a favorite story of mine,” says Spock. He stares at T'Fia until she averts her gaze.

“Your position with this human is quite unfortunate,” says Selor, in a tone that might be sympathetic.

That's quite enough. “Did you come here with some purpose aside from insulting us, Ambassador?”

“No,” says T'Fia with the unashamed bluntness of Vulcans. She turns to Spock. “You could do better than this. On Vulcan someone would properly appreciate -”

“I must disagree,” interrupts Spock. He turns to his computer. “Please allow us to resume work.”

Selor arches an eyebrow, but the pair sweep out without another word.

Kirk collapses into his desk-chair, mood soured by the encounter. “Remember you have a meeting with Commodore Devi,” Spock reminds him, already typing away at his padd. From the look of him it's as though nothing happened at all.

“Oh, I couldn't forget.” By a 'meeting' Spock means Kirk has agreed to go golfing with the man. Ergh. Hopefully he can get some good information; it's not the way he'd prefer to spend an afternoon. Devi looked supremely pleased with himself, though, when Kirk agreed; Kirk strongly suspects Spock nudged him into extending the offer via some sort of psychological warfare. He tries not to think about Spock's manipulative prowess too often. It makes him nervous.

Kirk contemplates questioning him about T'Fia's arrival; he still wonders what Sarek thinks of Spock leaving Starfleet. Instead he asks, “What was that story you mentioned?”

There's a lot Kirk could say about the baffling Vulcan diplomats, but that caught his attention the most.

“Straalus was an ancestor of mine. The tale of Straalus and F'yora is famous on Vulcan; a love-story.”

“Love?”

“It was before Surak's time, when Vulcans felt... very fiercely, and without apology for it. Straalus and F'yora were warriors of allied clans. When F'yora's clan was decimated in an attack, Straalus vowed his clan would aid the survivors through the annihilation of their enemy; in turn, F'yora swore to his service. They came to unite their clans and led them together – and unexpectedly made peace with the enemy clan, when a new leader emerged. Tales of peace-making are rare before Surak's time.”

“That sounds lovely,” says Kirk, and means it. “How does the story end?”

He's expecting something tragic – most great romances are tragic. Considering this is a Vulcan story, maybe they died in battle, or starved, or got lost in a sandstorm and vanished...

“They married. They are actually more famous for documenting a truly alarming number of unique sexual exploits,” says Spock. “My clan has the original copies; they were very inventive.”

Spock thought – and Kirk reluctantly concurred – that it would be best to divide their probing into the Devis. It's easier to convince someone to speak their secrets without an audience, and Spock also has the advantage of a shared heritage with Maritza Devi.

Kirk, for his part, has no similar background with the Commodore. Though he doesn't expect this to be an issue; within ten minutes of his arrival he can feel his temper fraying. Devi is blatantly, uncomfortably shameless in his groveling attempts to win Kirk's favor.

Starfleet is, in theory and usually even in practice, a fleet organized around the pursuit of scientific research and discovery. But Starfleet is a military, too; higher-ranking officers tend to reflect this the most.

And for Admirals that means their work is full of politics. And no political hierarchy exists without the kind of grasping creatures like Commodore Devi.

It's apparent in everything he does. They've met at a wide green park south of San Francisco for golf (an activity Devi suggested, probably out of some misplaced attempt at sophistication).

And ever since Kirk's arrival the man hasn't stopped talking.

Boasting, really – showing himself off between bouts of simpering praise. But it's only off-putting; and not impressive, to someone with Kirk's wide experiences.

Oh, Kirk hasn't been to this country-club before? Well, Devi could get him in, if he's interested. They only take serious individuals here, you know. Devi himself had to apply four years straight, but then he impressed the owners son and got accepted... of course they'd surely respect Kirk's reputation, his tremendous services to Earth... Devi's family, of course, are descendants of the super-human Joaquin Weiss, who served as the bodyguard of Khan Noonien Singh during the eugenics wars.

Hmm. Kirk wonders how Khan and his followers are doing. Devi doesn't seem to realize the ancestor he's bragging about is still alive. Maybe he should revisit that with Starfleet some time?

Devi adds he only inherited Joaquin's super-metabolism, ha, ha. Kirk must be proud of his own heritage, with a father and grandfather both from Starfleet...

I've had a lot of vapid conversations in my life, Kirk thinks, even as he smiles and makes polite noises, feigning interest. But this is painful.

Hopefully Spock's having a better time. Although considering Maritza married this man...

At least he has moments of good gossip. Rarely.

“Did you hear about the fire?” Devi asks.

“Fire?”

“At Admiral Sato's house.”

“Oh. No, I didn't. No one was hurt?”

“No, no. But I heard it was deliberate. Arson. The Klingons, I imagine.”

Interesting gossip; certainly not reliable. “If there were an investigation into the Klingons, someone would have told me.”

“Well it's nothing official, of course!”

“Ah. Of course.” Kirk waits. Devi deflates at his lack of reaction.

“...How have you been liking it, back on Earth?” Devi asks. “Must be boring compared to what you're used to...”

“Oh, it's nice to be home,” Kirk lies, strangling down all the melancholy regret that accompanies thoughts of the Enterprise. “And at least I have Mr. Spock with me now.”

“The proof it's not just your professional life going well!” Devi nudges him in the ribs, and Kirk manages not to wince away. “Never seen a Vulcan so smitten.”

Smitten? What an odd word to use. “Well, I'm very lucky to have him here.”

Devi grins. “Lucky, huh? What's it like, anyway?”

“Excuse me?”

“I just mean – well, a Vulcan... I imagine he has quite some stamina.”

Kirk doesn't know what that has to do with anything, but Devi's been spewing a lot of nonsense tonight. “Oh, Spock barely sleeps,” he agrees, hiding the confusion. Bones complains about the fact frequently.

“Ha! I bet. We've all seen how he is – and right in public, too. But you oughta be careful, Jim.” Kirk keeps his smile on, though he's annoyed at the familiarity. “It looks like those Klingons are starting to sniff around.”

Kirk remembers the night previous – specifically, Spock's cryptic note. A late-night visit to the Klingons. “I'm afraid I don't - “

“Unless that's part of the plan? Softening them up, and all. I wouldn't have pegged them for the sort to be interested. But I guess Klingons are, uh – they value the physical. Food, fighting and sex! Everyone knows how much you hate them, is all, so it seemed odd you would share.”

It's only because he can't determine what else Devi could mean that Kirk starts to understand.

“You're implying that the Klingons are flirting with him,” says Kirk. Slow, deliberate. “Including Ambassador Koloth.”

“Flirting isn't the word I'd use,” Devi chortles. “I saw the video going around from the gym. Looked more like - “

Devi sees the look on Kirk's face. His laughter cuts off.

“I don't want to hear you imply something like that again,” says Kirk.

He's not sure what his expression is doing, but Devi squeaks, “Right!”

“Mr. Spock is not involved with the Klingons.”

“No, no, of course not, I didn't - “

“You will not repeat that idea to anyone, Commodore, are we clear?”

Devi clutches the golf-club to his chest like a shield. “I mean. Everyone already knows?”

“Excuse me?”

“ I mean. They think it, not that there's any - “ Devi wilts under Kirk's stare. Then, with a sudden flash of anger, straightens. “Well you must see how he's been dressing, Kirk! And hanging off you – that Ambassador – might as well stick a 'for sale' label on his chest - “

Kirk drops his club. Devi recoils, bravery deserting him. “I think we're done here,” says Kirk.

Kirk reminds himself Spock would find it extremely illogical if he punches Devi.

He's still a bit tempted.

There's an awkward silence between them as they return to San Francisco. Wary, on Devi's end; furious, on Kirk's.

Do people really think Spock's flirting with Koloth?

Kirk didn't miss the implications about himself, of course. And obviously he isn't in any sort of relationship with Spock, so maybe Devi just doesn't understand what he's talking about. But...

But Spock disappeared. At night. For a private meeting with the Klingons. Spock's been trying to convince Kirk the Klingons are decent and interesting. Spock's been speaking with Koloth privately, and then all the Klingons keep smiling at Kirk like they know something he doesn't...

There's no way anything happened, of course. Obviously.

Surely.

But what if Koloth threatened him? asks a fretful voice in his head. Klingons seem the sort who would get pushy about sex. And Spock wouldn't want to muddy political waters with any accusations. And if people are already judging his recent presentation, maybe he was worried he wouldn't be believed, and -

By the time they arrive at Devi's house Kirk's imagination has supplied him with twenty increasingly-dire fantasies of Spock helplessly pursued by lusting Klingons. He kind of wants to kill something. Devi is stiff and uneasy by his side, casting Kirk increasingly alarmed glances and wincing at whatever expression he holds.

They step up to the door of Devi's house. Kirk clenches his fists. Exhales.

“We're back a bit early,” calls Devi with forced cheer, striding in. “Admiral, do you want a drink before you go?”

Devi's tone indicates a desperate hope that the answer is no.

“No. Thank you. Spock - “ Kirk look around. Feels his face soften. “What's this?”

The main room has turned into a mess of datapadds and scrap-paper. And treats; cold teacups and a half-depleted chocolate platter lay forgotten on the table. “Oh, Mr. Spock has been so helpful,” Maritza says. She and Spock are both holding datapadds. “I don't know the Vulcan language very well; he's been helping me track down some relatives on the clan records! Can't imagine I'll visit anytime soon, but it's fun to look into.”

And clever of Spock, giving him an excuse to ask questions about her background. But Maritza's smile is real, unconcerned. She clearly isn't worried about what Spock might find.

“The House of Vrkuna is not particularly well-documented,” Spock admits. “Evidently they split into several smaller clans after the Syrannite Reformation.”

“And kept marrying the wrong people and getting disowned,” Maritza laughs. “It seems like every other person was disowned and adopted somewhere!”

Devi claps his hands together. He wears a pained smile, still glancing nervously at Kirk. “Well, probably best we clean this up,” he says. Maritza droops; Kirk takes the hint.

On the walk back Spock confirms that he found nothing particularly useful – except that Maritza's clan seems quite fragmented. “She also has several relatives among the V'tosh ka'tur,” he notes. “They tend to sympathize with Romulans, so a connection is possible.” But that's only speculation.

Kirk doesn't want to admit that he let his anger get the better of himself before he could steer the conversation anywhere useful. Silence lapses between them; but Kirk can't let go of a few thoughts.

He clears his throat; Spock turns his head. Kirk tries to think of a way to broach the subject – but he knows, he knows Spock hates discussing pon farr. The words die. He needs to make a plan, he decides. A plan of action, yes. Then he'll say something.

But Spock's waiting, expectant.

“Devi mentioned how I hate Klingons,” he finds himself saying.

Spock nods. They keep walking.

The lack of surprise is a bit galling. Kirk frowns. “You don't think I'm... prejudiced, do you?”

“No,” says Spock. “Except toward Klingons.”

“I am not,” Kirk protests, automatic.

“Yesterday you stated you are shocked they have achieved spaceflight with their 'brutal and primitive culture.' Also, that they seem to lack the 'intellectual nuance' you would think a pre-requisite to the enjoyment of Shakespeare's portfolio. Also, you implied they are abusive toward their children. Also - “

“You have made your point.”

“You criticize their odors frequently.”

“Don't even try to tell me you don't think humans smell,” Kirk protests. Records from Earth's historical First-Contact mentioned that issue.

Frequently.

“I do,” says Spock. “But I do not reference it, and do not judge you for a minor biological difference. It is hardly your fault you smell unpleasant,” he adds, charitable.

“Thank you. I think. Okay, I see your point. I will try to... reconsider my words, when talking about the Klingons.”

“That is a start,” says Spock, in a tone of voice that makes Kirk instantly – rightfully – suspicious. “Additionally, I have arranged for you to have tea with Ambassador Koloth.”

“I – do – do Klingons make tea? I don't even like tea. I grew up in Iowa, Spock. We don't drink tea.”

Spock's expression indicates his vast disapproval of Kirk's lifestyle. “I am perfectly capable of compensating for that, Sir.”

It becomes apparent to Kirk that living with Spock will probably include – well, a lifetime of this.

Kirk should probably find the idea intimidating. But a stupid smile curves his lips as they walk.

A lifetime with Spock – now that's a nice thought.

But first he needs to deal with this Koloth issue. Worry immediately dampens Kirk's mood. He sneaks a few glance at Spock, thinking of the last time he was in pon farr. Surely Spock would say something?

Well.

No, no he wouldn't.

The thought doesn't make Kirk feel any better.

Chapter Text

Sulu studies the screen, one hand braced against the desk as he looks over Kirk's shoulder. “I really can't recommend it, Sir. I understand why they made the suggestion, with the rush, but there's too much risk... probably wouldn't destroy the ship, but it could end up damaged. They'd get the medicine even slower. Only safe way through there would be at half-impulse.”

“They said full impulse.”

“Then they've got a real ego. They'd change to half after taking a few knocks.”

Sulu's considered one of the fleet's best pilots; Kirk believes him. He does some rough math in his head and grimaces. That would add three extra days to the journey, at least. “Good to know, thank you.” He quickly scrawls a refusal to the USS Resurrection's proposed course change, then swivels his chair. “I appreciate it – but I didn't call you here to talk shop.”

“Hmm?” Sulu's looking in Spock's direction, already disinterested. “Oh, happy to help, Sir. You ready?”

Sulu isn't the only one visiting – Uhura's beamed over from the lunar station and should already be at the house with Scotty, Chekov, and McCoy.

Kirk figured it's about time to make use of his absurd dining-room, even if Starfleet probably intended it for formal politicking, not pleasure.

Well; they're all Starfleet. That counts, surely. “I think so. Spock?”

“Let me take that, Sir,” says Sulu, scrambling to help Spock carry his assortment of supplies. Why he needs so many datapadds Kirk still doesn't know. Sulu's eyes flicker up and down Spock, perhaps startled – as Kirk was initially – to see the Vulcan in anything but a uniform. Sulu adds, “You look great in civvies, you know.”

Well, at least someone isn't being weird about Spock's clothes.

“I'm going to burn your closet,” says McCoy when they enter the house. Chekov, seated at the table, glances over and promptly inhales his drink. Uhura sighs at the newly-promoted lieutenant without making a move to help.

Kirk's pretty sure Spock took Ambassador T'Fia's comments about jewelry as some sort of personal challenge. The actual outfit isn't too scandalous – it's something like a qipao, tight and sleek while remaining modest. But Spock's practically dripping in gems, including winding anklets, delicately jeweled chains crossing over his arms and wrists like glittering gauntlets. Tiny diamond chains even weave around his fingers; Kirk knows that Vulcans usually keep their hands clear. He wonders if that's significant.

“I would certainly appreciate an opportunity to replace my wardrobe,” Spock tells McCoy, serene in his spite. The doctor pounds Chekov on the back as Sulu solicitously fetches Spock a glass. Maybe he's worried Spock will trip in those heels.

“Well,” says McCoy, slouching back in his chair to address the ceiling. “So nice to get together for this totally normal, average meal.” He takes a gulp of bourbon, which he must have acquired sometime recently, because Kirk certainly didn't have any in the house.

“Don't get into the drinks too early,” Kirk says, amused.

“I deserve it,” McCoy announces.

Scotty asks Kirk how his work's been going. His voice is a bit high, oddly nervous. Maybe it's the house.

“Oh, as well as can be expected when negotiating trade and territorial disputes with the Empire,” Kirk sighs. He notices – with some amusement – Uhura leaning heavily against Scotty's arm; that might explain the man's red ears.

“What're we even trading with 'em? Can't imagine anything the Klingons got that we don't,” McCoy muses. Scotty leans over as though to add something to Spock, pauses, and then does not.

“Military technology – yes, I know,” says Kirk wryly, when everyone – even the still-pale Chekov – regard him incredulously. “So, you can imagine how productive that's been. The Klingons would sooner shoot themselves in the heart before handing us anything useful.”

“Agriculture has also beeen emphasized,” Spock adds, with a pointed look as though he's failed some inspection. Okay, okay, but Kirk's not wrong. “The Klingon drive for conquest partially stems from their many resource-poor worlds.”

“But they don't try to improve 'em,” says McCoy, remarkably coherent between his drinking. “Terraforming exists. They think farming is 'weak' and don't even aim for making their own homes sustainable.”

Sulu looks up from his apparent admiration of Spock's turquoise-studded chatelaine to add, “I saw their irrigation system on Ziphuna IV. Centuries out of date. The bloodworm farms were pretty efficient, though.”

Bloodworms grow best in the intestines of Klingon livestock. Ships sometimes breed them in blood-filled barrows for fresh protein, and cheaper farms probably do the same. “God, at what cost,” says McCoy.

“High protein is conductive to an active lifestyle,” says Spock easily. “I believe I am correct you aim at 140 grams per day, Mr. Sulu?”

“That's right.”

“Why do you know that?” McCoy asks. “I swear, if you've been hacking into the synthesizer records - “

Spock ignores him. “And clearly the results are plain,” he reasons, lightly touching Sulu's bicep; the pilot beams.

Chekov and Scotty listen to this conversation with the wide-eyed looks of avid sports-fans. McCoy takes another drink, slumping back in his seat.

“Ambassador Koloth certainly seemed fit enough,” says Uhura airily. She keeps her arm linked with Scotty, swirling her glass. “They have pictures of your sparring match circulating, Mr. Spock. I hope you don't mind.”

“I have no issues with an audience,” says Spock. He's still contemplating Sulu's arms.

McCoy takes another, noisier drink. Kirk's getting a little concerned.

“I suspected,” says Uhura. “Well. He 's an attractive one, isn't he?”

Kirk thinks at first, confusingly, that she means Spock; then a startled laugh escapes him. “You can't mean Koloth,” he says.

“And why not?” For some reason she winks at Spock. “Mr. Spock agrees with me.”

“He does not,” says Kirk, automatic.

But Spock – Spock nods. “Klingon strength is also compelling in that regard,” he adds with a thoughtful expression; Sulu droops. Kirk tries not to react. From the way Chekov suddenly snickers, he might not succeed.

“But their eyebrows,” he says, feeble.

And since when is Spock interested in men, anyway? In anyone? He certainly never indicated...

Well; it's not like Kirk ever asked. It just seemed apparent that Spock wouldn't be interested. Maybe that's... not true?

But a Klingon!

Surely they're joking.

“Klingons aren't that much stronger,” Sulu coaxes.

“About the same difference as Vulcans and humans,” says Uhura cheerfully. Sulu glowers.

“Studies show Russian humans are closer, on average,” offers Chekov, perhaps unable to help himself. He flushes under Sulu's appalled stare. “Not that – um! Just as a fun fact,” he adds, feeble.

“I'm scheduling y'all for brain scans,” McCoy mumbles into his glass.

Maybe, Kirk thinks, Spock is practicing diplomacy. He's been trying to convince Kirk the Klingons could be worthy allies since before their arrival; it makes sense. He's just trying to flatter them.

“I'm just saying you looked quite invested, in the video,” says Uhura to Spock.

Maybe Koloth is deliberately trying to seduce him. Maybe they blew up the Lexington after all, and this is part of some long-game...

Uhura pulls out a datapadd. She shows Scotty the screen; he watches a video with wide eyes. “Aye,” the engineer mutters, impressed. “That's some stamina.”

But even if it's some Klingon plot, why would Spock be interested in...

Kirk drops his glass on the table with a thud. Everyone looks at him. “I think I'm going to check the food,” he says.

“And then she said I needed more experience,” Chekov's saying when he returns, indignant.

Oh, gosh. Devi!

Commodore Devi thought Koloth was flirting with Spock. Which – well, admittedly, Devi's a moron. But if his crew – friends – think the same thing, that lends the idea more credence.

Scotty starts regaling them with a story about some utter idiot bureaucrat who's been slowing down his upgrades. As he expounds Sulu leans closer to Spock, whispering something Kirk can't decipher.

Poor Spock must be suffering from the Fever, because he doesn't pull away like he usually does when anyone (except Jim) touches him. He leans his weight easily against Sulu, both murmuring quietly. Kirk reminds himself that Sulu is a good person; he wouldn't be doing this if he understood that Spock isn't thinking clearly. But it's still hard to rein in his temper.

They're flirting – only an idiot wouldn't notice! And everyone just keeps chatting, like it isn't happening!

“But maybe the bacteria were conductive,” Scotty reflects, getting distracted from his story. “We ain't sure why the electric surge was so strong, but once that went off - “

Kirk tries to catch Bones' eye, wondering if he's noticed Spock's behavior yet. But Bones is listening to Scotty with almost grim determination on his face, hands wrapped around his cup. He's listing to the side, too. Clearly he's had far too much alcohol...

“What about you, Captain?” Uhura asks.

What?

Kirk looks around in the sudden silence. He – has no idea what they were discussing. How can he focus on anything when Spock might be dying? But Spock's looking at him expectantly, too.

“...Oh, I – agree,” he says vaguely. Chekov starts to violently choke on his food.

McCoy, beside him, regards Chekov with dead eyes as though contemplating whether his Hippocratic oath really requires him to intervene. He sighs, and does not.

“You agree,” says Uhura, with disbelieving glee.

She sounds a little too happy about it. Spock arches an eyebrow at him. “Oh, well,” says Kirk, lamely. He finally registers Sulu staring at him with indignant outrage.

“Then perhaps I'll take up the Ambassador if he offers again,” murmurs Spock, slow and deliberate.

What? Absolutely not. The fever must be more advanced than he thought, if Spock would even consider...

- But Kirk shouldn't talk about such things here. He grits his teeth, forcing a smile. “Right,” he says. “That sounds great.”

“I need to talk with you,” Kirk hisses.

Bones blinks at him, bleary and half-dozing from the alcohol. “Can't it wait?”

Everyone else has finally left, and Spock's off in his room – probably meditating. “It's medical,” Kirk says.

“Do I look,” McCoy drawls, southern accent coming through thick, “Like I ought t'be doctoring anyone right 'bout now?”

“You really shouldn't drink so much,” Kirk says, honestly a little concerned.

“I oughta drink more,” McCoy contests.

Well, that's an argument for when he's sober. “It's Spock,” Kirk hisses. “I think he's in pon farr.”

McCoy closes his eyes. And... keeps them closed. He tilts his head back.

“Bones?”

For a moment Kirk thinks the doctor genuinely fell asleep. Then McCoy heaves a slow, tired sigh. “Why.”

“What?”

“Why. Do you think. He's in pon farr?”

Oh. “I think Uhura might be right... I think he might have been flirting with Koloth. And maybe Sulu.”

“Oh, noticed that, did you?”

“I'm not sure Spock even realizes what he's doing,” Kirk adds.

McCoy's eyes snap open. He stares at Kirk, through him, with the dazed and out-of-focus look of the very drunk. “...it ain't pon farr.”

“But - “

“Nope,” says McCoy, staggering to his feet. “I'm going back to Georgia in the morning. The end.”

“You'll need to find someone else, won't you?”

For a minute it doesn't seem like Spock's heard him. The Vulcan keeps his head bowed over the chessboard, studying it closely. As though Kirk, for the first time in over a month, hasn't just mentioned the taboo topic hovering between them.

They spoke of Spock's pon farr only once after the ceremony. Spock apologized for nearly murdering him; Kirk assured him it was forgotten. And that was it. McCoy surely spoke to him about it – he was furious Spock hadn't mentioned something so dangerous, so inevitable. But Kirk's tried to respect Spock's silence.

But the curiosity gnaws at him.

“For marriage,” Kirk adds.

Spock says, “Yes,” without looking up.

“Will your... family arrange that, or...”

“They could. I would prefer they did not.”

Spock falls silent. It doesn't seem like he intends to elaborate. Something spurs Kirk to ask, “Have you ever considered a human mate?”

Finally Spock glances at him. Again, looks away. “Only in theory. I did not have high expectations for my bond with T'Pring; but it was inevitable. It did not occur to me...” he trails off, uncharacteristically.

Didn't occur to him that she would challenge – that Spock would end up divorced before he was properly wed. “Right,” says Kirk. “But a human would work?”

“In theory. My mother, of course, is human; a bond can be made. But humans...” Spock hesitates, throat working, and then decides to finish. “Humans are inconstant.”

Kirk frowns at that, leaning back in his chair. “Inconstant,” he echoes.

“Humans often take many partners. Multiple spouses within a lifetime, occasionally. Some individuals look for serious relationships; some do not. Even the ones who do...”

“It's not like Vulcans.”

“No.”

“But you could bond with a human,” says Kirk. “If you found the right person. If you knew they would stay.”

This is an important question, somehow.

Spock glances back up at him. This time, the look lingers. “Yes,” says Spock.

They don't talk about it again.

Chapter Text

Kirk doesn't get a chance to ask Spock about his suspicions.

He intends to. But it's a delicate subject. When he thinks of the way Spock simply vanished for six months, without a word of warning... Kirk doesn't want to push him into a repeat.

Also, there's the odd exchange he has with Bones when he walks the hung-over doctor to a public transporter:

“It's not pon farr.”

“I'm sure it is,” Kirk insists. “He's never shown any interest in sex before.”

McCoy halts on the street, staring at him. “He – of course he - “ McCoy stops.

“What?”

“Medical. Confidentiality,” McCoy grits, and staggers toward the transporter.

So. Anyway.

Kirk's still determining how to broach the possibility when the time comes for his date with Ariadne.

Frankly, he nearly forgot about it. That sounds unkind, but given the disastrous course of negotiations thus far, a small lapse of memory is forgivable.

“Do you really have time for such distractions?” asks Spock, watching Kirk from the kitchen table as he prepares to leave. He cradles a steaming cup of tea in one of those provocative Vulcan cups.

“We're not talking to the Klingons today,” Kirk points out. “And Ambassador T'Fia would rather not see me, I think; she's already written me off.”

“That does not bother you?”

“Well, it's not her I'm negotiating with. She'll do her job, I'll do mine. And the Klingons will be just as glad for a break from us.”

Spock arches a brow. He watches tolerantly as Kirk checks his bag, checks his hair in a mirror, and doubles back to the restroom for mouthwash. Only when Kirk's about to step outside does Spock inform him, casually, “The Klingons will not have a 'break' – I'm meeting with Koloth today.”

Kirk jerks to a halt.

He stares at Spock. “Koloth.”

“Yes.”

“The Klingon Ambassador.”

“That is his name.”

“But you're a secretary,” says Kirk stupidly. “Why are you meeting with the Klingons alone? Again?”

“I was invited.”

“Invited. For... science?”

“No,” says Spock. He sips his tea and does not elaborate.

Kirk glances frantically at the time. He's going to be late. “You can't just – enjoy talking to them?”

“And why is that, Sir?”

Kirk's first thought is, because they're Klingons, but even Kirk recognizes this as an ugly sentiment. And he promised Spock he'd do better. So, “It's not safe,” he says instead.

“I'll be having lunch with Mr. Sulu after,” says Spock. “He would tell someone if I were missing.”

This is, somehow, worse.

Kirk can't let it go. “So you're just going for a social visit. With Koloth.”

“That is why the Klingons are here, Jim: to build relations.”

“I – well – yes, but – do you really like being with them?”

Spock contemplates this, leaning back to stretch his legs. “I certainly appreciate certain activities.”

The relaxed pose only accentuates what he's wearing. It's another of those experimental new outfits – and today's selection is oddly, appallingly cute. Which is not a word one could typically use about Spock. Except maybe when he gets sulky about broken scientific equipment, or excited about some new flower or weird rock-formation, or....

Anyway. “You cannot meet the Klingons wearing a scarf,” Kirk declares.

Spock blinks slowly over his tea. Looks down, examining himself. “Is there something inappropriate in my attire, Sir?”

Well. No. Actually, he's covered neck-to-ankle today. But the sweater is very clingy, and slimming, and the scarf is cute. “It's inappropriate for Klingons,” Kirk decides.

“Can you specify why?”

Kirk finds he cannot, except that imagining Koloth looking at Spock, as he is right now, makes him wildly furious. “Just trust me.”

“You are going to be late,” says Spock, unimpressed. “I will handle the Klingons, Jim; enjoy your date.”

“Oh, this salad looks delicious,” says Ariadne. “How's yours?”

“How do you think Klingons feel about homosexuality?” Kirk speculates.

Ariadne pauses, fork poised over her pomegranate-feta salad. To her credit she recovers quickly. “You know, I have no idea. A lot of warrior cultures have, historically, been more accepting. Has there been an incident with the diplomats?”

“I hope not,” says Kirk. He stabs his steak a bit too hard; Ariadne frowns.

It's a nice restaurant. Ariadne's wearing a revealing dress with a low bust; she isn't shy. Kirk knows a proposition when he sees one. But thinking about sex just makes him think about Spock, potentially suffering pon farr and...

Surely, even with the fever, he wouldn't be desperate enough to accept an offer from someone like Koloth.

Or Sulu.

Spock can do better than Sulu! Kirk decides. He can't quantify what's wrong with Sulu; this is simply a fact. Spock deserves better.

Does Spock realize that?

“And I was expecting they would stick to main dialects,” Ariadne's saying. Something about work, translation issues. “It turns out the Klingons actually have this fascinating difference between different castes - “

Kirk nods absently.

The problem, he decides, is self-esteem.

T'Pring turned down Spock. Spock confessed, on the one occasion they spoke of it later, that he wasn't sure how to go about finding a new mate when he didn't even live on Vulcan. Maybe that's the problem. In an ideal, sane world, Spock would have an abundance of offers. But sometimes the world doesn't make sense. Maybe Spock really doesn't have a choice in the matter. And it's tragic, really, that no one realizes how shy Spock can be. He'd certainly never be forward enough to flirt with someone! So if Koloth approached him he could think there’s no other option.

Would I rather fuck a Klingon, or die? Kirk muses. Sure, that sounds incredibly prejudiced. But he's heard rumors Klingons have barbed dicks. And they like to bite; any encounter with a Klingon-male would probably kill him anyway.

...do Vulcans have barbed dicks? Kirk realizes with some horror that Vulcans are descended from felines...

He debates sharing this thought with his date.

“Which is really a cute word,” Ariadne continues. “I mean, of course it's a little odd to call animals 'warriors,' and sometimes it's used literally by people who train battle-targs...”

Kirk decides Ariadne probably wouldn't know anything about Vulcan genitalia, regardless.

Anyway. Spock's perfect. Even if he, maybe, has a barbed dick. If it's normal for Vulcans that shouldn't be an impediment for him to find a wife. A husband? If he's been flirting with Koloth -

Not, of course, that Spock was actually flirting with Koloth. Kirk still doesn't have proof. And Spock isn’t the sort to flirt.

They move on to dessert. Ariadne's enthusiasm flags a little as the night wears on. Kirk isn't oblivious; he knows he's a poor conversationalist today. But when he thinks of Koloth -

Spock enjoys being cryptic. He probably does have questions about Klingon science, that's all. Maybe. Probably?

Ariadne's pokes at her cheesecake without enthusiasm. Kirk feels abruptly guilty. He clears his throat. “Forgive me if I'm not the best company today – it's wonderful to hear you speak about these things. You're clearly passionate about your work.”

Ariadne perks a little. “Aren't we all? But I didn't intend to ramble about linguistics.”

“Oh, not at all. Though I'm certainly no expert – you know, the first foreign language I learned was Arkonian.”

Ariadne snorts, apparently unable to help herself. “Arkonian! But why?”

“Well, there was this girl in my class...”

Ariadne grins. “But humans can't pronounce all the sounds! Most of the sounds.”

“Well, I understand that now. Did you know it’s like laughing, when Arkonians start to smell like flowers?”

Ariadne cheers a little by the time they leave. They take a stroll through the nearby park, the sky fading orange-red above.

“You know it's been quite awhile since I had a date,” says Ariadne, thoughtful.

“Oh, at least a few years for me,” Kirk muses. He’s a little surprised to realize this. There were a few interesting connections in the course of work – but nothing he pursued. Seeing Ariadne's surprise, he teases, “Despite the rumors.”

She has the grace to look sheepish. “I can't imagine living such a public life. At least the gossip is flattering, though.” She entwines their arms, nudging closer with an airy sigh. “The bold, exciting starship captain! And leaving broken hearts behind you, but no enemies... you know Second Star News interviewed some of your exes? They were all so flattering, it was sickening! How did you manage that?”

Kirk gives a genuine laugh. “I like making friends.”

“And you just make more and more with that reputation,” she teases. “I can't imagine how you keep your ego in check.”

“Isn't confidence attractive?” Kirk muses.

“Only to a point,” she insists, nudging him. “Don't get any ideas.”

But Kirk does have an idea.

Confidence! It comes back to that, doesn't it? Does Spock even realize that people should be fighting to marry him? (Maybe literally, knowing Vulcans.) He's the son of an ambassador, an old and wealthy clan. A genius inventor and theorist, a decorated Starfleet hero. He's... kind, and delightfully funny in a dry way. Handsome.

But does Spock know that? He can do so, so much better than Koloth.

“My place isn't far, if we're walking,” Ariadne suggests.

“Hmm? Oh, no – I'm sorry, I actually need to get back,” Kirk says, flashing her an automatic smile. She returns it weakly.

Yes. He just needs to give Spock more confidence. And maybe remind him how horrendous Koloth is.

Spock isn't home when Kirk arrives.

He checks every room twice. He checks his messages. Nothing.

When was he supposed to meet with Sulu, again? Lunch? Surely he wouldn't stay out this long. Unless something went wrong...

No, no. That's paranoia. Obviously.

Kirk paces the house awhile. Stares out the window as the sun dips lower, lower, and is soon only a blip of light sinking over the horizon. The sky becomes dark. Spock doesn't arrive.

There wouldn't be any value in kidnapping Spock, Kirk tries to convince himself. The Klingons would be under suspicion immediately; it's a ridiculous concern.

But what if he's with Sulu, Kirk thinks. That's more likely, and maybe worse.

He finally just decides to sleep. When he wakes in the morning there's still no sign of Spock.

Spock's sitting at his desk, writing something, when Kirk barges in. He snaps the door shut behind him.

“Sir,” says Spock, not looking up. “How was your date?”

Date? Oh, right. “Fine. That's – where were you last night?”

Spock types, eyes on his work. “With the Ambassador. And then Mr. Sulu.”

“Are you – are you wearing the same clothes?”

“I also took a walk,” says Spock, prim. “It was more efficient to return straight to Headquarters.”

Kirk is going to kill something. Someone. A specific Klingon, maybe. He storms up to Spock and shoves aside the padd.

Spock arches a brow, affronted. He finally looks up. “Am I not giving you sufficient attention?” he questions, dry in his irritation.

Spock is Kirk's dearest friend; he is also one of the most irritating people Kirk knows when he wants to be obtuse. “You – you are utterly brilliant,” Kirk grits.

Spock blinks at him.

“Do you understand that?” Kirk demands. He leans over Spock, still seated, and grabs his shoulder. Spock listens to him with only mildly-widened eyes to indicate his surprise. “You're clever and kind and a genius, Spock. Do you know that?”

“Sir?”

Kirk presses a palm to his cheek; Spock inhales sharply. “You drive me crazy,” Kirk says, and can't help that it comes out unbearably fond and frustrated both. “I'm so glad you're on Earth, Spock. But it feels like something's missing.”

“Jim - “

Kirk feels his anger, his irritation, melt away just looking at Spock. “Sorry. I was just thinking – you have beautiful eyes, you know – I was just thinking how glad I am. That you're here.”

Spock looks like he's going to reply; he does not.

“But I still don't know why you left.” And that's not the point, really. Except it's been driving Kirk crazy, a constant worry lurking under all his recent happiness. “I'm sorry. That's not – that's not what I wanted to say.”

Spock swallows, gently placing his hand over Kirk's on his cheek. Winds their fingers together. “What did you wish to say, Jim? I am not quite following.”

That's fair. “I don't want you to leave again,” Kirk says. Spock's eyes really are lovely, soft and brown. Even when his expression might not change, Kirk can read how he's feeling through the rapt gleam in his eyes. “Spock, I’ve been wanting to ask, are you - “

The quiet hiss of the door halts his words.

Morrow looks between them a moment. Kirk, looming over his friend; Spock, faintly shell-shocked, leaning close in his chair; their entwined hands. “Am I interrupting,” he asks.

“No, Sir,” says Kirk. He straightens and smooths his uniform; Morrow purses his lips. “Did you need something?”

Morrow starts to speak. Looks around. Stops.

“The painting, Kirk,” says Morrow. “And this... statue.”

Kirk follows his gaze.

The statue in question is an admittedly very nice paperweight of a man bent over and penetrated by some sort of minotaur. “Mr. Spock's contribution to the office. Vulcans have, ah, a very objective sense of style.”

“Objective,” echoes Morrow.

“A purely aesthetic sense of beauty.”

Morrow exhales slowly. “Right. Admiral... Remember to keep your door open.”

“Alright,” says Kirk.

“Okay. Okay. Captain Abbas. That's – I wanted to talk to you about Captain Abbas.”

Where does he know that name?

Morrow continues, “She's coming to Earth. Wants to speak with you – only you. No damned idea why. Do you know her?”

Kirk frowns. It takes a moment to place the name. He steps around Spock's desk. “Captain of the Aspirante,” he recalls. The destroyed ship undergoing repairs. He crosses his arms. “I sent a note to Medical to check up on her, considering what happened... but I've never spoken with her, Harry. She's not one of my 'reports.”

“Well, she seems to think it's urgent, but won't tell us what she wants to discuss. Could be a resignation, could be a breakdown. Under the circumstances – well, be gentle.” Morrow pauses, glancing around the room. “And maybe redecorate, first.”

“Noted,” says Kirk. Morrow stares at the minotaur-statue a minute, shakes his head, and leaves. “Well. What do you make of that, Spock?”

Spock contemplates. “I am uncertain. You believe I have 'beautiful eyes,' Sir?”

“Hmm? Yes. Well, I suppose we'll see what Captain Abbas wants soon enough... would you mind, ah, moving some of the paintings and art for awhile? I’d don’t know that she’d appreciate the décor.”

“Of course, Sir,” says Spock. “I have more paintings.”

Kirk opens his mouth, considers, and decides ignorance is sometimes an acceptable excuse. “Very good,” he says, and goes to his desk. Paperwork is useful for plausible deniability.

Spock takes a little longer to return to his own work. Kirk will... Kirk will have to speak with him later, about pon farr. About Koloth. Get everything out in the open.

The next day will be fine; it's not like anything's going to change before tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Kirk decides this is all Spock's fault.

“You'll love this place, Jim,” Devi says, leaning his hip against Kirk's desk in a friendly way. Across the room Spock lifts a mocking eyebrow. Jim? Kirk can almost hear him tease. He sends the Vulcan a glower, thinking violent thoughts as loudly as possible in case Spock's telepathy can detect it. He gets a look of wide-eyed innocence in return.

Make friends with Commodore Devi, Spock insisted. As though this moron would know anything useful. But his wife is the real target. Kirk just needs to stay close, stay friendly...

“And lots of beautiful girls,” Devi adds, slapping his shoulders. “Almost like Risa! You seem like you'd enjoy Risa.”

Across the room Spock leans back in his chair, silently judging Jim with no more than a tilted head. Violent thoughts. Violent thoughts.

“I thought you said you had information about the Melota?” prompts Kirk, interrupting Devi's rambling enthusiasm over the holiday resorts of Casperia Prime.

“Oh, yes,” says Devi, undeterred. “Now, I have a lot of friends around HQ - “ In the same way that Kirk and Devi are 'friends,' probably, “ - and what I'm hearing is that the Klingons have some sort of plot going against you.”

Kirk frowns. Devi says this with more excitement than concern, and he's frankly baffled. “People know this, and didn't report it to security? Or warn me?”

“Oh. Not, uh, not that kind of plot. Well, it wouldn't surprise me if they had some other plans too... but, no, apparently it just has something to do with embarrassing you.”

Huh. “I can't say I'm surprised.” It would certainly explain the weird looks and laughter he keeps receiving from the Klingons. “Any specifics?”

Devi shifts, glancing back at Spock, who's suddenly typing away industriously. “Er. Not sure. Anyway, just wanted to let you know.”

“Right,” says Kirk, trying to think of polite ways to shoo the man. “Well, it's... very helpful, thank you.”

Devi beams. Kirk regrets his manners immediately.

Across the room Spock's computer lets out a gentle chime. It must be some sort of reminder; without a word Spock powers down his console and steps outside. Devi watches him leave with prurient interest; when the door closes he whirls back to Kirk.

Kirk figures he should try probing for more information on Devi's possibly-Romulan wife. “How is Maritza?” he asks.

“Oh, great, wonderful,” Devi coughs. “You know, she was talking to your, ah, secretary.”

“Yes, Spock seems fond of her,” says Kirk. He has no idea what Spock thinks of Maritza Devi.

“Right, right,” says Devi. “She said, well. It sounds like those visitors are very, uh, interested in Mr. Spock.”

Kirk keeps a smile fixed on his face. “Oh?”

Devi hesitates, eyeing him. “She was a bit, ah, quiet on the details. But it sounds like – well, I'm sure he's a professional! He knows not to let any secrets slip during pillowtalk, eh?”

Kirk clenches his jaw hard so hard it aches. Not this again. “Right. I think you probably misunderstood, Commodore.”

Devi lean forward, ignoring – or perhaps somehow ignorant – to Kirk's growing temper. “Oh, I really don't think they did! Did you know he's visited their ship?”

“Yes.”

Devi looks profoundly disappointed in Kirk's intelligence; it rankles all the more from such a vain, petty man. “All else aside, you think that's safe?”

“I'm sure Mr. Spock can take care of himself.”

Devi glares. Kirk doesn't understand why he cares so much. “What if they're working with the Romulans?”

“The invisible Romulans who aren't here? And you think they've escalated from blowing up our ships to.... inviting my secretary to dinner?”

Kirk didn't mean to say that. Research, they invited Spock to talk about research. Probably.

“Maybe they're working together,” Devi says.

“If there's anything less likely than the Klingons allying with us, it would be allying with the Romulans,” says Kirk tiredly. Romulan Tal Shiar are the best covert operatives in the galaxy; it's garnered them a proportionate amount of disgust from the Klingon Empire for their 'cowardly' tactics.

“Well my wife was telling me - “

“I don't want to hear it,” Kirk snaps. Devi finally subsides.

Or, well; he drops the subject of Spock. This man doesn't seem to know how to stop talking.

“Mr. Spock is a Vulcan,” he blurts. “You know, he could be part of it - “

Kirk is on his feet before he registers the movement. Devi stumbles back. “Are you suggesting Mr. Spock is a traitor because of his species, Commodore?”

Devi gapes a moment. And as though to prove his stupidity, he says, “Yes?”

Kirk officially does not care what information this idiot might have. “Get out of my office,” he says. Devi must read something of his intentions, because he bolts without a word.

It occurs to Kirk that once this 'investigation' concludes he might need to report Devi, or at least investigate further; the man clearly shouldn't be in charge of anything. Ugh.

And where did Spock go, anyway?

Kirk slumps back in his seat. He scrolls through reports and requisitions awhile, quietly fuming.

Pillowtalk. As though Spock would really – and with Klingons!

Right. Spock would say that's speciest, or something. Although maybe Spock's biased... no, no. Devi is just deranged. Clearly mistaken. Spock wouldn't...

Where is Spock?

Kirk lurches up from his desk. Spock is probably just taking a call, or something. Or lunch. Or speaking with another department...

Anyway.

Is the Klingon delegation on-planet?

“Ah, Kirk!” Koloth cries. “We wondered where you were.”

The Klingons are, in fact, on Earth.

Apparently they've been attending a meeting with some of Starfleet's Department of Agricultural Sciences. The Federation officers that stumble out of the meeting room look frazzled, swiftly streaming around both Kirk and the Klingons where they stand in the hall. Not running, but... well. Basically running. Kirk supposes they probably aren't used to dealing with aggressive soldier-diplomats in that line of work.

“Farming isn't really my area of expertise,” says Kirk.

“Pah! Nor mine! What a waste of time,” says Koloth. Kirk would be fascinated to hear Koloth's plans for getting food without farms, but Koloth barrels on. “But the High Council insists it's important.”

Kirk nods absently. Then he notices one of the Klingons behind Koloth shifting uncomfortably.

...hmm.

“Interesting that both times I've met you, you've been investigating farming practices,” says Kirk, thoughtful. Koloth stiffens. “Sure you're not an expert, Koloth?”

“I am a soldier,” Koloth barks, by all appearances offended.

But how sincere is he? Kirk eyes him. A soldier, he says – yet the Empire made him ambassador. And the Klingons keep blustering about fighting and border disputes, but if they really objected to talking about farming, they wouldn't have arranged to speak with the scientists at all. Or they would have stormed out sooner – Klingons don't mince words when they're impatient.

They don't want the Federation to realize it, but they really, really want to talk about food production. Kirk doesn't know anything about Koloth, but the coincidence of his involvement could indicate he has some knowledge on the subject. But why hide that? Unless they need food so badly it could be interpreted as a source of weakness.

Something to discuss with Spock, later. Oh – and the other Federation diplomats.

Which reminds him.

“By the way,” says Kirk, “I don't suppose you've seen Spock today?”

The shifty Klingon in the background barks a laugh.

That's not encouraging.

Koloth's grin returns. Sharp teeth glint under the hall's sterile, neutral lights. “Why, you know, I have! You should keep better track of that one, Kirk. Someone might just steal him away.”

The hall is... not empty, actually. A few people stand nervously idling at the other end, eyeing the conference room like they want to enter. But also don't want to sidle past the Klingons, all puffed and baring their teeth at Kirk with a weird sort of glee.

“I think I know the problem you're having, Kirk,” Koloth continues. “ You are a coward.”

The shifty Klingon throws back his head. He laughs and laughs, a grating, hoarse sound.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Koloth leans in, snarling, and hisses, “I bet you haven't even recited poetry for him.”

...What.

What is happening?

There's now a huddle of nervous Federation officers at the end of the hall, staring.

“You're going to have to explain that one for me,” Kirk says.

The Klingons find this hilarious. They laugh as raucously as they do everything else; Kirk watches with rising anger as they jostle one another as though enjoying a good joke. “Do you need instructions, Kirk?” Koloth leers.

“A translation, perhaps, Ambassador.” But something about Koloth's manner...

Pillowtalk, Devi said. Like it was a natural conclusion of Spock spending time with Koloth. Kirk grits his teeth.

“It's no wonder that Vulcan's presenting himself like a targ in heat,” Koloth laughs. “All I've heard about your romances, and now it looks like you'd need a map just to find - “

Right. So, this is the moment Kirk throws himself at the ambassador.

Not very diplomatic of him, really.

Spock has often despaired of Kirk's preferred opening move in a fight – namely, tackling all his weight into the enemy and letting gravity handle things. But it's pretty effective at disorienting people, and it works today. Koloth trips backward. When his spine smacks into the floor Kirk props himself up to levy a punch at Koloth's grinning, smug face.

He cuts his hand on the Klingon's teeth, because of course he does.

The other Klingons scream with delight; from further down the hall more screams drift over, carrying different emotions. Koloth cackles as he tosses Kirk aside, rolling to his feet.

The full-body-tackle tends to lose its usefulness after the start of a fight, so from there Kirk's forced into a desperate grapple with an enemy stronger than he is. He's not even sure Koloth's taking him seriously; the man's laughing through the whole thing, even as purple blood blooms around the Klingon's nose and mouth. At least Koloth's fellow delegates stay out of it in favor of cheering from the sides.

Kirk is furious.

It's not a rational, coherent fury. Illogical, he hears Spock scold in his head. This is exactly the reason Vulcans eschew emotions – to prevent this sort of reckless, heedless behavior.

Kirk gets Koloth in a stranglehold.

Everything's a blur from there – a wild back-and-forth of tearing, grappling, and uncivilized violence. Finally someone new enters the fray, pulling Kirk away. Red shirts; a pair of security guards drag Koloth to his feet. The Klingon half of their audience shouts insults at this interruption.

“We'll get him to a cell, Sir,” says one of the guards, to more outrage.

Kirk wipes a bit of blood from his mouth. “I threw the first punch,” he concedes through gritted teeth. The guard stares, then glances uncomfortably between Kirk's rank-bars and Koloth. So Kirk adds, “Diplomatic immunity. Let him return to his ship.”

“That – diplomatic immunity doesn't apply to violent - “ The guard falters under Kirk's glower. “Yes, Admiral.”

“At least you have some balls, Kirk,” Koloth laughs. The guards reluctantly part, and the ambassador walks away with a jaunt in his step, mood noticeably improved.

Spock looks up as soon as Kirk enters the office. By the time he's locked the door – to hell with Morrow's rules! – Spock's already on his feet. “Jim, what happened?”

That would be a reaction to the blood. And the general dishevelment... and probably the ripped sleeve and torn shirt. Spock approaches, reaching out as though to drag him to a chair. Kirk bats away his hand and pushes the Vulcan until he's cornered against a desk, half sitting on the surface.

The anger hasn't really left him. It thrums even harder when Kirk tries to frame his questions. At last he demands, “Why are you wearing that?”

“Perhaps you should sit,” Spock says, concerned.

He's wearing, for the record, another offensively pretty outfit. A lovely plush dress with a tight collar, very short, and silk leggings underneath. Kirk tugs at the latter, running a hand over Spock’s thigh; Spock blinks at him.

“Koloth was talking about it,” Kirk seethes.

Spock lifts an eyebrow. Some of the alarm fades from his expression – replaced by a curled lip. Kirk long-ago learned to interpret this tilt of Spock's neck as amusement. “I see... You fought with Koloth?”

“The clothes. Do they mean something, Spock?”

“Yes. Some people require blunt methods, Sir.”

“Blunt!” Kirk grabs Spock's hip, squeezes – Spock's legs hang loosely off the desk, Kirk standing between them. The Vulcan's amused fraction-of-a-smile might become more pronounced; maybe it's his imagination. “You call this blunt?!”

“I confess I had begun to question your perception.”

“Who was the message for?”

Up goes the other eyebrow. “You are not certain?”

“I'm not certain why you've been visiting Koloth at night,” says Kirk sharply.

Pursing his lips briefly, Spock regards him with the same sort of sly glance he used to give foreign diplomats when he was about to utterly destroy them in negotiations. Kirk is close enough to analyze every micro-expression. “Some would consider that an inappropriate question.”

Kirk releases the silk to run his palm over Spock's neck, his cheek. “I'm starting to think you enjoy being inappropriate.”

“That sounds very un-Vulcan,” Spock muses.

Kirk could throttle this man. He tightens his grip, leaning forward; Spock takes this as a cue to sit fully on the desk. His legs curl loosely around Kirk's thighs.

“Koloth, Spock.”

Spock idly winds an arm around him, perhaps needing balance with the way Kirk is pressing him back. “Did you know that fighting is an important part of Klingon courtship? And poetry. The latter surprised me, but the poetry tends to be explicit.”

“And how would you know that?”

“I was shown a few pieces,” says Spock, deliberately vague.

And it is deliberate. Spock has a certain tone he uses when he’s being a pest. “You - you've been trying to provoke me!”

“How so, Sir?”

“You know exactly how,” Kirk snaps, and kisses him.

It should probably feel momentous; instead it's just inevitable, like a natural progression of every touch and intimacy they've exchanged over years of friendship. Like the natural progression of all this provocation -

Spock submits to the kiss with a smug satisfaction, tugging Kirk closer.

He's utterly infuriating.

“And you - “ Kirk pulls back, gasping. “All this, this running around with Klingons – why would you – they’re brutes, Spock!”

“Interestingly, Klingon - “ Spock's breath hitches as Kirk slides a hand up his thigh, over that ridiculously smooth silk, “Klingon's have two phalluses, which can be used one after another, for extended activities - “

Now, it should be known that Kirk – following the route of curiosity after his failed date with Commander Jansens - went home and stewed over Spock's note. And, as it happens, his sudden questions about Vulcan anatomy. Being a proactive man, he spent the night researching the topic.

So he unerringly finds the slight bump on Spock's lower-back that indicates the location of a Vulcan's inner testes. Rubbing it ends that infuriating diatribe about Vulcan anatomy; instead Spock makes lovely little cries against his neck, hips shifting. A much nicer sound.

Then he starts muttering something about Klingon refractory periods.

Kirk may need to kill him. He's an admiral, he could get away with it.

“...and of course enhanced strength,” Spock is saying. Though a bit breathless, his voice is infuriatingly mild. Like he's giving a polite sidenote to his superior, and not gasping unevenly as Kirk leans over to suckle open-mouthed bites over his neck.

It isn't until Kirk pulls back that Spock kisses him again. At least that interlude stops the talking.

For about thirty seconds.

“You must admit my methods were successful,” reasons Spock, shifting against him. Starfleet uniforms are sheer enough; pressed up like this, Kirk's trapped erection feels every obscene dip under the silky. The slight, warm swell of his genital sheathe at the front is alien but intriguing.

He would like to feel more, but pulling away long enough to undress is impossible.

“I think experiments are only valid with repetition,” Kirk informs him. Spock reaches between them, releasing Kirk erection from his pants with a swift, one-handed ease that leaves him briefly shocked.

...Has Spock done this before? He pictures Spock sitting on the desk of some other nameless officer. Maybe in one of those outfits with heels. A nameless rage fills him - rage and something else - he grips Spock tighter.

“Then we will – we'll certainly need to do so,” Spock manages. What? Kirk can't even remember what they were discussing. It probably doesn't matter. Spock runs his hands appreciatively over Kirk's arms, his shoulders, even as he continue to rock his hips. Spock reaches up at one point, fingers grasping at Kirk’s cheek like he’s trying to meld. He tips his head back, eyes going strange – he must have lost control of those inner-eyelids.

The pace gets faster, frantic. Kirk wants to take off his clothes, but that would mean pulling away, putting a pause to whatever this is, and that would be a waste of seconds that could be spent rutting between Spock’s thighs.

At some point Spock’s hands move from Kirk’s temple to his mouth. Kirk has some vague idea that hands are important to Vulcans; he twists to suck on those grasping fingers. Spock makes another wonderful sound, almost pained, and nearly chokes him pressing his fingers in further. Kirk’s swallows convulsively around the fingers, barely able to breathe.

Spock doesn't try to remove his own clothing, either; apparently there’s no need. His arms tighten painfully, hips lifting in time with Kirk, until a great shudder comes over him.

Kirk doesn't know much about Vulcan sex – Spock's sheathe never even opened, he thinks, and they’re both still covered - but he knows an orgasm when he sees one. Spock seems perfectly content to grip his shoulders and rock into him, gasping through the aftershocks. Kirk’s thrusts speed up. He decides he hates the silk leggings, actually, for that thin barrier between him and Spock. Even if it does feel good, the way his cock slides into the tight crease between Spock's legs and groin.

He finally comes with a groan, seed pulsing messily over Spock's covered thighs. He kisses Spock again, for good measure, running a hand over the Vulcan's backside. Kirk himself won't be ready to go for awhile, but he wonders what Vulcan refractory periods are like. He asks.

“There are different types of orgasm,” says Spock vaguely. He does not elaborate. “I am satisfied without exposing myself, if that is what you mean; although I assumed you might prefer penetrative .”

He has the nerve to sound disappointed – isn't that flattering!

“Not on your desk,” Kirk protests.

“I suppose it would be improper?” Spock looks down at the rather battered desk, brow quirked.

Kirk amends: “It would hurt.” As though he had given the matter any thought, and hadn't simply been too impatient to deal with clothes.

“It would not,” says Spock, winding his arms around Kirk with easy languor. He rubs at Kirk's muscles and traces his shoulders with an air of scientific intrigue. He seems to really like Kirk’s shoulders. “I took steps to lubricate in preparation for the possibility.”

Kirk pauses.

Then he pulls back. “You prepared yourself?!”

“I assumed it would be useful either for you, or the Klingons,” says Spock immediately. He's still panting from their exertions. Kirk cannot believe him.

“You didn't,” Kirk starts. “I mean, you wouldn't actually – with - “

Spock's eyes glitter with delight. “Does the idea trouble you?” he asks.

Kirk kisses him again – harder. Spock presses back with a preening smugness that only heightens his annoyance. He pulls away. “But you didn't, really,” Kirk insists. “I mean. With Koloth.”

Spock quirks an eyebrow. Opens his mouth.

The intercom buzzes.

“Don't you dare,” Kirk warns. Ignoring him, Spock twists to flip a switch on his desk.

“Admiral Kirk,” a frazzled, confused voice calls. Kirk, glaring, steps away to start fixing his clothes. “Er. Admiral Morrow wants to see you – immediately, Sir.”

Chapter Text

“And not to mention – Kirk, are you even listening to me?”

Kirk, in fact, has spent the past minute absently wondering whether Spock has any alternate clothes in the office. He left his 'secretary' dripping with cum down his legs. Knowing Spock, it's probably a moot worry. “Of course, Sir.”

Morrow glowers.

The office is appropriately windowless and secure, as befits the place where one of the Federation's top military officers gives out orders. This is why Kirk isn't currently enduring the appalled stares he passed on the way here; news of his tussle with Koloth spread far and fast.

“I don't know what's gotten into you lately,” Morrow says. “You were adjusting well to your position before Mr. Spock arrived; it seems like we've had nothing but drama ever since.”

“Mr. Spock has been invaluable. We're searching for a murderer, Sir; drama is expected.”

“There was no sabotage on the Lexington, Kirk.”

“Spock thinks there was.”

“We're not here to discuss Mr. Spock. Or even your increasingly concerning performance. You punched a diplomat, Kirk! Do you want to start a war with the Empire?”

No. But Kirk has certainly toyed with the thought before, so he stays silent.

Morrow's scowl deepens. “Nogura has already heard about this, you know. At this point our only option - “

He's interrupted by a BANG.

Kirk and Morrow both turn to stare. Another sharp, metallic BANG resounds off the closed door. Shrill alarms blare.

Several seconds later, they shut off.

This would usually be the time for Kirk or Morrow to spring to the intercom and demand information. Some mutual impulse restrains them. Instead they share looks.

Another BANG. The intercom beeps.

Morrow answers, eyeing the door as something continues to assault it. “Morrow here.”

“Er... the Klingon Ambassador is, um. Requesting to see you. Sir.”

“So I gathered,” says Morrow. The beating at the door accelerates. Morrow sighs. “Send him in; have security on standby.”

“Well yeah,” the officer on the coms snorts. Not terribly professional, but Kirk can't blame them.

Koloth practically falls through the door. He catches himself on the frame, shaking the wall like he wants to fight it. He valiantly restrains the urge.

“Kirk!” he roars.

Kirk is frankly surprised the alarm didn't trigger sooner. It was probably an automatic response to the assault on Morrow's door, quickly quelled by a nearby officer; but given the veritable armory of weapons bristling from Koloth's uniform, he should have never gotten this far. Morrow stiffens at the sight of him.

“Ambassador Koloth,” says Morrow, rising with a clenched jaw. “First, you have my deepest apologies for what happened today. I assure you we're reviewing the incident and - ”

“You Federation types are all the same,” Koloth snaps. “ - Except for you, Kirk! And that Vulcan! Only good fighters I've seen on this soft planet.”

Morrow's careful apology dies away. Something in his expression goes from 'diplomatic' to 'dead inside.'

“I was starting to think there'd be no point allying with you humans,” Koloth booms. “But I suppose I was wrong.”

“...the Federation consists of more than humans,” corrects Morrow, tired, like he no longer wants to be having this conversation.

Koloth barrels on past that. “But you've been better hosts than I expected! I should have known you'd have a little fire, Kirk; you wouldn't be such an annoyance otherwise. Haha! Anyway. I needed to talk to you about getting more of my people here.”

“For what purpose?” Kirk asks.

Koloth puffs his chest in a way that is meant to look intimidating; it just makes him seem self-conscious, to Kirk’s scrutinizing eye. His voice gets somehow more boisterous, too. “We need specialists. Another few diplomats – well, and some scientists... You're alright, Kirk, I'll admit that. The High Council has decided we want to open up proper trade with the Federation – provided we can agree on a few things.”

Morrow straightens. Opens his mouth -

“Of course with your help going forward, Kirk! You understand things,” Koloth declares. “It's good to see the Federation has some warriors with spines! Ha!”

Morrow visibly deflates. Possibly at the prospect of more visiting Klingons; more likely, because this rather takes the wind out of his rebuke.

You know what? Maybe Klingons aren't so bad, Kirk decides.

By the time Kirk returns Spock’s mysteriously replaced his entire outfit with a formal Vulcan robe that resembles a kandora. It's silver and glittery but perfectly modest, which doesn't stop Kirk from wanting to tear it away.

Well, at least that snuffs the sneaking suspicion that maybe Spock had been trying to catch his attention. What a self-centered thought!

Clearly Kirk is just biased toward anything Spock wears.

“I think Koloth got me out of trouble with Morrow,” Kirk offers, leaning against Spock's desk.

“I know,” says Spock. “I sent him.”

Of course he did.

“And does he know what he was interrupting?”

“Yes. He finds you much less annoying than most humans; also, he enjoyed punching you.”

“I've been told I'm very punchable,” Kirk agrees. Well, he's not going to argue with results. He observes Spock a minute.

Spock looks perfectly prim and respectable seated at his desk – unruffled, like nothing untoward happened, like wasn’t sucking into his fingers while he rutted against the Admiral’s thigh just two hours ago. He could at least have the decency to look a little disheveled. “How are you feeling?” Kirk asks, avoiding all the other questions he has.

“Sexually aroused,” Spock replies, which is a unique way of saying ready to talk, you idiot.

Kirk takes the hint, slouching into a chair in across Spock's desk. He leans forward on propped elbows.

There's a lot of questions Kirk could start with. He could ask where this is going, what Spock wants from him, if he sees a future together... He could bring up that tantalizing detail about different 'types' of Vulcan orgasms.

Could ask – wants to ask – if Spock cares for a repeat.

But Kirk is a practical man, at the heart of things. He asks the important question. “Why did you leave, Spock?”

Spock ends a program on his computer. Swivels his chair around. “You are referring to the Enterprise.”

“I'm referring to you vanishing from the Enterprise without telling me, yes. I want... I can't do this, Spock, if you're going to vanish tomorrow. It nearly broke me. It did break me, really.”

“I do not see why it would, Admiral,” says Spock. “You were prepared for me to leave anyway.”

Kirk's throat tightens. “You deserved that promotion.”

“I did not want it.”

“It's just the way of things. You were the finest First Officer in the fleet.”

“And I was satisfied with that position, Sir. Jim... I was satisfied with being at your side.” A pause. “I did not want the promotion. Leaving the Enterprise was at least my own choice.”

Stupidly, inexplicably, Kirk feels his eyes burning. He takes a slow breath.

He'd known what the promotion would mean, of course. And it hurt; but he'd told himself it was best for Spock. “Where did you go?”

“Vulcan. Do you know what Kolinahr is?”

“I've heard of it. Some extremist philosophy.”

“It is the final ideal of Vulcan logic. A practice that eradicates emotion; Kolinahr masters rid themselves of all feeling. By the end of the process, they have not only mastered themselves, but are incapable of temptation. They are incapable of guilt, of grief, of love.”

Kirk has always respected the Vulcan tradition, even if it's nothing he would want to follow himself. For the first time he starts to understand why Bones can be so disgusted by Vulcans, because Spock's description twists his gut with visceral horror. “Incapable of love. And you – wanted that?”

“My emotions were not pleasant to endure, Jim. When I considered leaving.”

“I see.”

“I thought it was a weakness; I saw my despair first as something to overcome.” A beat. “But meditation, and time, drew me to a new conclusion. Before committing myself irrevocably to Kolinahr, I decided I should make a final attempt at... meeting my desires, instead. There was little left to lose. And if I finally felt the need for Kolinahr, I would be incapable of shame, and any failures would be made irrelevant.”

“And you decided the logical next step was… becoming a secretary?”

“I decided the logical next step was to do what I wanted – which was to be with you, in any capacity.” Spock pauses. “Admittedly, I did make a brief stop by Orion.”

Kirk scrubs his face. He's really going to go insane; Spock's going to drive him insane. “What possible business could you have on Orion?”

“Their philosophies on indulgence were instructional.” Spock contemplates him. “I do not want to undertake Kolinahr, Jim.”

“No. No, I wouldn't want that for you either.”

“It was preferable,” says Spock, “to losing you. And feeling that loss.”

Kirk doesn't know what to say to that – his eyes feel hot again. So he does what feels right, too, and gets up to kiss Spock.

It lacks the urgency of their previous kiss, at least from Jim's end; Spock's fickle amusement is nowhere to be found. Instead Spock curls against him, soft and entangling; presses up to Jim like he's trying to merge them, like he never wants to leave.

That protective ember flares in Kirk's chest again – the same one that, not long ago, prompted him to accept Spock's arrival without pressing for answers. He wraps his arms around Spock, pulling back just enough to speak. “I think I love you,” he realizes. It's probably something he should have known earlier.

“I'd hoped so,” says Spock, mild; which is practically a serenaded confession. Kirk kisses him again. He could do this forever, he thinks. Just hold Spock in his office and never let go.

Spock is right; trying to separate was never going to work. It was never going to leave either of them happy.

Kirk's not sure how long he stays there, the two of them entangled, trading sweetly-soft kisses. When he finally takes a step back Spock's expression hasn't changed– except his wonderfully warm eyes, which seem to be smiling.

Then he says, gentle, “You have an appointment. With the captain of the Aspirante.”

It takes a moment for this to register.

“The Aspirante,” repeats Kirk. He strokes Spock's hair, fingers lingering over the tip of an ear, and wonders why Spock would mention work now.

Spock steps back, and then sits, smoothing his fresh clothes. “Yes, Sir. The damaged ship we visited in orbit,” Spock prompts.

“...I. I remember the ship, Spock.”

“Of course. It is only that you seemed confused.”

Kirk regards him mournfully. Spock – perfectly comfortable under his stare – leans back as though to present a better picture. It works too well.

Maybe he has been provocative on purpose?

No, impossible.

“I could reschedule,” says Kirk, hopeful.

“My schedules are carefully calculated,” Spock counters. He sounds genuinely affronted by the idea.

“It's just that I'd hoped for – personal time with you, Spock. To discuss things more.”

“Of course, Jim.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.” A beat. “I will place it in your schedule.”

“Has anyone ever told you you're a sadist, Mr. Spock?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Well.” Kirk can't help but smile. “As long as you're aware.”

At least he can justify another quick kiss before he exits. That will be a nice habit to learn, Kirk thinks, and despite himself he's bouncing when he leaves.

“And now I’m even seeing them around Starfleet headquarters – they’re after me, Admiral!”

“Captain Abbas, I assure you, the Klingon visit was planned well before your arrival. And you weren’t anywhere near the border when your ship was attacked.”

“I know, Sir. We didn’t see the attackers at all – I think they were Romulan.”

Kirk hesitates, confused. “Let’s back up a moment – I thought you said the Klingons were responsible?”

After seeing Spock’s latest artistic acquisitions for the office, it seemed prudent to meet Captain Abbas elsewhere. They’re in a quiet conference room on Starfleet grounds – soundproofed, empty of electronics. Highly recommended by Starfleet’s espionage division as perfectly secure.

Which might still mean ‘bugged,’ but if only Starfleet black-ops are listening in it’s probably fine.

Captain Abbas has already had two cups of coffee from the synthesizer; she’s visibly jittery. She looks thinner than photos from her file, face pale and wan. “The Klingons are working with the Romulans,” she insists. “I’ve been talking to some people… they were responsible for the Lexington, too. It’s too much of a coincidence!”

Kirk doesn’t ask what ‘it’ is; he can tell she’s not ready to hear an argument. “Do you have any proof?” he asks instead.

“Sir, who else could do it?”

Kirk sighs. He reminds himself to have sympathy; if he were in her place he’d be going mad searching for answers, too. The whole fiasco with the cloud-creature on Argus X proved that. And Kirk wasn’t even captain of the Farragut when his crewmates were slaughtered. “Captain, I understand your position. But we can’t go deciding interstellar policies based on a hunch. If you get any evidence, I’ll gladly listen.”

“I’m not demanding a war with the Klingons or anything, Sir,” Abbas insists. “But we should be in peacetalks with the Romulans, not them.”

Kirk pauses. He takes a moment to sip his own drink purely to hide his confusion.

But, no, that’s still not making sense. “You’re going to have to explain that one, Captain. I thought the Klingons and Romulans were collaborating?”

“They are. But the Romulans have more in common with us, you know. They’re basically just… sneaky Vulcans.”

Kirk thinks wistfully of his own Vulcan, and all the delightful things they could do together that wouldn’t involve this conversation. “And the Klingons are…?”

“Barbarians, Sir!”

Right. “Our talks have been going well, Captain. The Klingons have been – perfectly reasonable.” If you ignore the fist-fights, and such; but in fairness diplomacy with Tellarites often includes those too. “And I’d ask you not to talk poorly of people who are here in a genuine desire for better relations. Anyway, I’m still not following. Why does all this mean we should collaborate with the Romulan Empire?”

The Romulan Star Empire who believes the Federation is terribly primitive and inferior, by the way; they do at least share the superiority-complex of their Vulcan cousins.

“They’d be better as allies than enemies.”

“So you think they blew up not one, but two of our ships, and that our response should be to reward them for it? The Federation doesn’t grovel to our enemies, Captain.” He shakes his head, cutting off her protests. “No – Captain Abbas, I’m going to request some time off for you. I don’t believe you’re thinking clearly. If the Romulans ever reached out, I’m sure some people at Headquarters would be very excited to start talks – but nothing you’re saying makes sense. What happened to your crew was a tragedy, and I’m sorry for that. But it’s a mystery that probably won’t be solved anytime soon; you need to move on.”

Chapter Text

So. A few days ago Spock mentioned scheduling tea with Koloth

Kirk does not remember this until he tries to kiss Spock over his desk and instead finds a datapadd shoved into his face. “You need to be at room 43-B in ten minutes,” says Spock.

Then he concedes to kiss Kirk, for six minutes, before shoving him out the door. Spock is clever and treasonous; Kirk loves and fears him.

Room 43-B, despite the utterly unremarkable naming-conventions of Starfleet, is actually a fairly nice meeting-room. It's on the ground-level, connected to the kitchens, who must have coordinated with Spock. The small dining-table is set for two, but heaped with savory pastries, mini-sandwiches, cured meats, and other dishes clearly meant to whet a Klingon's palate.

And there is tea.

It is not, Kirk registers as he shakes Koloth's entire arm, a pleasant tea. The Klingon practically pulls Kirk's shoulder from the socket pumping his arm up and down. Kirk disguises his reaction and sits before the disgusting cup on one end of the table. It smells faintly of moldy socks, and perhaps wet dog. There is something solid-looking and mildly hairy on the bottom of the cup. Probably some nauseating Klingon delicacy.

“I see the kitchens went above and beyond,” comments Kirk. He hates when they do that.

Koloth grunts. He shoves an entire hunk of cheese down his throat, pouring some of the scalding tea into his tilted-back mouth without bothering to chew. After a moment to noisily swallow, he barks, “So! Why did you invite me here, Kirk?”

Kirk should probably ask Spock to start ccing him on messages, or something. But he always does work best on the spot. “I want to ask why you're really here,” he hazards, with no plan whatsoever. Koloth narrows his eyes; this seems like a good sign. He adds, “I doubt you're enjoying all the pandering either. Let's be straight with each other.”

“I'm here because the High Council sent me,” Koloth snorts. “And because I made the decision to accept this post as an ambassador – which I already regret!”

“You said your people are sending more diplomats.”

“So?”

“You also mentioned they're sending more scientists. I thought that was interesting.”

Koloth glowers. “The High Council will do as they please.”

“Of course. But I don't believe for a second you really took our fight as some sign of the Federation's good character.” Klingons like fighting, but they're not that stupid. “You want to work with us. Why?”

“Pah! That had nothing to do with politics, Kirk – we were tired of watching your Vulcan flinging himself at you.” Well, that's just an exaggeration. “And I never turn down a good fight.”

“I appreciate that,” says Kirk. He means everything that happened with Spock, but from the way Koloth flexes his arms it's probably interpreted differently. “But I also don't believe you. Your people want something.” Kirk pauses. He assesses Koloth – the Klingon's bared teeth, his stiff annoyance. Not angry, really; defensive. Kirk corrects, “You need something.”

Koloth growls now, gripping the edge of the table as though he might flip it. Kirk clicks his tongue. “You can't even admit a weakness might exist. There's nothing brave or honorable about that, Koloth. A real warrior knows when an enemy is too strong for him, and can admit it – not bluster and brag trying to save face!” Thinking of Koloth's interest in agricultural colonies, he hazards, “Especially when the enemy you're facing is hunger.”

Koloth says nothing for awhile, snarling under his breath. Klingons show their teeth for so many reasons it's hard to interpret this. Finally, though, Koloth slumps in his chair. “Farming!” he growls. “It is a horrible profession, Kirk. Back-breaking labor, no reward, no honor! And still no food, in some cases.”

“My family were farmers,” says Kirk.

Koloth snorts at him. “Bah. And you left it,” he says, which Kirk can't really argue. “We have many methods for fast food production; our scientists can manage that. But they deplete the land too fast.”

“So you need more land.”

“Always.”

Kirk knows – from very high-clearance files that crossed his desk a few months back – that the Federation is near a breakthrough on food-replication technology. Right now the synthesizers on starships only rearrange existing food. Their machines can store large amounts in the buffers of systems similar to transporters, reconfiguring the components into recipes... but they cannot create something from nothing. You can't make a steak from a slab of rock; the basic recipe needs to be there. And that doesn't even touch on issues like technological breakdowns, the immense power requirements even synthesizers require... they aren't yet past the point of requiring huge amounts of fresh food production.

Kirk has his own reasons to fear famine, and good reason to hope food insecurity will be defeated within his own lifetime. Whether that's technology the Federation would be willing to share with the Empire...

But this is all hypothetical.

“Why didn’t you tell us this sooner? We can hardly negotiate when we don’t know what you want.”

“The Empire does not negotiate. We take what we want as it becomes necessary.”

Translation: the Empire is too proud to negotiate, or to ask for help.

“Your people prioritize meat production, don’t you?” Kirk asks. “But I understand swamplands are ideal.”

“Bloodworms love moist environments,” says Koloth. Ugh. “So do the mabebs.”

This, upon clarification, is apparently something like a large frog. Not Kirk’s idea of a suitable farming animal, but alright. The good news is that humans rarely think a marsh would make a good settlement; scientific teams also avoid them. The galaxy is full of unexplored planets, and researchers have a distressing tendency to vanish in bogs. Or get sepsis.

Kirk can think of a few planets – and many large swaths of claimed planets – that would fit the criteria. And, more importantly, no one would care about the lost land. Of course there are still issues. He’d have to consider whether the nearest colonies would complain about Klingon neighbors; whether the influx of Klingon trading-ships would comprise a security risk; etc, etc.

But at least it gives him a place to start.

“You know, Koloth,” says Kirk thoughtfully. “Sometimes I think your people are really cowardly, at the end of things.”

As expected Koloth hisses, snarls, and growls at him in a way that would be horribly intimidating to someone who hasn’t fought numerous Klingons. “Explain yourself!”

Kirk’s voice hardens. “Your people refuse to admit any weakness – as though you can’t overcome them, as though you’re too afraid to try. And all this huffing around, declaring yourselves vicious warriors – it’s just a matter of pride, isn’t it? If you weren’t afraid of being honorless, of being perceived as weak, you would have more farmers. Better farmers! But you’re all so afraid of looking like cowards, you become cowards.”

Koloth hisses at him. It sounds like a wild panther he heard at a zoo once. But when Kirk doesn’t react he leans back, pounds the table, and crams another chunk of cheese down his throat.

“Our agricultural experts will meet with you when they arrive,” Koloth snarls. He smashes a plate onto the ground, rises to his feet, and stamps past the alarmed guards that hurry in to investigate the noise.

Kirk, beaming, takes another sip of tea. He gags.

Well, that went well.

Kirk is surprised but pleased to see that Spock scheduled a long lunch for the day. He has some vague recollection of a meeting on his schedule… oh, well. If Spock moved it, it probably wasn’t important.

They enjoy lunch in a cafe by the wharf, then take a walk. It’s a lovely day; a good day for talking. And they really need to talk.

Though not about work, despite Spock’s recurring efforts. Though it’s hard to get on-topic, when he mentions interesting details such as, “Ambassador Koloth requested more Vulcans for the trade-discussions.”

“What? Why?”

“Apparently we are ‘fun,’” Spock deadpans.

Huh. Well, at least someone has good taste. “We haven’t really had a chance to discuss what… happened.”

“From my understanding of human relationships, it is appropriate at this stage to ‘date.’”

“I think most human relationships actually begin with the dating. Rather than sex.”

“Then we are being remarkably efficient,” says Spock.

“Well; I suppose we are.” Kirk finds himself grinning a bit too much, and tries to school his expression. He wraps an arm over Spock’s shoulders, delighted when the Vulcan doesn’t comment.

It really is a beautiful day, he thinks.

There’s more they need to discuss, of course. Spock knows plenty about humans by now, but Kirk doesn’t know much about Vulcan relationships, about what’s normal. He’s only attended one ‘wedding’ and it was certainly enough to convince him that important customs might be different.

“I hope you do not think that going on dates means we should wait for more sex,” Spock adds. And then, before Kirk can process that, says, “That is an interesting insect.”

Spock strides away from the park-trail; Kirk takes a moment to follow.

He watches Spock drop to the ground, unselfconscious, to peer down at a tree’s roots. Kirk clears his throat. “I did want to discuss that. You said something about… different ‘types’ of orgasm? Can you elaborate? Or at least tell me how you might differ from humans.”

Spock inclines his head; he’s still studying something Kirk can’t see. “What do you know about Vulcan anatomy?”

This is probably where Kirk could sound reasonably-intelligent by talking about all the objective differences he’s noticed over the years. Touch-telepathy, certainly. Their sensitive fingers. Heightened hearing, sense of smell.

Instead what he says is, “I thought Vulcans might have… barbs.”

“Barbs,” echoes Spock. An odd look twitches over his face; he finally glances back at Kirk, quirking an eyebrow. “And that was… desirable?”

“Wha - “

“I have heard humans sometimes have unusual tastes - “

“Okay, now, hold on - “

“I suppose I could attain a simulacrum,” Spock contemplates. “Although we may need to travel off-world for a realistic one.”

“I, I didn’t say I wanted that, specifically!”

“But you imagined it,” Spock points out. “And you were quite eager for those activities.”

“Why don’t you tell me about the Vulcan penis,” Kirk interrupts loudly. A woman moving along the nearby path double-takes and walks faster.

Okay. Kirk briefly rests his face in his hands.

Spock, because he’s terrible, remains unbothered. “Very well.” He idly picks up a beetle crawling around the tree-roots. It is rather pretty. A very colorful shell. “First, I regret to inform you there are no barbs.”

“Who’d have guessed.”

“The penis is usually hidden inside a genital sheath – as you experienced. Orgasm is possible even when it is retracted, which is most of the time when not directly procreating. It is possible for Vulcans to evert outside the usual periods of procreation, but rather exhausting. And the chafe is unpleasant.”

“Then Vulcan men and women don’t have sex more than every few years?”

Spock abandons consideration of the beetle to quirk a brow at him. “My understanding is that you’ve had many partners, Jim. I am concerned on their behalf if you think a phallus is required for sex.”

“It could be! For you!”

“It is not.”

“Okay.” A beat. “So you can’t bring it out?”

“I would generally rather not.” Spock brushes a few leaves from his pants, then rises. “In any case, the tendrils are sufficient for penetrative activities. And they are more flexible.”

“The - the what?” squawks Kirk. But Spock is already resuming their walk; he scrambles up to follow, already formulating new questions.

Well. Well!

Maybe he can just get a practical demonstration, instead…? Let it never be said that James Kirk isn’t adventurous.

Chapter Text

“You know,” says Kirk, as Spock drops to his knees, “this probably isn’t professional.”

“Should I stop?” Spock asks, mild. He unzips Kirk’s pants, drawing out his cock.

Kirk says, “Ah.”

They’re in the office. It was a normal enough morning until Kirk cheerfully declared that Commodore Belos canceled his 10 o’clock meeting. He’d intended to use the time to review some notes; Spock had other ideas. And is now kneeling under Kirk’s desk. He’s very appealing today, with silver-glimmering eyeshadow and shiny pink lips. Kirk’s decided he really likes this whole ‘experimenting with makeup’ phase of… whatever Spock’s been doing.

Spock – thankfully – interprets Kirk’s confusion correctly. He licks at the head of his cock, soft and sweet, lips just barely sucking the tip. Kirk grips his desk. There’s probably a regulation against this; he’ll ask Spock about the specifics later.

Spock certainly isn’t worried about them now. He licks a long strip up the underside of Kirk’s cock, humming a little. His hips squirm and rotate like he’s looking for friction. Kirk thinks for a moment how nice it would be if he had a good vibrator while he did this… do Vulcans have their own toys? He still hasn’t seen the ‘tendrils’ Spock mentioned - maybe a thought for later.

For when they’re not in the middle of an office... But Kirk’s distracted concern fades when Spock leans forward, pressing his nose right into Kirk’s groin. He groans, reaching out to curl a hand over Spock’s neck. Not to press him, just – he needs to touch Spock. It’s not enough, even if it’s wonderful. His hips jerk, and Spock hums again around his cock.

Do they teach this on Vulcan? Does Spock have experience? He must; he doesn’t choke at all when the cock hits the back of his throat. Just bobs his head and moans and closes his eyes, ears twitching with distinctly non-human sign of pleasure. He keeps shifting his hips a little; it drives Kirk crazy. He rocks into Spock’s mouth, stroking his soft hair, watching those glistening lips move up and down his cock. He starts to murmur little encouragements, pulling Spock onto his cock -

And then the door opens.

That’s the problem with offices, you see. People just walk around inside them.

“This isn’t a good time,” Kirk manages, somehow sounding mostly-composed despite Spock still sucking at his erection under the desk. His first thought is, thank god Spock’s hidden from the door.

His second thought: is that a phaser?

“Admiral Kirk,” Devi stutters. The door slides shut behind him. Devi trembles as he aims the phaser at Kirk’s chest. “You need to come with me.”

In fairness, Kirk has been putting off his next meeting with Devi.

Devi has certainly sought him out a few times – he was eager to capitalize on Kirk’s very public fight with Koloth, though to what end remains unclear. Spock’s continued to meet with Maritza; but at least Maritza was pleasant enough.

Devi… is a moron.

A treasonous moron, apparently.

“Why don’t you tell me what this is about,” Kirk suggests. Spock is still sucking at his cock, now pressing back up to the root and blowing. “And put down the phaser.”

For a second Spock’s lips clench so tight it hurts. His cock gives a confused jerk. It’s not a wholly bad feeling; but this really isn’t the time.

“Stand up,” Devi commands. Kirk genuinely cannot. “Listen to me, damn it!”

“I’m afraid my secretary will require you to reschedule,” says Kirk. Spock pinches the inside of his thigh. He does realize Kirk’s being threatened, doesn’t he?

Devi doesn’t seem to know how to respond to someone defying his authority. “I – um. Look! I have a phaser!”

“Yes, you mentioned,” Kirk agrees.

Under the desk Spock hums – then pulls away, nips at his thigh, and promptly reattaches to his hardened cock.

Unhelpful, Spock. Why.

“You’re too slow,” says Devi, voice pitched high, frantic. “You were supposed to understand, to suspect them - “

“Oh?” Kirk encourages. Spock swishes his tongue around Kirk’s cockhead. He struggles not to react. Tiny scrabbling sounds tell him that Spock’s fiddling with something else down there, though. Hopefully something relevant to the whole hostage-taking, and not just recreational.

“Yes! Both of them – I thought for sure you’d suspect the Klingons, realize they were framing or working with the Romulans – they weren’t, of course, but – we even destroyed a ship! You were supposed to blame Captain Kang!”

Kirk closes his eyes and tries to follow that logic. “You teamed up with the Romulans to blow up a ship. And you actually blamed the Romulans for the destruction of the Lexington... because you thought I would suspect someone was framing the Romulans, and therefore think... the Klingons were actually the instigators, but also colluding with the Romulans? Or framing them? Or both?”

“Yes!”

“...then I don't understand why you're calling me an idiot. That's the worst plan I've ever heard.” Though Devi does strike him as the sort of person to try ‘outwitting’ his enemies to the point of tying himself into theoretical knots. “And you're far too incompetent for me to suspect you of any secret plots.”

Devi waves the phaser furiously. “I literally have you at gunpoint!”

“And I’m not sure why,” says Kirk flatly. “We're in the middle of Headquarters, Commodore. How, exactly, do you think this ends?”

Devi hesitates. Kirk twitches a little as Spock shifts beneath the desk, mouth sliding away off the tip of his cock.

Honestly, though, not the most confusing hostage-situation Kirk's ever had.

Unfortunately Devi is the sort of incompetent who might shoot someone out of pure panic, so Kirk decides to keep him talking. “Just to be clear,” he says, covering the faint sounds of Spock doing something under the desk, “why are you helping the Romulans?”

“My wife,” says Devi, glancing around like he's not quite sure what to do. Because he isn't. How did this man ever get promoted?

(Nepotism, Kirk’s mind tells him; almost certainly nepotism.)

“Your wife made you do this?”

“No – no, she doesn't know. But her father. He's, well – well, he never approved of me - “

Oh, gods. Really? Devi is such a brown-noser he's committing intergalactic treason to make his in-laws happy? Kirk wishes he could be surprised instead of just exasperated.

“Anyway, everyone knows you hate Klingons!” Devi exclaims. “You were supposed to blame the Klingons! I thought when you punched the Ambassador... but you just became even more friendly with them!”

Okay, Kirk's a little offended Devi banked on Kirk to be racist. “I don't hate Klingons,” he says. He's getting along pretty well with Koloth now!

Devi squints at him. Well. He tried.

Okay, okay. Spock was right – as usual. Kirk resolves to really work on the Klingon-thing. If idiots like Devi think he's blatantly biased enough to try something like this – or, er, possibly make more competent attempts to manipulate him - that's not good. But Kirk will think about that when there isn't a phaser point at his face. He doesn't want to die with his pants undone.

“Look, it's just... you were supposed to think they were working together,” Devi insists. It's like he wants, desperately, for Kirk to approve of his scheme. For someone, anyone, to validate this stupidity. “They're the two main enemies of the Federation! It was meant to be simple!”

It sounds the farthest thing from simple. “I can't imagine why we'd assume that.”

“There – there was tachyon radiation left behind – they deliberately matched with the ratios of Romulan cloaking devices - “

“That's hardly conclusive,” Kirk says, even though Spock mentioned the same.

“The poison I gave Koloth was from a plant based in the Romulus system!” Devi cries, agitated. “No one even noticed!”

“Well, we did,” says Kirk. It was minor detail; but, “It's been a favored method of murder in the Federation for nearly a hundred years. It spread from their system a long time ago.”

“I – the – you were supposed to notice! Supposed to be suspicious!”

“I'm still not understanding why the Romulans want us as enemies,” Kirk points out. Spock's elbows nudge his legs; what could he be doing?

“What do the Klingons have that they don't?” Devi wails. “Do you know how much easier family visits would be if we were allied with the Romulan Empire instead?”

Kirk presses his lips together. Stares.

Devi falters under his disbelief. “They just wanted the same chance,” he mutters, phaser dipping a little.

“Are you telling me,” says Kirk, slow and deliberate, “that the Romulans interfered with this visit... Because they're jealous we're getting friendly with the Klingons?”

“They just want to prove they can be better allies!”

“By murdering our people?”

Devi squirms, phaser wavering. “It shows they're strong?” he offers.

For Kirk’s sanity it's a good thing Spock chooses this moment to shove away the desk panel, bolting out from under the desk like a deranged jack-in-the-box. Devi shrieks as the full weight of a Vulcan male tackles him around the ankles. A shot goes off, wildly mistargeted, and burns a hole through the ceiling.

Red alarms flash; blaring sirens drown out Devi's blubbering as automatic shields snap around the doors. Distant shouts drift down from the floor above.

Kirk fixes his pants. Then he pushes back his chair to peer under the desktop. Spock apparently unscrewed the front panel to leap out and take Devi by surprise. Simple; which is probably for the best. Devi didn't really deserve a plan more complicated than that.

The resulting chaos is… uncomfortable.

Kirk sits at his desk, pre-come drying against the inside of his pants, as security forces bustle around and repeatedly ask after his health. He tries to get someone to check on Spock instead, but Spock just perches primly on a desk and starts applying lip-gloss, and for some reason no one will talk to him.

Or look at him for very long.

“I’m starting to think we need to review security procedures around here,” he tells Spock, ignoring the fussing medics.

“I have already scheduled you for remedial combat lessons,” says Spock, still busily adjusting his makeup.

“I was actually referencing the fact that no one stopped Devi from bringing in a phaser.”

“I do not doubt the head of security will be addressing that,” says Spock; to be fair, he’s correct. “Regardless, you should really not allow yourself to get caught unaware, Sir.”

Kirk stares at him, thrumming with indignant complaints he can’t voice in front of witnesses. “Your feedback is noted, Mr. Spock,” he finally manages.

Spock applies another layer of lipgloss, considering himself in a hand-mirror. One of the younger security guards gawks between them before being pointedly jostled by a fellow. Kirk glances down, and – ah. Yep, there’s a smear of that same color on the front of his pants.

“Your heart-rate is still a bit fast,” the medic tells him. “Are you sure you won’t come down to the medical wing, Sir?”

“Very sure, doctor, thank you... In fact, you’re all dismissed.”

“Okay,” says Admiral Morrow, a faint frown on his lips as Kirk finishes his report. “At least we can get some answers from Devi. He’s already in holding. I just have one question... How did Commodore Devi not realize Mr. Spock was in the room with you?”

Ah.

Well.

Chapter Text

When he was first assigned this house in Starfleet’s gated community Kirk found his new lodgings ridiculously luxurious. The beautifully-kept property has tall fences, soundproofing, anti-transporter technology, and three food synthesizers; this doesn’t even touch on the number of guest-rooms or the disproportional bath.

Today it still manages to be uncomfortably small.

“I really thought he was just getting on better with my dad!” Maritza Devi sniffles, half-slumped against Spock on the couch. He gingerly pats her arm, trying again – unsuccessfully – to press a cup of tea onto her; Maritza refuses to be comforted by such Vulcan-approved methods, and continues burrowing into his side as tears drip down her cheeks. “And now to learn they were – conspiring – my dad was exiled years ago! Is he stupid? What’s even the point of trying to go back to Romulus?!”

Maritza didn’t need much convincing to spill her secrets after Commodore Devi’s arrest. She freely confessed her birth-father was a Romulan dissident, exiled not for any particularly noble political views but simply because he pissed off the wrong praetor.

He fortuitously married a woman who was a hybrid of several species, successfully confusing his daughter’s biology enough that she was never pegged as Romulan. She knew, of course; but Maritza insists it was never terribly relevant. He tracked her down as a teen and successfully passed himself off to her adoptive family as v’tosh katur by never going near ‘other’ Vulcans.

Apparently, though, he never liked Commodore Devi. Who was probably under a great deal of stress, considering the mysterious deaths of Maritza’s adoptive family soon after her father located her… she doesn’t seem to understand the implications when she mentions their passing.

“Sometimes I think Surya wanted my father’s approval more than mine,” she mutters. Spock tries to hand her the tea again, with increasing desperation; she starts petting his arm instead.

She’s really quite pretty, with luminous brown eyes and soft skin. Despite the redness around her eyes Maritza looks lovely curled with Spock on the sofa, chest pressed again the slim-fitting silk of his sheer navy robes.

Hmm.

No. Bad brain.

Spock slants Kirk a dark look, like he has some inkling of these thoughts. Or maybe he just wants Kirk to rescue him from being hugged.

Probably the last one. Hopefully. Kirk makes a mental note to brush up on his knowledge of Vulcan telepathy.

“Well, you’ve been cleared by Starfleet,” Kirk offers, trying for cheer. “And you’re a lovely woman, Maritza. Quite frankly, you can do better.”

“Significantly better,” Spock agrees. “Commodore Devi was often dismissive of your feelings.”

Maritza, miraculously, does not comment on a Vulcan discussing feelings. “You’re right. You’re right, I know. I can do better, can’t I?”

“Certainly. I noticed Admiral Osher was exceedingly solicitous with you at the barbecue.”

Kirk doesn’t remember that at all. But Maritza brightens. “You think so?”

“You could probably use his sympathy to arrange a dinner invitation.” A beat. “His house is very impressive.”

“Why were you in Osher’s house?” Kirk asks, bewildered.

“You know, I should,” Maritza says. She taps her finely-manicured nails against Spock’s arm. “It would serve Suryal right… you need to help me pick out an outfit, though. You always look gorgeous. Oh, it’s been so long since I dated!”

“I will help you with the planning process,” says Spock gravely. “We will find you a new husband of acceptable status.”

“Uh,” says Kirk, uneasy.

This is probably just… a cultural difference. Right? Vulcans do have those arranged marriages.

Spock adds, “For his age, Admiral Osher also has an impressive physique. And excellent muscle definition, especially when shirtless.”

“Okay,” says Kirk, “Really, when did you - “

If the Klingons were gregarious before, they’re insufferable with the revelation about Devi. Talks are interspersed with smug, snide remarks about the Federation’s lack of security, disloyalty, and of course humanity’s ‘tendency to grovel.’

Kirk genuinely contemplates punching Koloth again. For diplomacy; he’s pretty sure it would be beneficial to intergalactic relations. But Morrow already looks like he’s contemplating death, so Kirk refrains.

Koloth is markedly warmer now that their ‘embarrassing’ motives don’t need to be danced around. The talks finally stop being so dull since they can focus on actual problems; at the end of the days’ meetings Ambassador T’Fia even quietly tells Kirk that “your unorthodox methodology is more effective than we believed.”

She still sounds a bit skeptical, but he’ll consider that a victory.

More bizarrely, she congratulates him on his “developing relationship” with Spock. When he asks how she knew, she explains, “his eyeshadow is less provocative today.” Whatever that means.

Kirk is in such a good mood that when Koloth invites him for drinks, he accepts. Provided they remain on Earth; he doesn’t think the Klingons have any reason to disrupt negotiations, but they’d probably find the idea of kidnapping him funny enough to do it anyway.

That’s how Kirk ends up in a campus bar surrounded by a lot of rambunctious Klingons and a few very nervous Starfleet officers. The bartenders serve them apprehensively; Kirk notices not-very-subtle security officers filtering into the place within a few minutes.

The Klingons bring down blood-wine, which is vibrantly purple. Kirk accepts a shot to be polite. It’s utterly rotten in his mouth. But Kirk is fairly accustomed to sampling Spock’s teas, so he manages not to choke.

“You know, I was surprised to hear you let them make you an Admiral! That’s an old man’s job,” Koloth tells him. “Humans don’t age that fast, do they?”

Kirk licks his lips, trying to remember how to form words; his lips tingle. He doesn’t think bloodwine is poisonous to humans… “Oh, a little faster than Klingons, but not by much.”

“Bah. And done fighting already? A shame. You were a good adversary, Kirk!”

That’s a high compliment from a Klingon. “I thought you might hold a grudge over the tribbles,” Kirk points out.

Koloth barks a laugh. “Ha! Those pests? A clever, cruel trick, Kirk... admittedly it was a long and bloody campaign, but my victory against the tribbles was glorious! Songs are sung of it! That’s what got me this promotion to Ambassador, you know.”

...Kirk decides he’d rather just imagine what a war with tribbles looks like, and does not ask Koloth to elaborate. “Well. I’m glad it worked out for you,” he says. Koloth raises a glass.

Then he gets up to intervene with a few younger Klingons playing billiards (they’ve invented some new rules wherein the cue sticks double as spears). Kirk uses the occasion to make some rounds and reassure the more trigger-happy guards lurking by the bar. By the time he returns Koloth is regaling his contemporaries with tales of his tribble-hunting, which evidently included making a coat of their skins for his elderly mother. Kirk’s rather glad Spock isn’t around to hear; the Vulcan hinted a few times about the viability of tribbles as pets, if they were only neutered… Spock’s a sucker for animals.

A few subordinate officers start hollering a song in the guttural Klingon language, which gets polite (albeit confused) applause from the Starfleet officers. Koloth’s halfway through an alarming story about ‘fighting’ tribbles in a swampland when Kirk’s communicator rings. At the same time, a yellow alert flares overhead the Starfleet bar. Everyone immediately quiets; all nearby officers rise, filing out. Security personnel immediately move to intercept the party.

“I’m afraid you’ll need to return to the ship,” says Kirk, grasping his communicator. “I’ll have to bring you some Earth drinks to make up for it.”

“Pah – at least get that Vulcan friend of yours to find some proper liquor,” Koloth sniffs. “Like the one he brought to our ship.”

The what?

The disruption, Kirk learns, came from the holding cells. Commodore Devi’s cell, specifically.

But not because of Devi himself.

“She just went mad,” says the security ensign, leading Kirk down a winding mess of corridors. It’s not like he’s had opportunity to interrogate people before, not since arriving on Earth. He wonders how often things like this happen; but the long rows of cells are otherwise empty, except for some miserably drunken Academy-cadets at the very front. The ensign leads him to the farthest cells from the entrance. One holds Devi, slumped and miserable behind a sound-proofed barrier; he doesn’t even look up. The other…

“I’m not sorry, Sir,” says Captain Abbas when she sees him. Red-rimmed eyes glare at him, almost feverish. Wild, ruffled hair gives her a disheveled look; she never should have reached Devi either, Kirk thinks. They really do need to revise security protocols. “He told me it was the Romulans – he – he killed them, didn’t he?”

“I think so,” says Kirk. He pauses, stepping aside to peer into the other cell.

Devi isn’t looking at him, sulkily nursing his splinted arm, Blue-black bruises bloom down his face, swelling his right eye. The barrier, Kirk deduces at last, is definitely the soundproofing variety.

He goes back to Abbas. Leans in. “Between you and me, Captain,” he confides, “I don’t think you need to worry too much about your court-martial.”

The faintest shadow of a smile touches her lips; he means it. She certainly won’t get another command after this; but then, Kirk thinks, she probably won’t want one.

He can’t really blame her.

“I think negotiations are going well,” says Kirk aloud, approving another requisition. Ugh, budgets. He tosses the padd onto his desk, stretching.

“I agree – despite your earlier insistence that they were hopeless,” says Spock. He ignores Kirk’s annoyed huff. “It is unfortunate that we have not yet discovered anything about the Romulan saboteurs responsible for the Lexington’s destruction, and the Aspirante.”

Kirk mulls this over. “...do you remember that ‘Vulcan’ who led the tour when we went to see the Aspirante?”

Lately it’s been rare for Kirk to get ahead of Spock; he’s therefore pleased when Spock freezes a moment. “...we should probably investigate that,” Spock agrees, tapping rapidly.

“Hmm. Didn’t she want to introduce you to her brother?”

“She did introduce us. I admittedly found him quite broad-shouldered for a Vulcan, with an interestingly assertive manner…”

Seriously, how many people has Spock been meeting lately? But before Kirk can ask how Spock found the time, their door opens.

Morrow peers in with a weirdly hesitant expression before he steps inside. “Com – er, Mr. Spock. Can you give us a moment?”

“If it’s necessary,” says Spock, indifferent. He glides past Morrow, skirt fluttering around him; Morrow twitches as the door slides shut.

“We’re getting new uniforms soon,” Morrow says, apropos of nothing.

That surely isn’t what he wants to discuss, but Kirk doesn’t call him on it. “Yes, I’ve seen the design,” Kirk muses. “Hideous things. The current uniforms aren’t perfect, but why would anyone want to stuff us into those puffy monstrosities?”

Morrow glances at the door. “I can think of a few reasons.” He shakes his head. “Anyway. Kirk, you, ah – do you think Mr. Spock would be interested in resuming his commission?”

“Oh, I don’t know… Spock did say he’s heard rumors of being reassigned,” says Kirk gloomily. Devi evidently relayed that Spock had already been under a desk when he entered. There’s no actual proof of misconduct, but the implication could be enough. “It’s just that I can’t imagine serving without him...”

“Kirk,” Morrow interrupts. “I’ve been speaking with some others, and – well, we’d like to offer you the Enterprise again.”

Stunned, Kirk leaps to his feet. “The Enterprise?” he asks, barely daring to hope.

“Yes. It would mean going back to the rank of Captain, but it would be another five-year mission. Exploring, diplomacy… exploring very, very far away…”

“I’ll – I admit I’ve missed it,” says Kirk; this is an understatement. “But that’s unusual, isn’t it?”

“We have collectively decided it would be the best environment for you.”

“Then I accept, of course! And…”

Morrow sighs, pre-empting him. “If you can ‘convince’ Mr. Spock to return from his leave of absence, yes, you can have him as your First Officer again. Science officer. Yeoman, whatever.” A beat. “Please don’t actually make him your yeoman.”

Kirk glows with joy for a moment – before remembering one pertinent fact. “In that case, there’s actually some paperwork we might need to fill out… you see,” he begins, imagining the headache of interpersonal relationship forms, “this might come as a surprise…”

Chapter Text

Spock brings him breakfast in bed the next week.

Kirk’s started feeling guilty about Spock’s excessive fussing – although it’s hard to protest when Spock sits on his lap, dressed in a short Starfleet-regulation skirt, and gently places a strawberry to his mouth.

Kirk’s very bright, you see, and suspects Spock might have ulterior motives for this generosity.

Kirk runs a hand up Spock’s thigh, leaning against the headboard as Spock pushes another juicy berry to his lips. “Mmm. Are you planning on wearing this on the ship, then?”

“Likely not; the ships tend to be quite cold,” which is true. “But perhaps on… specific occasions. I do enjoy how it feels, Sir.”

Kirk can’t argue there. He trails his hand over Spock’s legs, dipping between them. “You don’t have to call me ‘Sir’ in bed, you know.”

“Even if I enjoy it?” Spock suggests, and feeds him another berry while Kirk short-circuits.

After a moment Kirk is able to reply. “If you enjoy it, that’s another matter.”

“I do. Sir.”

Huh. Kirk is learning so much today, isn’t he?

He finds himself idly rubbing the mound of Spock’s genital-sheath through his regulation black leggings while he contemplates how to use this information. Spock gets delightfully squirmy, fingers trembling a little as he feeds him.

Eventually Spock runs out of berries. Kirk catches his hand, twisting their fingers together. “Sticky,” he says, clicking his tongue. “ - Lick them clean.”

Spock immediately starts to do so.

“No, no. I want to hear you acknowledge the order, Commander.”

“Yes, Sir,” says Spock immediately. A little flush comes to his cheeks – this is apparently what makes him embarrassed, after everything. Which problems means Kirk needs to exploit the hell out of that kink.

Kirk really does love learning new things.

“Will you keep doing this on the ship?” he muses, shifting them. He presses Spock’s legs apart in front of him. The Vulcan’s back lies against his chest now, arching a little as Kirk rubs him. Maybe he could just rip the leggings; it would be more efficient. What a shame to waste them, though. Kirk props his chin onto Spock’s shoulder, murmuring in his ear. “Playing yeoman, giving me massages… sitting on my lap in my quarters between reports...”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You get off on it,” realizes Kirk, delighted. “The rank. And the orders.”

Spock gives a frustrated little huff, rocking into his hand. “I am beginning to suspect your powers of observation are not as keen as I once believed, Sir.”

Kirk decides he will rip the leggings, actually. Spock inhales in a delightful way when he does, rubbing circles over the wet slit.

And, oh.

Those would be the ‘tendrils’ Spock mentioned.

They’re longer than expected, and extremely thin, sliding over and fluttering around his hands – there must be nearly a dozen. They look delicate. “Is it safe to touch them?” Kirk asks, gently carding his fingers through a pair.

They tremble and shiver; Spock’s back arches. “Yes. Please,” he adds.

Well, alright then.

They feel almost oily, fluttering without clear direction. Kirk idly wonders how Spock would reach if he managed to get them all in his mouth, on his tongue – so many possibilities.

But that’s for a different day. He plays with the tendrils until Spock starts shifting, one hand gripping Kirk’s thigh so tight it hurts a little. His position is wholly undignified; he’s half-lying against Kirk now, unconsciously pressing into Kirk’s hands in such a way that he slides down little by little. Spock doesn’t seem to notice, and only huffs his frustration when Kirk removes his hand.

“No wonder you were so eager at the office,” he says, amused. “Did you like playing secretary?”

“I would have liked it more if you’d penetrated me on your desk,” Spock says.

It startles a laugh out of Kirk. “Well, maybe before we go back to the ship… come here.”

Spock is perfectly willing to be maneuvered back onto his lap. Kirk’s neglected cock is hard and leaking by now, and he wonders whether he has the right supplies for anal, if it’s worth suggesting...

Spock, apparently, has other ideas. He hefts himself up, then sinks his sheath right over Kirk.

Kirk wasn’t expecting that; he thrusts without thinking, and Spock gives a little gasp, falling onto him. The heat surrounds Kirk so fast he groans. “God – I didn’t know you could do that.” And it feels like something’s moving around his cock, even while Spock adjusts; more of those tendrils, he thinks, but on the inside. Or maybe just Spock’s dick. He really needs a book of Vulcan anatomy, or something.

He’ll at least get to see it during pon farr; but it would be nice to know beforehand if he’s signing up for a weeklong session with a green ten-inch spiral penis or something. That sort of thing needs preparation.

“It is – tight,” Spock manages. “But possible; you should move.”

“Pull out, you mean?”

“No.”

“Oh,” says Kirk. He starts rocking his hips.

Spock hisses – literally hisses, like a cat – then mutters something in Vulcan; it sounds vaguely violent. Evidently Kirk isn’t going fast enough; Spock moves off him with a wet sound, twists around, and pushes Kirk onto his back. Then he starts rising and lowering himself onto Kirk’s cock, now facing him.

It’s incredibly to see. Spock’s ears flick back – Jim didn’t know they could even move like that – and he makes high, alien cries as he fucks himself. Kirk could probably come just watching this, much less experiencing it, so it’s no surprise when he finds himself tipping toward orgasm.

Spock, bossy as ever, has other ideas. He grips Kirk’s face. Kirk finds himself teetering on the brink, even as his arousal skyrockets. Well. He grabs Spock’s hips, rolls them both over, and starts thrusting in earnest.

This must be some sort of telepathy – he can feel Spock’s smug satisfaction even as the Vulcan bounces on the bed. Spock wants them to come together, and finally they do – a more powerful orgasm than Kirk’s ever felt. It feels like his whole body shatters, something snapping distinctly in his mind.

He might black out. Or maybe the telepathy just fries his brain; either way he spends awhile just lying on Spock, which he can tell – through some lingering connection – that the Vulcan very much enjoys. When he finally pulls out semen dribbles down Spock’s thighs; without hesitating, Spock reaches down and smears some onto his fingers. He promptly tilts back his head, rubbing the human’s spend onto his neck and shoulders.

Kirk stares, baffled and still muddled from orgasm. He manages a questioning sound.

“I like the scent,” Spock informs him.

Is that another Vulcan thing? Who knows. Spock is so weird. Kirk is briefly overcome by a surge of exasperated love. He stretches, and decides to just go with it. “Well. To be clear, I’m happy to come on whenever you like.”

“Very good.” Spock fits himself against Kirk’s side, resting his head smugly on the human’s chest. “You can ejaculate on my face next time, Admiral; I will put it on your schedule.”

He probably will, too.

“I still can’t believe it,” says McCoy when he hears the news.

The news of their relationship, in general; not the details. He probably won’t be so pleased when they get back to the ship, Kirk reflects, and starts seeing signs of that relationship during their check-ups.

But right now McCoy’s smiling, sitting at Kirk’s table and cradling a drink. “I was starting to think you’d never get it together!”

“I know.” Kirk smiles. “Sometimes I'm so happy I still can't believe it. I mean, could you have imagined this just a month ago? Spock never gave a single hint he was interested.”

McCoy just looks at him awhile.

“God help that Vulcan,” he says at last. “He’s gonna need it.”

It’s probably a good thing McCoy’s no longer visiting full-time, because the next few weeks are filled with lots of enthusiastic sex. Of course, they’re also busy looking for new officers for the Enterprise, checking on the refit, and so on. But Spock is very good at multi-tasking, and seems to take a certain pleasure in scrolling through his work while bouncing on Kirk’s cock; Kirk certainly isn’t going to complain.

They don’t talk much about the telepathy until Kirk brings it up one lazy morning. They’re both naked and spent. Spock’s half-dozing beside him, making rumbly little sounds a bit like a purr. And Kirk’s thinking of telepathy because he can feel Spock’s lazy contentment. It feels like the sunlight creeping through the window, like reclining in a lake on a hot day.

It’s nice. But it’s unusually nice, and gradually it dawns on Kirk that maybe what he’s feeling isn’t just normal contentment. He traces the curve of Spock’s cheekbone, lingering somewhere around the temple. He knows, by know, where Vulcans touch each other when they meld. Spock lets out a pleased sleepy sound when he skims the area.

Kirk tugs idly at the Vulcan’s chest-hair until Spock starts to rouse. “Spock,” says Jim, slow. “Are we bonded, already? I mean… married, in your people's eyes?”

Spock says nothing for a long while. For a bit Kirk wonders if he’s fallen back to sleep. Then he turns over on the bed, contemplating Kirk through solemn eyes. “If we were, theoretically; what would it change?”

“Nothing,” says Kirk. “I mean – I just mean. I would like it. If we were bonded. Married.”

Spock's lip curls, just the smallest amount. “Then, regardless of other considerations, it seems it would be logical to marry in the Earth fashion.”

“Yes,” Kirk agrees.

“I will make arrangements,” says Spock, and promptly materializes his workplace padd from somewhere. He starts tapping away at it, still naked.

Kirk is just happy to watch him, whole body buzzing with happiness. Isn't he lucky? Maybe Spock didn't go into this planning to bond with an illogical human – but Kirk can't picture any future where they aren't together.

He decides right there he'll be the best possible husband.